The Waiting Game

For years, my wife and I lived in a state of fear and "high-alert" that never turned off. When Adam’s addiction took hold, our home, which should have been a place of peace, became a place of worry for us as parents and his siblings. After his first relapse in 2013, we had to make the hardest decision a parent ever faces: we could no longer allow him to be in our home.

It felt counter-intuitive and it was the hardest thing we ever had to do. It felt like we were turning our backs. The truth was that any "help" we gave had become enabling, and our home had become part of the cycle.

From that day on, life became a waiting game. Every time the phone rang late at night, my heart stopped. I was certain it was the police calling to tell me my son was dead. I knew he was navigating homelessness; I knew he was cycling through detox, hospitals, and jails. I spent a decade wishing him "luck" because I didn’t have a strategy. I loved him from a distance, but I was powerless to change the blueprint of his life.

Watching Adam rebuild wasn’t an overnight miracle; it was a series of small wins that he continued to leverage. I watched him stop running from the wreckage and start surveying the damage.

He didn’t just "get sober" — he became an architect. He returned to college to earn his diploma. He built a career as a Realtor. He did the hard work of becoming a Certified Recovery Coach (CACCF), and he started it all from a bed in a homeless shelter. Today, he isn’t just in recovery; he works in the trenches with high-risk individuals, helping them navigate the same bottoms he once called home.

I couldn’t be more proud of the man Adam is today, but more importantly, I am proud of the agency he has reclaimed.

I am writing this because I know exactly where you are sitting. I know the gut-wrenching fear of the "late-night phone call." I know the guilt of setting a boundary and the exhaustion of trying to save someone who isn’t ready.