Aren’t You Healed Yet? | Healing After Family Estrangement

I get this comment a lot: “You’re not healed.”

And maybe you’ve heard it too. Sometimes it’s said kindly, other times it’s more like a jab—like the person wants to shut you up or plant doubt in your mind. Either way, it always raises the same question: what does healing from family trauma even mean? And how do you know when you’ve done it?

If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re “healed,” or been told you’re not, this is for you.

There’s No Finish Line

Here’s the truth: there’s no certificate at the end of trauma recovery. No graduation ceremony where someone hands you a sash and says, "Congratulations, you’re healed! You may now speak only in neutral tones and never feel grief again.”

Healing isn’t linear, and it definitely isn’t a performance.

Some days I feel strong and clear and free. Other days, something knocks the wind out of me. That’s not failure. That’s just life after loss.

People Define “Healed” Differently

Sometimes, “you’re not healed” is just a tidy way to silence someone. To put a question mark where there should be a period. If that’s happening to you—know it says more about them than it does about you.

But let’s assume the best. Maybe they mean well.

When people say “you’re not healed,” what they usually mean is:

• “You still talk about it.”

• “You still sound hurt.”

• “You haven’t reconciled.”

  
  

But those aren’t the only measures of healing. Everyone defines it differently.

Some say healing means never thinking about it again. Others equate it with forgiveness. Some think it means going back.

That’s their definition. Mine’s different.

For me, healing is:

• Knowing what happened.

• Naming it.

• Grieving it.

• Protecting myself so it doesn’t happen again.

• And—when I’m ready—turning it into something useful.

  
  

That’s what these blog posts and videos are. Not a cry for reunion. They’re a kind of alchemy—turning pain into truth.

What Healing Looks Like for Scapegoats

If I put my therapist hat on for a moment, and think specifically about scapegoats, healing often looks like this:

1. You think about your needs before someone else’s—and you’re not afraid to say them.

2. Your mental real estate is no longer dominated by them—not the last conversation, not a fantasy conversation, not what they might be thinking right now.

3. What they think no longer rules your world. You don’t shape your choices around their approval, or fear of their judgment.

   
   

It’s not a perfect state. It’s a direction. A compass point you keep coming back to.

Healing is not perfect state, more like a compass direction.

Still Working Through It

Am I still working through this? Of course I am.

I lost contact with my entire nuclear family. It wasn’t gradual, it wasn’t mutual, and it wasn’t over something small. Just because time has passed doesn’t mean it’s all tidied up. Grief doesn’t have an expiry date.

But pain doesn’t mean I’m stuck. Talking about it doesn’t mean I want them back.

It means I’m metabolizing it, bit by bit. And I choose to do it publicly—because I know I’m not the only one. If I had had these kinds of conversations to lean on in the beginning, it would have helped me.

Why I Don’t Want to “Get Over It” Completely

And honestly? There are parts I hope I never get over.

I want to remember what it felt like to be small, invisible, and confused—because that memory makes me a better partner. A better therapist. A better friend. A better human.

And most of all, it keeps me protected. When the memories fade, I sometimes wonder—“is there any chance of having a relationship with my family?”

That remembering is useful.

It reminds me of who I don’t want to be. And who I do.

The Fantasy of Being Seen

And sure, sometimes I forget. I’ll watch a film, see someone else’s family, and daydream about the fairytale ending.

I picture my mum ringing me up out of nowhere, saying:

“Hiya love—me and your dad were just having a cuppa and I said,‘ Well blow me down, Roger, I do miss our Chess.’ And your dad said, ‘How’d we get in such a pickle, eh?’ And we looked back at that legal mumbo jumbo and—love, you could’ve knocked me down with a stalk of Bettie’s rhubarb—turns out we only went and got it wrong. We’re so sorry. How about we put the kettle on and hear your side properly, yeah?”

Of course I’ve imagined that. Who wouldn’t?

But I don’t live there. That fantasy is just a soft spot in my brain—not the direction I’m walking in.

It’s part of my process. And I’m okay with that.

Healing, for me, isn’t about erasing pain or rewriting history.

It’s about carrying it with kindness.

So no—I might not be “healed” in the way some people mean. But I am healing.

And maybe that’s enough.

As always,

Much love,

Chess xx