Meeting Them Where They Are: A Mother’s Truth About Loving Someone in Addiction

We are so wired for instant gratification.

Our culture thrives on it…quick results, fast fixes, the illusion of control. But when it comes to loving someone in active addiction? That shit doesn't apply.

There’s no straight line. No perfect playbook. And definitely no shortcuts.

People don’t get sober on our timeline. They get sober when and if they’re ready. And that’s the first truth that will break your heart.

For me, it took everything I had to stop trying to control my daughter’s recovery. I had to stop obsessing over relapse, stop bringing up rehab every time we talked, stop trying to lead her back to healing with ultimatums and guilt. Because when you finally decide to meet your loved one where they are, everything changes.

I stopped begging her to go back to treatment.
I stopped trying to fix her.
And I started just… talking to her. As a person. Not as a problem.

That’s what humanizing looks like. That’s what loving through addiction can look like.

It’s awkward at first. Because you’ve spent so long walking on eggshells, overanalyzing every text, wondering what version of them you’re going to get. You’ve spent years pouring your energy into figuring out what might finally convince them to get sober. And when that switch flips, when you finally accept that you can’t make them you’re left with this terrifying freedom:
What do I do now?

Here’s what I did:

I chose to love my daughter where she was.
Not by ignoring boundaries. Not by handing her cash or pretending everything was fine.
But by refusing to make every interaction about her addiction.

Because she knew.
She knew I wanted her to get sober. She didn’t need a reminder, she needed a reason to believe she was still worth loving.

Love Is Not a Quick Fix

Love isn’t a treatment plan.
It’s not a detox protocol.
And it’s not a guaranteed outcome.

It’s slow. It’s painful. It will not protect you from heartbreak.
But sometimes, it plants a seed.

A mom once told me she meets her daughter at a park bench every week. Her daughter is still deep in active addiction. But they sit. In silence. Together.
That’s all she can do. That’s all she can live with.

That stuck with me.

Because loving someone through addiction is never black and white.
You will have guilt, no matter what you choose.

I couldn’t let my daughter live in my house while she was using. She was homeless. And that guilt? It nearly crushed me. But I had to protect the other children in my home. My job was to keep our home a safe space.

So I found balance.
Sometimes, all I could do was send a text.
“I love you. I hope you’re okay.”

That’s it.
Sometimes that’s all there is.

When They’re Not Ready, You Heal Anyway

People think that the healing starts when your loved one chooses recovery. But for me, the healing began when I did.

When I started working on my own trauma. When I owned my shit. When I looked in the mirror and said, “I wasn’t the perfect mom. I caused pain, too.”

That’s generational trauma. That’s what most families never want to touch.
They want the person struggling with addiction to carry the weight of it all.
But that’s not fair. And it’s not the whole story.

Addiction isn’t about the drug.
It’s about the pain underneath it.

You can court-order treatment. You can do interventions. And maybe it helps. But more often than not, the second the mandate ends, they go right back to what numbs them because nobody got curious about the why.

Until the pain is addressed, the addiction is just a symptom.

Let’s Be Clear About Boundaries

When I say meet them where they are, I don’t mean tolerate abuse.
You don’t have to subject yourself to verbal attacks, manipulation, violence, or being stolen from to prove your love. That’s not compassion, that’s trauma reenactment.

You can choose love and protect your peace.
You can set hard boundaries and still show up with empathy.

In my daughter’s addiction, there came a point where we had a rule:
If one of us started to get escalated, we hung up the phone.
No fights. No screaming. Just a line. A mutual line.

That didn’t happen overnight. In the early years, we were toxic. Our dynamic was loud and ugly and fueled by pain. But even in her active addiction, we reached a place of mutual respect.
And that’s where the real healing started.

This Isn’t a Formula. It’s a Choice.

Some people try to follow my story like a blueprint.

But here’s the hard truth:
There is no formula.

Your child might not come home.
Your loved one might not get sober.
This is the hardest, most excruciating kind of waiting. But if you make every choice based on what you can live with, at least you’ll know you didn’t abandon them out of fear.

And if the worst happens?
You won’t be haunted by whether your last words were full of shame or love.

This isn’t a how-to guide. It’s a mirror.
And I hope, in some small way, it helps you see that even in the chaos, even in the helplessness there’s still something you can do.

You can work on you.
You can love without losing yourself.
You can live in the wreckage and still find moments of peace.

Because this isn’t about saving them.
It’s about surviving it with your heart intact.

Want to Share Your Story?
If this piece hit home and you're walking this same road—I’d love to hear from you. I’m building a private, paid subscriber series called “The Family Case Files”—a raw, ongoing collection of real stories from families navigating addiction on my Substack Prescribed Chaos.

Here’s how it works:

• You can submit your experience anonymously.

• I’ll turn your story into a humanizing case study with commentary, insights, and practical reflections.

• It won’t just be your pain—it’ll be a roadmap for other families trying to survive this.

Why paid?
Because these stories deserve care, privacy, and depth. And because we’re building something real—a space where families are honored, not pathologized.

Become a paid subscriber to access the series, submit your story, and join a community that leads with love—even when it’s messy.

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If you're not ready yet, that's okay. Keep reading, keep healing. Just know there's a seat for you here—whenever you're ready.

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