When I step back, I usually offer an explanation.
Not the full truth, but something gentle. Something that keeps things comfortable.
I don’t want people to feel rejected. I don’t want them to worry or push.
So I say what’s easiest to hear, not what’s hardest to explain.
Stepping back isn’t a rejection of people or life. It’s a response to what living forward now requires.
After loss, everything costs more.
Conversation costs more. Presence costs more. Explaining how I’m doing costs more than most people realize. Even when the questions are kind, answering them can take energy I don’t have.
So sometimes I step back before I reach that point.
Stepping back doesn’t always look the same.
Sometimes it means declining invitations, even when I want to go. Sometimes it means being in the same room but not having much to say. Sometimes it means leaving early, answering later, or choosing quiet over conversation.
None of it is dramatic. None of it is meant to create distance. It’s simply how I stay present without asking more of myself than I can give.
What I understand now is that this is regulation.
I didn’t have that word when I lost my son. I just knew that too much input made everything worse, and that certain kinds of quiet helped me hold myself together. Other times, silence made the noise inside louder, and I needed something familiar to rest my mind.
Regulation didn’t always mean quiet. Sometimes it meant distraction. A movie. A game on my phone. Something predictable that didn’t ask anything of me. It wasn’t avoidance. It was relief.
Work was different. It wasn’t regulating in the same way, but it gave my days structure. I could function on autopilot, follow routines, and move through hours without having to make emotional decisions. Some days were harder than others, but the predictability helped me hold myself together.
What helped me survive wasn’t the activity itself. It was whether I had control over how much it asked of me.
That’s the part people don’t always see.
From the outside, stepping back can look like withdrawal. Like distance. Like disengagement. But from the inside, it’s careful. Intentional. Protective.
This is just one way stepping back can look. We all find our own versions.
I’m still here. I’m just learning where I can stand.
