I don’t know exactly when I lost my son. There was no dramatic separation, no single moment where everything unraveled. It was slow, painful, and filled with questions I may never have answers to.
He grew up in a home filled with love and support. He was quiet, shy, and gentle—a boy who faced challenges in school early on. Learning didn’t come easily, and eventually, he was diagnosed with a reading comprehension disability. But despite his struggles, he never gave up. He worked hard, determined to prove that he was capable of more than the world might expect of him.
Determination was his strength. He earned his building trades certification through vocational school while still in high school, proving that obstacles didn’t define him. Then, he took the next step—college. He set out into the big city, eager for new opportunities, building a future for himself that, for a time, seemed promising.
Hard work was in his nature. He was never idle, always picking up jobs, always doing what needed to be done. As a boy, he helped care for his grandmother, who lived with us, showing compassion beyond his years. He milked cows, worked alongside his father painting houses and doing construction, and even spent time on a pig farm. He never shied away from labor—whether working as a Statistical Process Controller in a shop while in college, driving a forklift, landscaping, or maintaining grounds. Whatever the job, he showed up, ready to work.
We lived in a rural community, a small town that was a good fit for us. It gave him space to grow, to feel part of something, to carve out his place in the world. And for a while, I thought he was thriving.
But addiction doesn’t care about hard work. It doesn’t care about potential. It doesn’t care how much someone is loved or how many people believe in them. It sneaks in quietly, takes hold, and refuses to let go.
I encouraged him to seek help. I reminded him he was never alone. I told myself that if I just kept trying, if I just held on a little longer, if I just loved him enough, I could pull him back. But addiction doesn’t negotiate. It takes and takes until there’s nothing left.
I enabled him without realizing it, thinking my support meant saving him. But looking back, I wonder—did I make it easier for him to stay trapped? Did my love create a safety net that allowed him to fall deeper instead of climbing out?
His father struggled with addiction, too. He passed away in 2021, his heart simply giving out after years of wear and tear. I found him that morning, resting in his recliner—the only place he could sleep comfortably because of his back from a car accident years earlier and his weight he gained while unable to do the things he once did. Maybe because his body had carried the weight of struggle for too long…And I can’t shake the thought that he may have already been gone when I left for work, that I didn’t know, that I left him alone in his final moments.
The grief from losing him has been compounded by guilt, and now, watching my son walk a similar path, the pain feels unbearable.
I text my son, hoping for a reply, and sometimes he answers. Other times, my words disappear into silence. And that silence is its own kind of heartbreak. It’s waiting, wondering, fearing the worst but trying to believe in something better.
I used to pray for him to come back to me. Now, I just pray that he is safe. That wherever he is, whatever battle he is fighting, he knows that even through the distance, even through the silence, I still love him.
I love him more than I need answers. More than I need closure.
I love him enough to let go, even if I never understand why he left.
A Final Reflection
Addiction is a cruel and unforgiving force—it does not discriminate, does not yield, and often leaves behind nothing but pain, grief, and unanswered questions. It has taken from me in ways I never imagined, forcing me to wrestle with guilt, sorrow, and the unrelenting ache of loving someone I cannot save.
But despite everything, I refuse to let addiction define my son. He is more than his struggles. He is more than his mistakes. He is the quiet, shy boy who overcame obstacles with determination. He is the hard worker who never shied away from responsibility. He is the young man who once dreamed of a bright future, and I hold onto the hope that somewhere—somewhere beyond the silence—he still holds that dream, too.
Grief, when tied to addiction, is complicated. It is mourning someone who is still alive. It is waiting in uncertainty, balancing hope and fear in equal measure. It is learning to let go, not out of abandonment, but out of love.
I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: My love for my son is unwavering. Whether he finds his way back or continues down a road I cannot follow, that love remains. And that, I choose to believe, is enough.
#AddictionAwareness #BreakTheStigma #MentalHealthMatters #GriefAndLoss #MothersLove #LettingGoWithLove #EndTheCycle #SecondChances #LoveWithoutLimits
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