I hear how heavy those years feel right now, and I want to simply sit with you in that weight before looking anywhere else. The distance you are describing is real, and the ache of it matters; it is not something to be rushed past or solved away as if it were merely a problem to be fixed. Your longing itself is a testament to what remains alive in you, even when God feels impossibly far.
When that sense of absence is most acute, St. Teresa of Ávila gives voice to the very reality of this pain, describing a soul that "has a very lively understanding to grasp the reason there is for grieving at being absent from God" [6]. She does not treat this grief as a failure or as something shameful, but as a profound sign of love that has not died, even after years of silence. The hurt you feel is not evidence that God has abandoned you, but rather that your heart still knows, at some deep level, what it means to be made for Him.
Because this grief is real, the way back does not begin with demanding that you feel consolation or warmth immediately. Thomas à Kempis gently reminds us that spiritual progress "does not consist only in having the grace of consolation, but in bearing its withdrawal humbly, self-denyingly, and patiently," and he urges us not to "neglect yourself totally because of the dryness or anxiety of mind you feel" [4]. Coming back may mean showing up in the darkness, without any sense of reward, trusting that God is present even when unfelt.
And when guilt whispers that you have been away too long, or that you must earn your way back, St. Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori invites a different posture: "Lord, I accept this pain from Your hands, and I accept it for as long as You please... and so that prayer, though painful, will benefit you more than any sweet consolation" [1]. He suggests that God sometimes allows this dryness not as punishment, but "as a disposition for our greater profit, and to keep us in humility" [1]. Your return is not a test you are failing, but a path where even the pain of absence can become a place of meeting.
I wonder if it might help to release any expectation of how this return should feel, and simply let your honest grief be your first prayer.