“I Raised My Kids, Now My Life is for Me” – When Does Freedom Become Disconnection?

“Somewhere along the way, family stopped being a circle. Now it’s a straight line that ends at ourselves. And when everyone says ‘me,’ over and over again, everyone ends up alone in the clearing.”

I keep hearing it more often than I ever did before.
“I raised my kids. Now it’s my time. My money, my life, my everything is for me.”

I understand why people say it. Raising children takes a lifetime’s worth of giving. You pour yourself out—your energy, your sleep, your money, your dreams—so they can find their own. By the time they’re grown, many parents are exhausted, longing for a chance to breathe. There is nothing wrong with wanting that.

But there is a difference between finally making space for your own life and closing the door on the lives that grew out of yours. That subtle difference is the part we rarely talk about—and it is quietly reshaping what it means to be a family.

Once, family was a circle. Everyone’s hands fed into it, and everyone’s life was nourished by it. What you learned, what you built, what you created—it wasn’t only for you. It was for those who came after you, just as you had been held up by those who came before. That was the flow. That was the braid.

Now the braid has been pulled apart.
Our story has become, I did my part. I’m done now. The rest is mine.
And slowly, without meaning to, we become a house with many locked rooms.

This doesn’t mean that parents should give endlessly until they collapse. It does not mean enabling adult children to float through life without goals or effort. It doesn’t mean saying “yes” to every request, no matter what it costs you. True family care has never been about that.

What it means is being open. Offering what we can from the heart. And also, being able to say “I can’t this time” without guilt when our own lives are too heavy. It’s a flow, not a demand. It’s a relationship, not an obligation.

What’s missing now is that spirit of reciprocity. Families used to be quick to show up when one of their own was drowning. They didn’t have to think about it. They brought meals, they gave time, they lent hands. Not forever, not so someone could give up trying, but so they could get back on their feet. Then, when the tide shifted, everyone celebrated the rise together, because the rise of one came from the strength of the whole.

Without that, what we see now is isolation disguised as freedom.
Grandchildren in daycares instead of at grandma’s table.
Elders aging in homes, lonely, because everyone is too busy to hold space.
Sons and daughters so used to standing alone that when their parents grow frail, they feel they owe nothing back.
The chain becomes broken on all sides.

And that’s what my heart aches over. Because what we lose is not just support, it’s belonging. The deep knowing that someone will be there when you stumble, and that you will be there when it’s their turn.

This doesn’t mean we stop having boundaries. It doesn’t mean we don’t rest or have our own dreams. It means remembering that we were never meant to do this life completely alone.

In the old ways, abundance was never something to hoard. It was a river. What came into your hands, you passed along. I drink, you drink. I grow, you grow. If the river stops at you, everything downstream dries up. And one day, even you will be thirsty.

What if we chose differently?
What if we saw our later years not as a time to retreat from the family, but as a time to become the elder—the guide, the storyteller, the anchor?
What if adult children remembered that asking for help is not weakness, and that giving help when they can is how the circle stays alive?
What if we celebrated one another’s successes as if they were our own, because in truth, they are?

Maybe the real question isn’t “Do I owe my family anything once I’ve done my part?”
Maybe it’s, “Do I want to be the last branch on my family tree… or the roots of something that outlives me?”

Because when the answer becomes “me,” over and over again, the tree stops growing. And everyone ends up standing alone in the clearing, wondering why it feels so empty.

We all deserve joy. We all need space. This is not about endless sacrifice.
But the kind of joy that flows out into someone else’s hands—so they, too, can stand strong—creates a belonging that no amount of independence can ever replace.

That’s the circle.
That’s family.
And that is what keeps us from losing each other.

​Brightest Blessings,

“It’s not about enabling. It’s about remembering: family is supposed to be the place where you don’t have to do it all alone.”