Loving a Child Who Is Still Here and Still Lost.

There is a kind of grief no one prepares you for. It doesn’t come with casseroles or sympathy cards. It comes quietly, over time, while the person you love is still breathing.

If you are loving someone in active addiction, you may recognize this grief. You are not only afraid. You are not only exhausted. You are grieving.

You are grieving the loss of the child you knew, and the future you imagined for them. The milestones you thought would come. The safety you hoped they would find. The life you believed love alone could protect.

And because your child is still alive, this grief is often invisible.

Many parents carry this sorrow silently, wondering if they’re allowed to name it at all. You may feel guilt for mourning while they are still here. You may feel shame for feeling angry, disappointed, or brokenhearted. You may wonder if letting go of expectations means you’ve stopped loving.

It doesn’t.

Grieving the loss of a living child is not a betrayal. It is a response to chronic heartbreak.Addiction changes the relationship. It alters trust, communication, safety, and connection. And slowly, painfully, it forces us to release the picture we once held of how life was “supposed” to go.

This kind of grief teaches us something hard and holy. We cannot love someone into sobriety. We cannot sacrifice ourselves into their healing. And we cannot hold on to expectations that are breaking us.

Letting go does not mean giving up hope. It means releasing the illusion of control.

So I want to ask you without judgment:

What expectations have you had to let go of?

Maybe it’s the expectation that love would be enough. Or that doing everything “right” would change the outcome. Maybe it’s the dream of who you thought they would become by now. Or the belief that this wouldn’t be part of your story.

Letting go hurts.

But it also creates space.

Space for compassion instead of constant panic. Space for boundaries instead of resentment. Space for you to breathe again.

And here is the truth I want you to hear:

You are not alone in this.

You are not weak for feeling this grief.

You are not failing because you are tired.

There is hope, even here.

Hope does not always look like immediate change. Sometimes hope looks like staying grounded when everything feels uncertain. Sometimes it looks like choosing love without enabling. Sometimes it looks like reclaiming pieces of yourself that were lost in survival mode.

If you are loving someone in active addiction, I see you.

Your grief is real.

Your love is deep.

And your story is not over.

Even in this place, hope still exists.