If you land here out of curiosity, welcome. If you're here because you relate, I want to say that I'm so sorry. What I will share here is not something I received formal training in; it's something I've lived, and the feeling has a name we don't use commonly.

It's called disenfranchised grief. Grief that the people around you don't recognize or make space for.

When someone dies, grief is hard, and often eventually gets lonely in its own way. But there is usually a script for it. Initially, people bring food, they send cards, and they ask how you're doing, at least for a while. There's a name for what you are: a widow, an orphan, a mourner, and people generally know what that means.

When your loved one is incarcerated, there is no script. Often there's silence, judgment, or the quiet expectation that you should just move on, because after all, "no one died." The "at least" comments are everywhere.

Isolation shows up after any major loss. It's common for people grieving a death to withdraw too, to feel like no one really understands, to pull away when the casseroles stop coming, and everyone else has moved on. That part isn't unique to what you're going through. What is different is what gets layered or mixed in with it. In addition to isolation, there's often shame. Guilt over feelings you didn't choose to have. Fear of being judged, not for grieving, but for who you're grieving for. You might stay quiet at work when a coworker mentions their spouse is in the hospital, because you can't say where yours actually is. You might skip a social gathering because you don't know how to answer the question "how's your teen or adult child doing?" You might not tell your friends the truth, not because you don't trust them, but because you're not sure they'll look at you the same way afterward.

And when people do find out, many of them go quiet. Not because they don't care, but because they don't know what to say. So, they say nothing. No text, no call, no "I'm thinking of you." You're left wondering whether they pulled away out of judgment or just discomfort, and honestly, it doesn't matter which. Either way, you're the one left standing there, hurt.

That's a different kind of alone. It's not just "no one is checking on me." It's "I don't feel safe telling anyone what I actually need to be checked on about," and even the people who do know often disappear anyway.

However, something did die. The future you imagined and the daily presence or communication of someone you love. Maybe your sense of safety, or how your circle sees you, or how you see yourself. And you're often expected to carry that loss alone, with no name for what you are and no rituals.

If you're a mother, a sister, or a daughter carrying this,

I want to speak to you directly for a moment.

The shame. The guilt. The anger. The disappointment. The love that doesn't go away no matter what. These feelings can sit in the same body at the same time, and that is a lot to hold. I know how hard it is to find a therapist who can sit with you in this without rushing you toward feeling better. Someone who won't jump in with "those were not your choices, they are theirs" before you've even finished your sentence. That may be true, and it can still feel dismissive when it's said too soon. Your pain deserves space before it gets a solution.

If you're a wife or a partner, there's another layer on top of all of this. You may have lost a second income overnight. You might be raising kids on your own now, making every decision alone, stretching every paycheck. So, along with the heartache, there's the very real, very exhausting question of how I survive financially, sometimes wondering that, at the same hour, you're also worried about your loved one.

Then there's visiting your loved one, if visiting is even possible. Prisons are often built in remote, rural areas, far from the cities and neighborhoods where families live. That's not an accident, and it means a visit isn't a quick trip. Sometimes it means a flight, then hours of driving after you land, then a night or two in a motel you didn't choose and don't feel safe in, just to sit across from your loved one for a limited window of time, being watched every second. Add that to the time off work you can't really afford to take, and to the money spent on making this trip happen.

And once you get there, the visit brings its own kind of stress. Wondering if today is lockdown day and you won't get to see them. Worrying that something you're wearing will get you turned away at the door. Bracing for a process that can feel cold, slow, and unpredictable, even when nothing goes wrong. You leave home hoping to feel closer to your loved one, and sometimes you drive or fly home feeling more depleted than before you left.

There's also a quieter thing that doesn't get talked about enough. At times, you might feel like you're serving time too. Your days start to revolve around their call, their video visit, whether it connects, whether you'll miss it if you step away for even a minute. You might feel a strange guilt about doing anything that feels good. For example, going out to eat, having multiple options at the grocery store, and laughing with friends. Or enjoying a sunny day outside, when you know your loved one hasn't seen the sky in days. That guilt is real, but living smaller doesn't make their days any easier, and it slowly drains you. You know you're allowed to keep living. Doing so does not mean you love them any less. However, emotionally, you cannot, so you stay home and isolate.

And through all of it, you still love them.

Even with their mistakes.

Even with everything this has cost you.

Even if there are false accusations tangled up in the case and you're not yet sure what really happened. That love doesn't get smaller just because your life has gotten harder. Walking away from someone you love is not something you simply choose to do because it would be easier, and people who haven't lived this will likely never fully understand why you stayed, why you still show up, why you still answer the phone.

In terms of therapy, some people may ask why this requires someone who has lived it. After all, an oncologist doesn't need to have experience having cancer to treat a cancer patient. It's a fair question, and here's the difference I've come to understand. With illness, there's usually a team. Doctors, nurses, scans, someone who calls you with updates, someone whose job is to tell you what's happening and what to expect next. With incarceration, that team doesn't exist for you. No one is required to tell you if your loved one is safe today. You don't get a call explaining a lockdown, a transfer, or an incident behind those walls. There is a prison within the prison, a world of rules, dangers, and politics your loved one navigates that you will never fully see, and where the room for error is small. So, you wait, and imagine, and worry, often with no one to call and no update coming. That kind of not knowing has its own experience, and it helps to work with someone who has lived inside it.

As your therapist, I won't rush to hand you boundaries as the answer. Boundaries are a common tool in therapy, and sometimes they're the right one, but when your nervous system is already living in uncertainty, more distance or more rules can sometimes add to that uncertainty instead of calming it. Before we talk about boundaries, we'll work on helping your nervous system feel steady enough to think clearly. Regulation comes first. The rest can follow once you're not just surviving the day.

You are allowed to grieve this, even though no one sent flowers. Even though there's no ceremony for it. Even though the world hasn't made room for this kind of loss. This isn't about ranking grief or saying this loss hurts more than any other. It's about naming that our social norms have a script for some losses and no script at all for this one, and that gap makes an already hard thing even harder to carry.

In our work together, we make that room. 💛

If this speaks to you, I'd be honored to walk with you through it.