When the People You Love Become Strangers

There’s a kind of grief no one prepares you for.

There are no last rites. It doesn’t come with a funeral—no memorial service. There is no burial.

It’s the kind where the people who knew you best—the ones who once laughed with you, prayed with you, passed the potatoes at Sunday dinner — go silent. Cold. Gone.

Not dead. Just… gone.

Estrangement isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

It sneaks up at Christmas. It hangs in the air when your phone lights up and you hope it’s them — but it never is.

It shows up when you’re retelling a story and you stop mid-sentence because you realize they’re not part of your life anymore.

And here’s the worst part:

You don’t know where it went wrong.

You replay the last conversation. You dissect it. You edit it in your head, wondering if one different word could’ve rewritten everything.

But this isn’t a blog about regrets.

This is about what now.

Because if you’re here — reading this — you’re probably carrying something heavy. And you’re tired of pretending like you’re not.

I know the weight you’re carrying.

I’ve felt it too.

I wrote Estrangement: Restoring All Things in Christ not as an expert, but as a father. As a man who’s lived through the silence.

Who sat in the quiet and decided to write anyway — not to fix things, not to force anything, but to offer something honest.

No chapters. No clever endings. Just letters. From me to the people I love. And maybe, in some way, to you too.

This book isn’t about pointing fingers. It’s about opening hands.

It’s not a how-to. It’s a here-I-am.

So if you’re reading this with a lump in your throat, if you’ve been holding your breath for a long time hoping for some kind of sign — maybe this is it.

You’re not alone.

Keep reading. Stay close.

The book is coming soon. And it might just say what you’ve been trying to say all along.

👉 Learn more at authorjohngedwards.com