Recovery Became my Anchor

When my daughter Jody entered her teenage years,
the mask I had worn for so long
began to crack.

From the outside,
she was thriving—
bright, capable, surrounded by friends.
But beneath the surface,
another story was unfolding.

She began experimenting with drugs.

The terror that rose in me
was ancient and breathless,
the kind that settles deep in a mother’s bones.

When Jody moved three hours away,
I followed as often as I could,
watching helplessly
as addiction tightened its grip.

I sat in emergency rooms
and crisis units,
holding fear in trembling hands,
powerless to fight a disease
love alone could not heal.

This was the one thing
I was afraid to place in God’s hands.

And perhaps what broke me most
were the echoes between us.

Pieces of her story
felt painfully familiar—
abuse, substances, shame,
and dreams slowly slipping from reach.

Watching her struggle
was like catching glimpses
of my own younger self.

I carried guilt.
So did she.

And yet,
even through the deepest heartbreak
of my life,
I stayed rooted in recovery.

I knew something essential:

if I let go of that lifeline,
I would lose myself too.

So while everything around me
felt uncertain,
recovery became my anchor—
the steady ground
beneath a grieving mother’s feet.