To the Parent of a Lost Child

A Christmas Letter for the Ones Still Loving Through the Dark

Crack of Dawn

Winter pulls me into its rhythm—early to bed with the darkness, and rising with the first crack of dawn. This morning, I awoke and began scrolling through my phone, when I came across a post about the death of Rob Reiner. At first, I thought it must be a mistake. Two of my favorite films—When Harry Met Sally and A Few Good Men—shaped me. I grew up watching Rob Reiner’s work. He was such a human director. Honest. Raw. Real. I had no idea he had a son who struggled with addiction. There’s a particular kind of ache that comes with that knowledge. The pain that people carry in this life transcends class and race—especially when it comes to addiction. No one is exempt. As I read more about his journey, my heart broke open. Parents of addicts lose pieces of themselves. It’s as if their own child’s soul is slowly stripped away—sometimes silently, sometimes violently—by a force no love can outrun. You begin to question everything: Were those memories real? Was their laughter still them? Was the hope I clung to just another illusion? Hope can keep us inside a story longer than we should stay. It’s so powerful, so convincing. Until truth finally arrives—bold, naked, and undeniable—asking us to surrender. Only then can acceptance rise. Only then can grief dissolve—into that vast, quiet abyss where love still lives, even if nothing else does.

How Do We Carry Love in Hell?

How do we carry our love in hell? How do we hold a love so deep, so fierce, that it aches through bone and prayer—and still witness the one we love destroy themselves? Why can someone be loved so completely, and yet not love themselves enough to stop unraveling their own soul? This is the torment of loving an addict. It is not that we haven't loved them enough. It is that they cannot feel it—not through the fog of self-hate, the numbness, the escape, the illusion. And we try. My God, we try. We offer our presence, our forgiveness, our resources, our tears, our sleepless nights, our second chances, our bodies, our sanity. But addiction is a thief. It doesn’t just rob the addict—it steals the ones who love them too, if we let it.

The Pain of Codependency — A Parent’s Grief

To be the parent of an addict is to walk the razor’s edge between unconditional love and losing yourself completely. Codependency doesn’t mean you are weak. It means you love so much, you forget where you end and they begin. You make yourself a raft, hoping they’ll climb on. You jump into the flood, thinking you can pull them to shore. But sometimes—they don’t want the shore. Sometimes, they want the flood. You realize: You cannot save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. So you learn the hardest lesson of all: To love without losing yourself. To care without collapsing. To grieve without guilt. To let go—not because you’ve stopped loving them, but because you’ve finally started loving you. This is how we carry love in hell: By keeping our own flame lit. By refusing to let their darkness become our own. By becoming the light that remembers them, even when they cannot remember themselves.

The Healing of Codependency: A Return to Myself

I didn’t know, at first, that I was dissolving codependency. I just knew I was drowning in love that hurt, and I wanted to breathe again. There were no grand epiphanies. Just quiet hours of crying in the car. Mornings when my chest ached before I even opened my eyes. Afternoons where I’d see a child in a coffee shop—laughing, safe in a parent’s arms—and my heart would crack open. I used to think if I just loved harder, she would heal. If I held tighter, she would rise. But I’ve learned: love is not control. And healing is not something I can gift to another. It is something they must choose. What I could choose... was me. And somewhere in that slow choosing, joy returned. Not as a loud parade. But as a flicker—inside a song, or a breeze, or the way my own hand rested on my heart and whispered, “You’re allowed to live, too.”

Christmas at the Edge of Grief: The Lighthouse Soul

There is a sacred kind of faith that isn’t loud. It doesn’t come with hallelujahs or answered prayers. It isn’t wrapped in a perfect nativity or tied with miracles that make everything better. Sometimes faith looks like this: A mother sitting in her car on Christmas Eve, watching the snow fall, wondering if her child is safe. It looks like baking the cookies anyway. Lighting a candle. Choosing not to let grief steal the music. You used to think love meant sacrificing yourself. Now you know: true love holds the light. It does not drown in the dark. You stopped throwing yourself into the storm, and started becoming the steady beam that says: “I am here. I love you. I will not disappear. But I will not drown with you.” This season, let yourself be the light. Not the martyr. Not the rescuer. Just the steady, sacred flame that refuses to go out.

The Letting Go That Heals

You dreamed of holidays wrapped in laughter, of letters from college,of healed hugs and ordinary mornings.

You dreamed of their eyes lighting up when they finally saw themselvesthe way you always saw them.

But this—this is not that dream.

Letting go of the fantasyis not the same as letting go of love. It is the doorway to healing.

Life has never asked us to be perfect. It has only asked us to be present.

And here you are.In the swirl of grief and grace. In the ache of remembering and the hush of becoming.

Things may never be what you once imagined. But this is true for all of life—

Dreams shift. Seasons turn.Some flowers bloom. Others never open.

But you— you remain.

And inside youis a heart that still loves,still softens,still sings to the light through the dark.

You are allowed joy.You are allowed peace.You are allowed to laugh again without guilt.You are allowed to move forward with the candle still litfor the one you love.

And if they return—may they find you radiant, not wrecked.Still loving.But no longer lost.