When Love Isn’t Enough: ( Part 4) What Loving an Addict Taught Me About Myself (And the Silence That Finally Broke Me)
I just got back from North Carolina.
I went to see him, the man I’ve loved for years, the one who said he was finally ready to make a change.
He looked good. He said all the right things. Told me he was going to rehab, that it was long overdue, that he was ready to do the right thing. We spent the weekend together, and I let myself believe, if only for a moment.
I let myself fall back on the belief that love could win, that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
We talked into the week about plans for moving forward, about healing. And then, without warning, he vanished. He cut off communication and blocked me everywhere. There was no explanation, no goodbye, just silence.
The ache of that silence is unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
The Grief of Loving Someone Who’s Alive but Lost
I’m trying to make sense of it. The hopeful words. The promises. The quiet disappearing act.
I know this isn’t about me. It’s about his struggle, his inability or unwillingness to take the hard steps toward recovery. But knowing that doesn’t make the pain any easier.
It’s a grief so heavy, so confusing. How do you mourn someone who is still alive? How do you let go of someone who’s still speaking your name in your mind but refuses to show up in reality?
Loving someone in active addiction has taught me that sometimes, love isn’t the lifeboat I thought it was. It’s not enough to pull someone to shore if they don’t want to swim.
What Loving Him Taught Me About Myself
I’ve realized I was holding on so tightly, clinging to the idea that if I just loved him enough and supported him enough, I could make him see what he was losing. But what I’ve learned, through this heartbreak, is that my love doesn’t have the power to cure his addiction.
And that trying to control his outcome has made me lose parts of myself.
I’ve learned how easy it is to confuse love with codependency. How easy it is to believe that our worth is tied to someone else’s choices. That if they fail, we’ve failed. That if we let go, we’re giving up.
But the truth is, loving him has shown me that letting go is not giving up—it’s saving myself.
I can’t keep waiting by the phone. I can’t keep offering a lifeline to someone who’s chosen, for now, to swim away. His silence isn’t just silence; it’s his way of avoiding accountability and pushing away the hard work of recovery.
And I can’t carry his struggle on my shoulders anymore.
The Hardest Goodbye
This trip to North Carolina—the hope, the promises, the vanishing—it’s been a catalyst. It’s forced me to finally face what I’ve been avoiding: that I can’t save him. I can’t make him ready.
What I can do is save myself.
I can set boundaries. I can grieve the loss of who I thought we could be. I can stop waiting for him to choose me over his addiction.
This isn’t easy. It’s not a clean break. My heart still loves him. I still ache for the person I know he could be. But I’m learning to love myself more.
If You’re Here Too…
If you’ve been loving someone in active addiction, if you’ve been sidelined by silence, if you’re carrying the weight of someone else’s choices—please know:
You are not responsible for their recovery.
You cannot control their journey.
Your worth is not defined by their progress.
You deserve peace, healing, and support.
Resources for Support
Al-Anon Family Groups: al-anon.org
Nar-Anon Family Groups: nar-anon.org
SMART Recovery Family & Friends: smartrecovery.org/family
SAMHSA National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
“You can love someone with all your heart and still not be able to save them. Letting go is not giving up; it’s choosing to save yourself.”