What I learned from my daughter's first two years in recovery

My daughter, Jenn, recently celebrated two years of sobriety. She worked damned hard for it (still does, every day, one day at a time) and the gifts of recovery are flowing into her life. It’s what I expected, if she walked that road. What I didn’t expect was the mountain of gifts that Jenn’s recovery would bring to my life.

Addiction is greedy, it never takes just one. As a mother of two teenagers with substance use disorder (and one wonderfully, miraculously “normie” teen), I also felt lost to addiction—also damaged, also broken. There’s no What to Expect book for parenting a teenager in addiction. No way to do it well. It’s messy and traumatic and full of failure. Shattered dreams and sleepless nights pile one upon the other, for years on end. Addiction can, and does, tear families apart. It never leaves them unscarred.

But recovery is as generous as addiction is greedy. I’ve gained so much through Jenn’s recovery over the past two years. Watching her persevere through life’s ups and downs with strength and resilience, hope for the future, and unwavering faith is beyond inspiring; it’s been life-changing for me.

I could write a whole book about the thousands of things I’ve learned through Jenn’s recovery, but here are just four that come to mind.  

Drugs and alcohol are not the problem. They’re a symptom.

I used to blame Jenn’s problems on her drinking. I thought if she didn’t drink so much, she’d be happier, less angry, more responsible, more successful, have healthier relationships. She’d feel better about herself. I wasn’t wrong, but I was certainly not right.

The fact is that Jenn, like most teens who abuse substances, drank too much because she felt so badly about herself. Drinking made her feel like she fit in, that she was pretty enough, popular enough, outgoing enough… that she was enough. For her, drinking was the solution to her problems. At least for a while.

As a mother, I should have seen the deeper issues, but I blamed it all on the drinking. I focused on the symptom, and not the disease. I didn’t see how broken my little girl was. Without understanding the root cause, I had about as much chance of helping her as I did of sweeping away her shadow. I wasn’t looking in the right place. I didn’t have the right tools. 

Now, when I see people still struggling (with pretty much anything), I’m far more compassionate. Behaviour is always a symptom of an underlying emotional state. If people are not able to manage their behaviour, they’re likely dealing with unmanageable thoughts and feelings. And that’s where they need help and support.

Community and connection are everything

I had no idea how important community was until my kids entered recovery. I’m a shy introvert, strong and solitary. An independent cat rather than a dog who yearns to be part of a pack. I never knew what community had to offer, or what I could possibly contribute to one, until I saw community in action.

Many people isolate themselves in their addiction. They prefer to be alone with their crazy thoughts. In recovery, connecting with others is a critical lifeline.  

A community can buoy you up when you’re down, listen to your crazy thoughts or feelings, and offer measured guidance. A community can hold you accountable and provide support. And they can be fun—you have people to do things with, to laugh, explore, discover. In community, you are part of something bigger than yourself, and being part of nourishes our souls.

You don’t need to like or agree with everybody in a community. People are people, and you’ll like some more than others wherever you go. But a community exists over and above the individual personalities within it. If one person falls short or is no longer helpful, there are others to take their place. It’s the wisdom and presence of the group that’s important.

Jenn’s brother, Tristan, died when Jenn was just over two months sober. Shortly after that, I went travelling. I needed to be alone to grieve and mourn without witness, to feel my pain without worrying that my feelings would hurt others.

Jenn, on the other hand, was wrapped in the warmth of her community and held close so she would feel safe and loved as she gave in to grief. Her community cared for her until she could care for herself again. Because of that, she stayed sober. She learned that she will always be OK, even when she’s not OK. She learned that there are others who can lighten her burden when it becomes too heavy to carry alone.

Looking back at our experiences in early grief—each right for ourselves at the time—Jenn’s experience in community seems nothing short of magical to me, a manifestation of God.    

A community is also something to give back to. Today, Jenn supports a sponsee, holds service positions, and speaks on panels to help people still struggling with addiction or in early days of recovery. She volunteers at treatment centres and city events.

Helping others is one of the most healing things we can do for ourselves and being part of a community makes it easier to find ways to help.

Anything is possible when we keep doing the next right thing

Two and a half years ago, Jenn had just left an abusive relationship and was barely holding her life together for her daughter’s sake. I made her car payments, helped with her rent, and bought her groceries. She’d always promise to pay me back, but we both knew she wouldn’t. Eventually, things got so bad that she was hospitalized twice because of drinking-related incidents and she had a court order preventing her from being around her daughter without me present.

Then Jenn began walking the path of recovery, in small baby steps, choosing moment by moment to do the next right thing. It’s been a long and winding road, but she’s accomplished nothing short of miracles.

She’s endured relentless and traumatizing legal battles designed to tear her down by feeding the stigma and fear of addiction rather than reflecting the reality of recovery. When the opposing team went low, she went (but didn’t get!) high. Always doing the right thing, living by her principles, even when others were not. Even when it was hard.

Today, Jenn has her daughter back in her life and is the most amazing, loving, and responsible mom. My heart overflows to see their joy in each other. Jenn is engaged to a sweet and loving man, and their relationship is based on trust and respect and spiritual principles. Together, they’re building a life for themselves and their children that’s truly inspiring—a life worth living.

Jenn has a good job, pays for her own car, buys her own groceries. If unexpected things come up and she needs to borrow money, she always pays me back. She doesn’t ask me to save her anymore—she doesn’t need me to. She takes responsibility for her life and her actions. There are times when I ask her for help now, and she’s always there for me.

The idea of doing the next right thing is so simple and powerful. Just imagine how beautiful the world would be if we all lived by that!

We all have a secret life-saving superpower

Jenn didn’t reach out for help because of anything I did or didn’t do or say. I literally made myself crazy trying to save my kids, with no discernable benefit to anyone. Jenn finally got help for two reasons: she began to lose control of the most important things in her life, and she saw her brother walking the path of recovery and shining a light for her to follow. 

At that time, Tristan had been on his recovery journey for almost a year. He stumbled and slipped but always came back with renewed focus and hope and gratitude for his life. His passion for recovery glowed brightly against the dark days of his addiction. Tristan took Jenn to recovery meetings and introduced her to his recovery friends. Through him, she saw what was possible. And she wanted that.

Everybody in recovery has that light, that superpower, and nobody more than Jenn. By recovering out loud, Jenn’s inspired others to reach out for help, and the cycle of hope and healing continues.

The rest of us have superpowers too, because we’re all recovering from something. We can shine a light for those who still struggle with things we’ve survived and grown from. When I wonder if I’m sharing too much through my writing or get worried about what people will think, I remind myself who I’m writing for. It’s not for those who judge or get upset hearing about my challenges. It’s for people still living those challenges, who aren’t yet able to see what lies beyond. I write in service of the person I was, to heal the person I am.

I learned how to do that from watching Jenn and Tristan, and by following the light of so many others in recovery.