How do you prepare for something you can’t prevent?

For something that should be preventable and not inevitable.

Endless calls. Countless texts.

Empty promises—so many that they stop pretending. That they stop even calling them promises.

You don’t want to lose them. But you feel it. That creeping fear. The unshakable weight of what-ifs. You worry that by thinking the thoughts, writing the words, or speaking them aloud, you’ll somehow seal their fate. And if that happens, you’ll never forgive yourself.

So you push it down. Bottle it up. Try to keep it buried.

But it eats away at you. It breaks you, piece by piece, until you no longer recognize yourself. A shell of the person you once were—of the person you could have been. Maybe you don’t even know who that is anymore. Maybe you wouldn’t recognize them if you did.

The fear consumes you.

You hope and pray—to a god you might not even believe in—that you’re wrong. That this won’t be the way their story ends. Because they deserve more. They deserve happiness. Safety. A future they can see for themselves.

And you ask yourself, How can I help them see that?

But addiction doesn’t just affect the person battling it. It’s a web that spreads endlessly, pulling in everyone around them. And no matter how tightly we cling, how desperately we try, they have to be the ones to break free.

That’s the brutal truth.

No matter how much we plead, cry, or beg—they have to want to get better. They have to choose to try.

But that doesn’t mean we stop trying.

They need to know we’re there. That we love them. That we want more for them than this.

Because addiction is a disease. And every day is a battle. Whether they’re under its grip or fighting to stay sober, it’s a war waged in their mind. The cravings, the urges—an itch that never fades. So they feed it. Again and again. Another piece of themselves each time.

And we just hope they don’t slip too far.

We start making compromises with our moral integrity.

Please let the batch be clean. Please don’t let this time be the time it’s too much. Please don’t let them be alone.

Yet, those are the very people we hope they get away from.

You hope they survive until morning. That the call doesn’t come while you’re sleeping—because missing it would destroy you. But you don’t want it to come at all.

Because you don’t just want them to survive. You want them to live.

The fear isn’t just theirs—it becomes yours. You carry their weight until they’re strong enough to bear it themselves. No matter how heavy, you would shoulder it for them in every lifetime. Because the love never fades.

Every birthday, your only wish is for them to still be here. To be safe. To make it.

But you keep that wish to yourself. Silent. Unspeakable.

And when everyone around you raises their glasses, cheering in celebration, they have no idea what you’re really toasting to.

May we continue to have the strength to hold onto hope—until they can see it for themselves.

And if you are struggling with addiction, you are seen. You are not alone in this battle. There are resources, people who care, people who love you. You deserve a clean, safe, happy life. And your support system? They want that for you. But you have to want it for yourself, too.

If you are reading this and love someone who is battling addiction, you are not alone either. As heartbreaking as it is, sometimes, knowing that is the only comfort we have. There are support groups, people who understand.

May we keep fighting for them.

May we never get that call.

And if we do—may we find the strength to survive it.