Placeless Places

The discomfort of knocking and not knowing

An open door is not an invitation. We’re never in charge of what’s on the other side.

When I got a divorce, I was very close with my ex-husband’s family. In the separation, I not only lost a partner; I lost a set of parents and siblings. Tension coursed through the years that followed. New boundaries were constructed. But eventually, we forged a path. In our own individual ways, we each stepped forward into a new relationship. Not the same shape as before, but rooted in a steadfast love of my son. More than a decade later, my relationship with my once in-laws has bloomed into something deep and beautiful. It’s not a perfect family tree. It has its knots. But, it is strong and resilient. It’s weathered many storms.

Another storm is raging now, as illness rips through part of the family. The details aren’t mine to share. But the stress is palpable. I might be on the outskirts, but I feel the reverberations nonetheless.

The depth of one’s love doesn’t always align with the framework it lives within. My love for my once in-laws swells beyond tidy boundaries. I yearn to demonstrate that love in action, but that doesn’t mean it’s my place or my time.

Effusively, I’ve offered to help in any way, big or small. I’d move mountains. I’d take care of the dogs. I’d go to the hospital. I’d run errands. I’d do anything. I’ve wrung my hands and wracked my brain, wondering how I can support. Repeatedly, I’ve asked if there is anything I can do to help.

“People in crisis can’t answer that question,” my husband said. “You need to stop. You’ll know when it’s your time to help.”

As is often the case, he’s right. As is often the case, there’s also more to the story.

How do you know when it’s time to step forward, despite the framework of well-worn boundaries? And how do you decide, when you can never be sure what lies on the other side of your efforts?

I’ve grappled with this question for decades.

My biological father and I haven’t spoken for more than twenty years. It’s a story that could consume an autobiography.

My dad and I had many ups and downs. In my late twenties, I reached out. I cracked the door open ever so slightly, offering my contact information and an invitation to step forward together. No response.

After becoming a parent, I reached out again. I sought the advice of a private investigator. I tracked down his likely address. I wrote, offering new routes to connect. No response.

As I calculated my father’s advanced years, I tried again, harboring the worry that the next time I heard of my father might be through his death. Pulse racing, I called him. Voicemail—on the other side, his recorded voice as clear as if I had heard it yesterday. I left a message. No response.

The next year, I tried again.

No response.

As a parent myself, I couldn’t fathom it. My love for my child runs so deep that there is no slight, no offense, no divide too great to cross for that love. It is boundless. It is the greatest gift of my life.

But, I have no clue what’s on my dad’s side of the door.

As hurtful and confusing as his choice has been, it is his. I’ve knocked. I’ve cracked the door open. I’ve wedged a foot in the door frame. And it sits there, awkwardly unanswered.

There’s nothing I can do to change it. But, it has changed me.

I approach these thresholds with caution. Countless years of therapy have taught me principles and healthy habits on codependence and boundaries. Through decades of practice and failure, I’ve learned to spot when I’m barging through a threshold too eagerly, alone, or when I’m advancing bravely, with a tenderhearted, genuine desire to build a bridge.

Regardless, I have zero control of what occurs on the other side.

On occasion, though, I’ve reaped the rewards of honoring that brave voice.

When my former sister-in-law sent me an offhanded text about a crazy opportunity to buy a vineyard in Argentina, I barged through the door. I felt the goosebumps on my arms. “We should do this,” I told her. Years later, we own a wine business together. Our friendship bloomed into new, unexpected territories alongside our partners.

When my adult stepson experienced a medical emergency, I didn’t hesitate. I’d spent years treating our relationship delicately, careful not to overstep my role. Heart racing, I booked flights and packed bags. My husband and I were by his side within hours. I didn’t ask for permission. Our relationship grew to new depths as a result.

I walked through those doors unannounced. Not entirely unwelcome, but unbeckoned nonetheless. The goosebumps and the adrenaline weren’t mystic signs. They were intuition. The deep knowing that, regardless of the outcome, I had to do this.

In those cases, I was rewarded. With my father, not so much.

Sometimes, I know. I know the fine line between respecting boundaries and accepting an opaque threshold. Other times, I don’t. I guess. Or, I move forward because I have to. Whether it’s received or rejected, I do it for myself. But, the rejections create more hesitation at the threshold. More questions. More self doubt. More wondering whether I’ve done enough, been enough, said enough, tried enough.

Today, I sit in the discomfort, standing in the placeless place. Knocking. Not knowing if I’ll ever know whether to open the door and barge through. Not knowing what truly sits on the other side—of a well of worry, grief, and love in which my emotions are just a drop in the ocean.

And I never will. Sometimes, I just get lucky.