08/02/2026
When trying to save them is destroying you, letting go may be your only option.
A Letter To My Addicted Adult Child.
My dear child,
I feel like I'm saying goodbye to you, and in a way, I am. I will always love you and want the best for you, and that's why I'm prepared to do the most unnatural thing a mother will ever do. My mind screams that I'm abandoning you. Oh, I know you're all grown up, but you'll always be my baby to me. That could be part of the problem. My nature is to protect you. I see you broken and despairing, and I am broken and despairing too.
If you had cancer or heart disease, I would fight tooth and nail to get you the best care possible. I see you destroying yourself, and I desperately want you to get help. But that's the thing about addiction: there is no hospital bed, no cancer, or heart disease. Only an insidious little secret that has grown into a lying, ugly monster. It's devouring you alive, and me, along with it.
I've done everything possible to make this monster go away, pleading with it, coddling it, even nurturing it. But it's relentless. And I am left to face the truth: you, my precious child, are addicted.
Why does the truth have to be so hard? Even harder is what I still have to do. I have watched over you all my life, and now I must set you free. Not because I want to, but because I need to. It's the only thing I can do that might save your life. I'm told by people in recovery, professionals, and moms who have gone before me that if I keep rescuing you, you'll keep using. There's no incentive to change with me fixing everything. But if I stop, there's a greater chance you will grow tired of the repercussions and seek help. Almost always, letting go works.
Believe me, "almost always" is nowhere near comforting enough. I want a 100% guarantee, but there is none.
God knows I have tried everything humanly possible to make you better. I bailed you out and put you back together more times than I can count. I've lied for you, made excuses for you, and kept your secrets. But it's never enough. You always want more. You lie to me, rage at me, and scare me. No matter what I do, you refuse help. You're going to do it your way. Only your way is not working. Not only is your way not working, but your best thinking is destroying you (and me). I'm raising the white flag. I finally see it: my help isn't helping. If I keep doing for you what you can and should be doing for yourself, not only am I not helping you, I'm partnering with the disease that's destroying you and I can't live with that.
So here I am, between a rock and a hard place, with no good choices, only hard and worse ones.
Dear Child, before I let go, know this: I am here for you, always. I am here for you, not for the disease that wears your face, but for you, who I believe is hiding deep within. Whether you get clean by intervention or grow weary of your consequences, now that you'll be dealing with them, this insanity will stop.
If you think quitting drugs is hard, my dear, you should try letting go of your child.
I know we've both grown sick with this monster. You're not the only one who needs help. I do, too, and I'll do everything that is asked of me, even if I think I will hate every minute of it. I'll do it because I know if I do, you might.
I'd like to ask you to take care, but you will only nod and carry on as before. The words make me feel better. They're of no use to you at all. So instead, I shall give you to God. But before I do, I'll wrap you in your favorite baby blanket—the one you dragged behind you until it was nothing but rags.
Lastly, I pray that we both have the strength to do the next right thing, even when it feels so wrong.
I love you, my precious child.
May we both find peace.
Love always,
Mom.
Lorelie Rozzano
www.jaggedlittleedges.com
