Part one of the three-part series: Benevolent Distance — Love, Midlife and Active Healing

This week, two completely different podcasts found me through two completely different algorithms.

One was connected to my academic learning and introduced the idea of spatial distance. The other came through my religious learning and used the phrase benevolent distance. The subjects were unrelated, yet they seemed to meet at the same truth: sometimes distance is not cruelty. Sometimes distance is how we prevent hurt from continuing.

That sentence settled somewhere deep inside me.

We live in a world of constant access. A message arrives and we are expected to answer. The phone rings and we are expected to pick up. Family can see that we are online, so surely we must be available. Silence needs an explanation. Rest needs permission. A boundary is quickly interpreted as rejection.

But what if stepping back is not an act against another person? What if it is an act of responsibility?

Spatial distance creates room; benevolent distance gives that room an intention

Spatial distance is the practical space we create between ourselves and a difficult situation or person. It may be as simple as leaving a heated conversation, going to another room, switching off the phone for an hour or reducing contact for a period. In more serious circumstances, especially where there is abuse or danger, it may mean separating physically and seeking appropriate support.

Distance can stop the immediate cycle of reaction. It gives the nervous system time to settle and the mind a chance to see what it could not see from the centre of the storm.

Benevolent distance goes one step further.

It is not a formal medical diagnosis, and I am not using it as a complicated psychological label. I understand it as distance held with a sincere intention toward what is good:

I can wish you well without giving you unlimited access to me. I can refuse revenge without denying what happened. I can care about you without abandoning myself.

The word benevolent carries the idea of goodwill—wanting what is good, kind and humane. In this context, benevolence is not weakness. It does not mean pretending that harm was harmless, accepting repeated disrespect or returning to an unsafe relationship. It means trying to protect ourselves without allowing cruelty, retaliation or bitterness to become our new identity.

In an Islamic frame, it reminds me of ihsan: the effort to respond with goodness, dignity and moral awareness. Yet goodness does not require unlimited access. Justice and accountability matter too. If contact is unsafe, distance can remain. Forgiveness, if and when it comes, does not cancel a boundary.

If I hurt someone, I must respect the distance they need

This idea has another side, and it is perhaps the more uncomfortable one.

If someone has hurt me, I am allowed to create space. But if I have hurt someone—even if I was angry, triggered or reacting to something they did—I still have a responsibility to examine my behaviour.

“I only reacted because you…” may explain the sequence, but it does not repair the impact.

Taking responsibility does not mean accepting blame for everything. It means being honest about the part that belongs to us. A sincere apology does not demand immediate forgiveness, renewed contact or reassurance. Sometimes the most respectful apology sounds like this:

“I understand that my actions hurt you. I am sorry. I will respect the space you need, and I will work on what is mine to change.”

That is benevolence toward the person who was hurt. It is also self-responsibility. We are not chasing them to relieve our guilt; we are allowing our accountability to become action.

Sometimes a mother simply needs quiet

Not every need for distance begins with conflict or abuse.

Sometimes, as a mother, I am simply touched out. I love my children. There is no absence of love in my need for quiet. Yet after being spoken to, leaned on, called, questioned and needed, my body and mind sometimes say, “Enough for now.”

I am sandwiched between adult sons and tweens, and I have discovered that a child’s expectation of their mother does not disappear with age.

Adult children are busy working, creating and living. They may not need to speak to their mother every day. Then, at a moment’s notice, when they need Mama, they appear as though she has been standing quietly in the shadows, holding her breath and waiting to become useful.

There is something beautiful in knowing my children believe, “Mama is here for me.” Mama will be. But Mama is also a fully functioning human being. She has work, routines, ideas, tiredness, dreams, responsibilities and an inner life of her own.

Unconditional love is not the same as unconditional availability.

Children—even adult children—can unintentionally treat a mother’s constant giving as a natural family resource, like water from a tap. They may only notice the labour when the tap is turned off. This is not always deliberate selfishness. Sometimes it is simply what the family system has taught them to expect.

Research on the family mental load describes the often invisible work of anticipating, remembering, organising and monitoring family needs. It is not only doing the task. It is noticing that the task exists, planning it, reminding others and carrying the worry if it is not done. Studies consistently find that mothers carry a disproportionate share of this cognitive labour, and a heavier load is associated with stress and poorer wellbeing.

Love cannot remain healthy if one person must disappear to keep everyone else comfortable.

The fine line between supportive love and over-functioning

The line can be difficult to see because mothers are often praised for sacrifice. Giving is beautiful. Care is sacred. But care becomes unhealthy when love is measured by how completely a woman ignores her own limits.

I am learning to notice the difference:

• Supportive love says: “I am here, and I believe you can also do your part.”
• Over-functioning says: “I must rescue you before you experience discomfort.”
• Manipulation says: “If you loved me, you would never say no.”
• Punitive distance says: “I will withdraw until you suffer enough to come after me.”
• Benevolent distance says: “My no is not the withdrawal of my love.”

The intention matters. A boundary is not the silent treatment. The silent treatment is commonly used to punish, control or provoke. A healthy pause is communicated where possible: “I am overwhelmed. I need an hour of quiet. I will speak to you after I have settled.”

That small explanation protects connection without sacrificing the need for space.

Guilt is not always proof that we are doing something wrong

Mothers, caregivers and nurturers can feel guilty the moment they choose themselves. We may have spent years responding so quickly to everyone else that a normal boundary feels unnatural.

But guilt is not always a moral verdict. Sometimes it is simply the discomfort of changing an old pattern.

If I have taught everyone that I am always available, my first boundary may surprise them. They may resist. I may question myself. That does not automatically mean the boundary is unkind.

A useful pause is to ask:

1. Am I creating space to regulate and protect wellbeing, or to punish someone?
2. Have I communicated the boundary as clearly as the situation safely allows?
3. Is the amount of distance proportionate to what has happened?
4. Am I willing to take responsibility for my part?
5. Does this boundary help me act with greater dignity, or does it keep the conflict alive?

The goal is not to become unavailable. It is to become available by choice, not by emotional conscription.

A small ritual for returning to yourself

No product can create a boundary or complete our emotional work for us. But a small sensory ritual can mark the moment when we stop carrying everybody else and return to ourselves.

Aphrodite’s Garden Relax Aromatherapy Massage Oil can be included in a quiet evening ritual: massage it into the neck, shoulders, hands or feet as directed, put the phone down and allow yourself a few undisturbed minutes. Its botanical aroma can accompany relaxation; it is not a treatment for anxiety, trauma or relationship distress.

Try pairing the ritual with three slow questions:

What am I feeling? What do I need? What can I lovingly decline today?

Follow the label directions, patch-test first and stop using it if irritation occurs.

Love does not ask a mother to disappear

Perhaps that is what these two podcasts arrived to teach me.

Distance can create breathing room. Benevolence can decide what we do with that room. We can step back without becoming hard. We can remain kind without remaining endlessly accessible. We can love our children deeply while teaching them that Mama’s humanity is not separate from her motherhood.

And when we have caused hurt, we can respect the distance of another person without turning their boundary into an insult against us.

Sometimes love moves closer. Sometimes love steps back. Wisdom is learning which one allows safety, responsibility and dignity to grow.

“A loving boundary is not where care ends; it is where self-abandonment ends and responsibility begins.”

Health note: This article is educational and reflective. It does not diagnose or treat any medical or mental-health condition. Where there is abuse, coercive control or danger, safety and qualified support take priority over reconciliation.