The Freedom to Move Forward

It’s been eighteen long years of living in a world that I never chose, let alone under circumstances I never asked for, shaped by decisions that were made without my consent. In a world where my emotions were constantly pushed and pulled in every direction—where my reactions were judged more harshly than the betrayals that caused them in the first place. It was during those years, that I felt like I was somehow stuck. Stuck somewhere between grief and hope. Stuck between choosing to fight or just letting go. Stuck in a dimension where nothing ever fully heals, and nothing ever seems to move forward.

That was the weight I carried for the longest time. I wore it in every fiber of my body, my voice, and most profoundly, my decisions. I remember how I lived so cautiously, holding myself back from simple things that others take for granted, like joy, travel, and even love—because I didn’t want to miss a single chance to reconnect with the ones I lost—my children. I made myself small. I even rooted myself to the ground, hoping that by staying put it might somehow bring everything back full circle. But such as life, that never happened. And all those years just seemed to pass.

Yet, something finally shifted and changed everything for me.

Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t come with rockets firing overhead or a defining moment of clarity. Instead, it was more like being on a long, turbulent flight where you forget what the feeling of being calm is like because you’ve been holding on for dear life the entire trip. But just as quickly as it began, the turbulence suddenly stopped. The seatbelt sign turns off. And the flight attendant calmly announces, “You’re now free to move about the cabin.” And that’s it. That’s the moment.

That’s how this all feels.

For the first time in nearly two decades, I no longer feel trapped. I don’t feel obligated to explain myself to others or prove my worth. I certainly don’t feel like I have to sacrifice every part of my life in order to keep the door open for someone who may or may not walk through. I’m still here and that’s what counts. My love for my children has never wavered. But I finally understand something: standing still won’t bring them back.

Though it took me more time than I care to admit, I eventually came to understand something very important: Living your life does not mean giving up. And moving forward doesn’t mean walking away.

I know there’s some people who see certain changes in me lately and wonder what’s going on. They see me smiling more. Even dreaming again. Reinventing parts of myself that needed change after years of sorrow and survival. Some folks are starting to whisper—Is he running away from it all? Is this his way of coping?

Nope, and let me be clear: I am not running away.

Instead, I’m running to something in front of me. I’m running to the future that’s been patiently waiting for me all these years. A future where I am no longer defined by loss. A future where my identity is no longer reduced to what others have taken from me. A future where I don’t just survive each day, but instead—I live it.

And I can already hear the voice of someone asking, “But what about your children?” My answer is simple, they’re still in my heart, every moment of every day. They always have been and always will be. But I realized that I simply can’t keep living in the same holding pattern as before, waiting for the past to somehow undo itself. That’s not living. That’s actually the act of disappearing. And I refuse to disappear anymore.

Keep in mind, this isn’t about giving up on them. It’s more about not giving up on myself or who I am.

Having said all this, I understand that the pain of parental alienation never fully leaves you. It just hides beneath the surface, deep in your bones, like a low ache that flares up when you least expect it. But even within that dull ache, there’s still room for growth. For movement. For some light to seep in. And when it does, you don’t owe anyone anything not even, an apology for embracing it.

So, to anyone questioning my motives—no, I’m not escaping. I’m actually just arriving. I’m stepping into a life that’s been waiting for me to claim. The shackles have finally fallen away. The sign has dinged overhead. And I am finally free—really free—to move about the cabin.

And if my children ever read this one day, I hope they understand something right now: I didn’t stop waiting. I just got tired of waiting in place.

David Shubert