When my son Michael was born, I felt an indescribable joy. He was my firstborn, and from the moment I held him, I promised myself that I would protect him from anything the world might throw at him. As a child, Michael was full of life, always laughing and curious about everything. He had a heart that seemed to shine brighter than most, and I couldn’t have been prouder to be his mother.
But as the years passed, something changed. The bright, cheerful boy I once knew began to withdraw. By the time Michael was in his early twenties, I could see the signs—the late nights out, the slurred words when he came home, the bottles hidden in his room. At first, I chalked it up to youthful rebellion. “He’s just figuring things out,” I told myself. “He’ll grow out of it.” But he didn’t.
The drinking grew worse, and so did my worry. Michael’s once-vibrant personality became clouded by mood swings and apathy. He would cancel plans at the last minute, claiming he was too tired or busy. Family dinners, once full of laughter, turned tense as his temper grew shorter. He began missing work, and the once-promising future we had envisioned for him seemed to slip further and further out of reach.
One Thanksgiving, the reality of Michael’s alcoholism hit me like a freight train. He arrived hours late, his clothes disheveled and his eyes bloodshot. As he sat at the table, it was clear he had been drinking. He barely spoke, picking at his food while the rest of the family tried to act as though everything was normal. But the elephant in the room was impossible to ignore. By the time dessert came around, he had fallen asleep in his chair.
I remember staring at him, a lump forming in my throat. This wasn’t the Michael I knew. The boy who used to help me decorate the house for the holidays, who’d sing carols at the top of his lungs, who had dreams of becoming an architect—he was slipping away, and I didn’t know how to reach him.
Over the next few months, I tried everything I could think of. I begged him to stop drinking, pleaded with him to go to therapy, even threatened to cut him off financially if he didn’t change. But nothing worked. He would apologize, promise to do better, and then fall right back into the same patterns. It felt like I was banging my head against a wall, and each failed attempt left me more heartbroken than the last.
One night, after yet another argument that ended with Michael storming out of the house, I broke down. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty wine glass he had left behind, and sobbed. “What happened to my son?” I whispered to no one in particular. I felt helpless, like I had failed him as a mother.
But then I realized something: I couldn’t keep doing this alone. As much as I loved Michael, I wasn’t equipped to pull him out of the spiral he was in. I needed help—not just for him, but for myself, too.
That’s when I found Intervention Services and Coaching. A friend from church had mentioned the organization, saying they helped her cousin overcome a similar battle with addiction. At first, I was hesitant. The idea of staging an intervention felt drastic, even confrontational. But as I read more about their approach, I realized it wasn’t about attacking Michael or forcing him to change. It was about creating a safe space for him to hear how his actions were affecting those who loved him most.
The team at Intervention Services and Coaching walked me through every step of the process. They helped me understand the nature of addiction, the importance of setting boundaries, and the power of coming together as a family to offer support and accountability. They also connected me with other parents who had been through similar experiences, and hearing their stories gave me the strength to move forward.
On the day of the intervention, I was a nervous wreck. We gathered in the living room, a mix of close family members and Michael’s childhood best friend, Jason. When Michael walked in and saw everyone, his face immediately hardened. “What is this?” he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.
We took turns speaking, sharing our concerns and our love for him. I told him about the countless nights I had stayed up worrying, the dreams I had for his future, and how much it hurt to see him struggle. Jason talked about how much he missed the old Michael, the friend who used to light up every room he walked into. At first, Michael was defensive, denying he had a problem and accusing us of ganging up on him. But as the conversation continued, his walls began to crack. I could see the pain in his eyes, the guilt and shame he had been carrying.
By the end of the intervention, Michael agreed to seek treatment. It wasn’t an easy decision for him, and I knew the road ahead would be long and challenging. But in that moment, I felt a glimmer of hope I hadn’t felt in years.
Today, Michael is six months sober. He’s attending therapy and rebuilding his life one step at a time. We’ve had our ups and downs, but I’m proud of the progress he’s made. More importantly, I’ve learned to take care of myself, too. I’ve joined a support group for parents of addicts and found strength in knowing I’m not alone.
If you’re a parent watching your child struggle with addiction, I want you to know there is hope. Intervention Services and Coaching gave me the tools and support I needed to help Michael take the first step toward recovery. Addiction doesn’t just affect the person using; it affects everyone who loves them. But with the right help, healing is possible for the whole family.
If you’re struggling with the impact of a loved one’s addiction, know that you’re not alone. Learn more about how an alcohol intervention can provide hope for your family.