Latest / The Friendship Room: Honest Conversations About Friends & Connection / Choosing Family: The Quiet Courage of Cutting Ties | The Friendship Room
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of silence that lives in the space between you and the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally. It’s not an angry silence, or even a sad one—it’s just… empty. And filling it with someone else might be the bravest thing you ever do. I want you to take a deep breath with me right now. Just one. Good. Because we are about to talk about something that sits heavy in the chest for so many women listening to this podcast, probably while they’re folding laundry, or driving home from work, or staring at the ceiling at 2 AM wondering if they’re broken. We are talking about choosing to cut ties with a family member. And then, I want to talk about the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful act of building a chosen family in its place. Let’s sit with that for a second. When we hear the word family, our brains usually fire off images of bloodlines, holidays, shared DNA, and those complicated, tangled webs of obligation that come with being born into a certain house. We are taught from a very young age that these bonds are sacred, immutable, and non-negotiable. That no matter what happens, you stick together. You forgive. You endure. But what happens when the endurance costs you your soul? What happens when the bond isn’t holding you up, but dragging you down into the mud? I’ve spent years working with communities, watching people form groups and watch them fracture. And I’ve learned that biology is rarely the strongest glue. Sometimes, the strongest glue is the person who shows up when you’re sick. The person who remembers how you take your tea. The person who doesn’t flinch when you tell them the truth about your life. Today, I want to explore the radical act of defining family by choice rather than by chance. It’s okay to let go of the anchor that’s drowning you, so you can finally learn how to swim. Before we get to the freedom of chosen family, we have to honor the grief of leaving the old one. This part is crucial because society loves to romanticize the break without acknowledging the funeral. When you decide to step away from a parent, a sibling, or an extended relative, you are not just losing a person; you are losing a history. You are losing the versions of yourself that existed within their eyes. Even if those versions were distorted, they are familiar. And familiarity is a drug. I remember a woman named Sarah who came to one of my early community circles. She had decided to stop speaking to her mother after twenty years of emotional manipulation disguised as concern. On paper, Sarah was free. In reality, she was grieving. She missed the idea of having a mother, not the reality of the woman who stood in her doorway and criticized her parenting choices. She felt guilty for feeling relieved. She felt lonely for feeling safe. Tell me more about the cost of that relief. It’s expensive, isn’t it? You pay for it with guilt. You pay for it with the fear that you are becoming cold, or ungrateful, or like the very people you’re trying to escape. But here is the truth that took me decades to accept: Grieving a relationship does not mean you wish it back. It means you acknowledge that something important has changed. You are mourning the potential of what could have been, which is a valid and painful loss. Allow yourself to cry for the family you wanted, while you build the family you have earned. One does not cancel out the other. They just exist side by side, messy and real. One of the most common fears I hear from women considering cutting ties is the question of loyalty. We worry that if we leave, we are betraying the tribe. We worry about what others will say. But I often ask my listeners, and I’m asking you now: What does loyalty look like on a Tuesday? Not on Christmas morning, when everyone is dressed up and drinking eggnog. Not at a wedding, where the cameras are rolling. But on a random, rainy Tuesday in November. When nothing is being celebrated. When there is no social pressure to perform connection. On a Tuesday, loyalty looks like consistency. It looks like showing up when it’s inconvenient. It looks like listening when you’d rather scroll. It looks like respecting boundaries even when the other person is throwing a tantrum because you said no. If your biological family requires you to sacrifice your mental health to maintain the status quo, is that loyalty? Or is that compliance? I think true loyalty is mutual. It flows both ways. If you are the only one bending, the only one apologizing, the only one making the effort to bridge the gap, you are not in a relationship. You are in a performance. And performances are exhausting. Chosen family thrives on that Tuesday loyalty. It’s built on the small, quiet moments of trust. The friend who brings soup when you have the flu. The partner who holds your hand during a panic attack. The cousin-by-choice who defends your story when you’re not in the room. These are the bricks we lay to build a new foundation. So, how do you actually build this chosen family? It doesn’t happen overnight. It’s not like ordering a pizza. It’s more like planting a garden in rocky soil. You have to prepare the ground. You have to water it. You have to wait. And sometimes, things die. That’s part of the process too. Not every friendship survives the transition from acquaintance to confidant. And that’s okay. When I started organizing community events, I realized that family isn’t a given; it’s a practice. It’s something you do. You choose to show interest in your neighbor’s garden. You choose to call your coworker when you hear she’s going through a hard time. You choose to forgive the small missteps of people you care about. This intentionality is what makes chosen family so powerful. There is no obligation keeping you there. You stay because you want to. You stay because they see you, and you see them. Think about your own circle. Who are the people who make you feel lighter after you spend time with them? Who are the ones who challenge you to be better, not by criticizing you, but by believing in your potential? Start there. Nurture those connections. Be the first to reach out. Be the one who remembers the small details. In doing so, you create a culture of reciprocity. You become the kind of family member you always wished you had. And in turn, you attract others who are looking for the same thing. It’s a ripple effect. It starts with you, deciding that your peace is worth protecting. Let’s address the elephant in the room. The biggest fear isn’t really about the person you’re leaving. It’s about the void they leave behind. We are terrified of being alone. We’ve been conditioned to believe that solitude equals failure. That if you don’t have a traditional family structure, you are incomplete. But I promise you, there is a profound difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is the pain of being alone. Solitude is the glory of being alone. Or rather, the strength of being with yourself. When you cut ties with toxic dynamics, you create space. Space for silence. Space for reflection. Space for new connections that align with your values. At first, that space can feel cavernous and scary. You might feel like you’re falling. But if you learn to trust your own hands to catch you, you’ll find that you’re stronger than you thought. You learn to soothe yourself. You learn to entertain yourself. You learn that you are enough, even without the validation of those who once held the power over your self-worth. This self-reliance is the bedrock of chosen family. Because when you know you can survive on your own, you don’t cling to relationships out of desperation. You engage in them out of desire. You choose friends who add to your life, not ones who drain it. You set boundaries not as walls, but as gates. You control who enters, and you welcome them warmly. This shift from scarcity to abundance changes everything. You stop looking for saviors and start looking for partners. Partners in life. Partners in joy. Partners in the messy, beautiful work of growing up. As we wind down today, I want to invite you to do a little exercise. I want you to imagine yourself five years from now. Imagine you have made the difficult choice. Imagine you have stepped back from the noise, the drama, the expectation. Imagine you have built a circle of people who love you for who you are, not who they need you to be. How does it feel? Is there lightness in your shoulders? Is there laughter in your voice? Do you feel proud of the boundaries you’ve set? See that version of yourself. Hold her image in your mind. She is waiting for you. She is already inside you, waiting to breathe freely. Every small step you take toward honoring your truth is a step toward her. You don’t have to make the big decision today. You don’t have to write the letter or block the number right this second. But you can start by acknowledging the truth of your situation. You can start by validating your own feelings. You are allowed to protect your peace. You are allowed to define your own lineage. Blood may make you related, but love makes you family. And love, real love, should never require you to shrink yourself to fit into someone else’s narrow box. It should expand you. It should make you feel seen, heard, and cherished. Keep that vision close. Let it guide you. And remember, you are not alone in this journey. So many of us are walking this path, building our tables, setting our chairs, and welcoming each other home. Thank you for letting me into your day. Thank you for listening, for thinking, and for caring enough to show up for yourself. Until next time, keep choosing kindness, especially the kind that starts with you. I’m Evelyn Frazier, and I’ll see you in the next episode.