Finding Closure
Finding closure has always been a challenge for me. I’ve come to realize that when we don’t understand someone’s behavior—especially in relationships that once felt meaningful—we can spend years trying to make sense of it. That search for understanding can become all-consuming, because without answers, it’s easy to assume the problem was us.
Much of this stems from my upbringing. Growing up, I was often blamed for conflict without clear explanation, and over time, that shaped how I viewed relationships. If something went wrong, I assumed it was my fault. If a friendship ended, I believed I must have caused it. That pattern created a deep need to find answers and prove my innocence, because without clarity, I carried the weight of responsibility.
One memory that stands out is from my early teens, when a family left my father’s church and I overheard my parents blaming me for their departure. At thirteen, I couldn’t understand how that could be true, but it reinforced a belief I carried for years—that if something went wrong, it must somehow trace back to me. That belief followed me into my friendships.
There was one relationship I tried to understand for over fifteen years. Our families were similar in many ways—we shared faith, values, and life experiences. During a particularly difficult season in my early teens, I found connection and support through late-night conversations with one of their sons. It was a time when I felt seen and understood.
But after my suicide attempt, everything changed. The friendship ended abruptly, communication stopped, and I was unfriended and blocked without explanation. What made it more confusing was that the connection remained with others in my family, which left me trying to understand why I was the one being excluded. When I attempted to reach out for clarity, there was no response, and that silence stayed with me for years.
At the time, I struggled to reconcile what had happened with what I believed about compassion, faith, and support. I expected that in moments of crisis, people would lean in, not step away. When that didn’t happen, it created a deep sense of confusion and hurt.
Over time, I’ve tried to look at the situation from a different perspective. My suicide attempt was traumatic, not just for me, but likely for those around me, and it’s possible they didn’t know how to respond or felt unequipped to handle something so heavy. A seventeen-year-old may not have had the emotional capacity to navigate a situation like that, and distance may have felt like the only option.
I’ve also considered how my adoptive parents’ perspective may have influenced others. If concerns or narratives about me were shared, it’s understandable how people might respond based on what they were told rather than seeking their own understanding. None of that erases the hurt, but it does help me see the situation with more nuance.
One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is that closure doesn’t always come from others. It doesn’t always come from conversations, explanations, or reconciliation. Sometimes, it comes from accepting that you may never fully understand why something happened the way it did. That’s not easy, but it is freeing.
As I’ve grown, I’ve also begun to understand how much my desire for closure was tied to my need to prove that I wasn’t the problem. I wanted clarity so I could feel justified, so I could feel seen, and so I could finally let go of the belief that everything was my fault. What I’m learning now is that I don’t need every answer to move forward.
I can acknowledge what I experienced, recognize the impact it had on me, and choose how I carry it moving forward.
My husband has often reminded me that the people who choose not to seek understanding or hear both sides are also making a choice. That realization has helped me shift my focus away from trying to change others’ perceptions and toward being more intentional about the relationships I allow into my life.
I’ve also had to confront the role my upbringing played in all of this. Being raised in an environment where blame was often misplaced shaped how I approached conflict and relationships, but recognizing that pattern has also allowed me to begin breaking it.
I’m learning that I cannot force people to communicate, to reconcile, or to see me clearly, but I can choose how I respond. I can extend compassion without abandoning truth, pursue relationships rooted in mutual respect and openness, and release the need for closure that depends on someone else’s response.
Faith has played a significant role in that process. Psalm 34:18 reminds me that “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” and that truth has carried me through seasons where answers never came.
Closure, I’ve come to realize, isn’t always something you find. Sometimes, it’s something you create within yourself—through forgiveness, perspective, and the willingness to let go of what you may never fully understand.
And in that space, there is peace.
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