Loving an addicted child from a distance
December tries very hard to convince us that life should sparkle. The world presents a polished, cheerful version of the holidays, as though a few twinkle lights and familiar songs can smooth over heartbreak, fear, or the unmistakable ache of loving someone who feels painfully out of reach. However, for those of us who love someone living with addiction, December arrives with a heaviness woven into its edges, no matter how brightly the season insists on shining.
My adult son is an addict.
It is a truth that still catches in my chest. Addiction does not arrive politely. It charges in, reshaping lives with a force that most people never see. Those looking in from the outside often think in tidy explanations: if he just tried harder, if he just made better decisions, if the family just set firmer boundaries. However, those who have lived it understand that addiction is a fierce illness, tangled with pain and trauma, and none of those assumptions hold up in the real world.
Christmas magnifies everything, every fear, every hope, every memory that sits quietly in the shadows until the season switches on the lights. It also magnifies loneliness, even when you do not look lonely from the outside. I have learned that loneliness can happen in a whole room. It can happen while wrapping gifts that no one may open. It can occur in that quiet moment when the phone does not ring, followed by the even harder moment when it does.
There are times when I sit in the soft glow of the tree and feel the stretch of loving someone I cannot reach, no matter how tightly I hold him in my heart. It is a strange kind of love, steady, bruised, hopeful, exhausted. A love that keeps trying even when you are not sure what “trying” looks like anymore.
I wish people understood that families living with addiction are not indifferent or enabling or naïve. We are trying to navigate impossible choices. We are trying to sleep with one eye open. We are trying to protect our own hearts without closing them. Moreover, we are doing all of this while pretending to be composed entirely in public, even though many of us are one poorly timed Christmas carol away from crying in the canned goods aisle.
Moreover, yes, in my repeated attempts to ground myself through holidays, I keep tipping backward into the tree. Nothing says “seasonal grace” quite like being rescued from a web of garland while muttering promises to take up a less dangerous form of relaxation.
For those who do not understand addiction, I hope this offers a glimpse of what it feels like to love someone who is struggling. For those who do, I want you to know that your loneliness is real, and it matters. You are not failing. You are living through something that demands more courage than most people will ever see.
Every year, I unwind the lights, some steady, some flickering, some needing a little patient coaxing. It feels familiar. My heart does the same. Moreover, despite everything, it still shines even when love stretches across a distance, even when the season feels heavy, even when hope feels fragile.
Every year, I unwind the lights. Some glow steadily; others flicker unpredictably; some require gentle coaxing to shine again. And in that ritual, I see my own heart—tired, hopeful, flickering, still shining.
And sometimes, in the quietest moments of the season, I find myself whispering into the stillness, please call your mom … (or someone who cares about you).
Because even when love stretches across a distance, some lights are worth keeping on.
Because some lights are worth keeping on, even when they waver.
If you need help tonight, please call 310-6789 in BC for immediate emotional support.