When I finally found the rooms of Al-Anon, I was broken. I had spent three long years fighting to save my son and had used every tool in my arsenal. I was exhausted and completely without hope.

I knew what substance use disorder could do to a person. I had watched it destroy my father and leave an indelible imprint on my entire family. I did not want that for my son. Three years of trying to force solutions had worn me down. I felt as though I had crawled into the rooms of Al-Anon a broken woman.

They told me, “Keep coming back.” So I did. I returned week after week until I could no longer bear the pain, and then I stopped going.

You see, I didn’t feel better. As I sat in those rooms and listened to the stories of other parents, my heart broke for every one of them. Their stories filled me with fear because they were living my worst nightmare.

I will never forget the woman whose daughter pawned her wedding ring or the mother who visited her son in prison every week. Then there was the woman who had to drive across the bridge she knew her son was sleeping under on her way to work each morning. Eventually, the pain became too much, and I stopped attending the meetings.

In AA, they say that when an alcoholic returns to drinking after being in recovery, they have a head full of AA and a belly full of booze. It was much the same for me when I stopped attending Al-Anon. I had returned to my old ways of coping with my son’s substance use, even though I knew they weren’t working.

Eventually, I realized I had to go back. It took a great deal of courage to walk through those doors again, but I was out of solutions. Slowly, I began to change.

One woman reached out to me and eventually became my sponsor. Like me, she had two children—a son and a daughter—and both had struggled with substance use disorder. When I heard her story, I recognized so much of my own.

She and her husband had done many of the same things Bruce and I had done to give their children good lives. They made their children a priority. They volunteered in their classrooms, drove on field trips, enrolled them in extracurricular activities, and took them on family vacations. They brought their children to church and raised them with strong morals and values.

It was comforting to know that someone else understood what I was feeling, but I was still deeply uncomfortable sharing what was happening in my home with a large group of strangers. During those first few months, I arrived a few minutes late so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone and left as soon as the meeting ended. I sat silently and cried through nearly every meeting.

I heard, “They have to hit their bottom,” and wondered what my son’s bottom would be. Would he end up in prison?

I heard, “Let go and let God,” and wondered, Where has God been for the past three years?

I heard unfamiliar words and phrases: detachment, boundaries, enabling, acceptance, and the Three C’s:

I didn’t cause it.
I can’t control it.
I can’t cure it.

The thought of letting go and detaching from my son terrified me. So did the realization that I could not fix him.

In my heart, I knew my son had a disease and that I had no control over it. It didn’t take long for me to admit that my life had become unmanageable. I began to understand that if I was going to find hope, it would be in the rooms of Al-Anon. I needed to be surrounded by people who had faced unimaginable heartache yet had still found a way to live happy and meaningful lives.

I returned to those rooms almost twenty years ago, and I have never left.

When I reflect on the women I met during those first few months of recovery, I see them differently now.

THEY WERE WARRIORS.

The woman whose son was sleeping under a bridge eventually retired. She and her husband bought an RV and began traveling. She taught me that even when someone we love is struggling, we must still give ourselves permission to find happiness.

The woman whose thirty-five-year-old son had been in prison told him that he would not be able to live with her when he was released. She loved him and had missed him terribly, but she allowed him the dignity of stepping into his own life, knowing it might not be easy. She taught me that I needed to give my son the same dignity—to live his own life and find his own solutions.

The woman whose daughter pawned her wedding rings became a tremendous source of inspiration to me. Her daughter struggled for many years, but this mother continued attending meetings and became a guiding light to others. She showed me that it was possible to find moments of peace and happiness even while experiencing the pain of watching someone you love struggle with addiction. She taught me the importance of service and reminded me that none of us has to walk this road alone. Her daughter is sober today, and the two of them share a wonderful relationship.

The woman who first reached out and helped me see that I wasn’t alone eventually became my sponsor. She has been a rock for nearly twenty years, even as she has watched both of her children struggle with substance use disorder. She taught me never to give up hope. She taught me that I could continue loving my son while believing in the possibility of recovery without trying to control how or when it happened.

Each of these women taught me that I could do hard things.

During those early days, I was so filled with fear that I ran from the rooms of Al-Anon. But when I found the courage to return, I was given the gift of recovery. My hope was restored, and somewhere along the way, I recovered myself.

I learned that I am responsible for my own happiness and that I deserve to be happy. Today, I am still discovering who I am and finding new ways to express myself. I no longer depend on other people to make me happy.

I have learned how to create a life that brings me joy, even when someone I love is