From the time I was a little boy, I looked up to my dad. He was my hero—a man who seemed to know everything, from fixing a broken bike chain to making the perfect Saturday morning pancakes. He was the guy who threw the best backyard barbecues, always laughing and telling stories that had everyone in stitches. To me, he was larger than life.
But as I grew older, the cracks in his facade became harder to ignore. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I started noticing the change. Maybe it was the first time he forgot to pick me up from soccer practice, or the night he yelled at Mom over something trivial. All I know is that the man who once felt like my superhero began to feel unpredictable, even scary at times.
Dad’s drinking was always present, but for most of my childhood, it blended into the background. Beer cans in the fridge, a glass of something stronger in his hand at family gatherings—it seemed normal, almost like a part of who he was. But as I entered my teenage years, his drinking escalated. Weekends turned into benders, and weekdays weren’t much better. I’d wake up to find him passed out on the couch, the TV still blaring. His once-jovial personality was replaced by mood swings and irritability.
The worst part was the uncertainty. I never knew which version of Dad I’d get on any given day. Would it be the fun, loving father who tossed a football with me in the yard? Or the angry, sullen man who lashed out over the smallest things? The unpredictability kept me on edge, always bracing for the next blow-up.
One night stands out more than the rest. I was sixteen, sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, when I heard the familiar sound of Dad’s car pulling into the driveway. He stumbled through the door, reeking of alcohol, and immediately started shouting about something I can’t even remember. When I tried to reason with him, he slammed his hand on the table, sending my books and papers flying.
“You think you’re better than me?” he slurred, his face red with anger. I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there, frozen, as Mom came rushing in to diffuse the situation. Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a mix of anger, sadness, and helplessness. I loved my dad, but I hated what he had become.
Over the years, I learned to adapt. I avoided bringing friends over, terrified they’d witness one of Dad’s episodes. I threw myself into sports and extracurriculars, anything to keep me out of the house. But no matter how much I tried to distance myself, the weight of his addiction followed me. It affected my relationships, my self-esteem, even my dreams for the future.
By the time I went off to college, I was determined to leave it all behind. But ignoring the problem didn’t make it go away. Every time I called home, I’d hear the strain in Mom’s voice, the unspoken truth about how bad things had gotten. Holidays were the worst. Coming home felt like walking into a minefield, never knowing when something might set Dad off.
The breaking point came during my senior year of college. I had brought my girlfriend, Sarah, home for Christmas, hoping to show her the good side of my family. But on Christmas Eve, Dad drank too much—as usual—and started an argument with Mom. When Sarah tried to step in, he turned on her, shouting and accusing her of meddling. The look of fear and disappointment on her face was like a punch to the gut. That night, I decided I couldn’t keep pretending everything was okay.
I started researching how to help someone with an addiction and stumbled across Intervention Services and Coaching. At first, I was hesitant. The idea of confronting Dad felt daunting. What if he refused to listen? What if it just made things worse? But as I learned more about the intervention process, I realized it wasn’t about attacking him or forcing him to change. It was about giving him the chance to see how his actions were impacting the people who loved him most.
With the help of the intervention team, I worked with Mom and a few close family friends to plan everything. We practiced what we’d say, focusing on our love for Dad and our hope for his recovery. The team prepared us for every possible reaction, reminding us that we were planting a seed, even if it didn’t seem to take root right away.
On the day of the intervention, I felt a mix of fear and determination. When Dad walked into the room and saw us all gathered there, his face hardened. “What is this?” he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion. But as we took turns sharing our stories, his anger began to melt away. I told him about the nights I lay awake as a kid, worrying if he’d make it home safely. I told him about how much I missed the dad who used to coach my Little League team and how much it hurt to see him slipping away.
By the time we finished, there were tears in his eyes. For the first time in years, I saw a glimmer of the man I’d looked up to as a child. He agreed to go to treatment, and while I knew it wouldn’t be an easy road, I felt an overwhelming sense of hope.
Today, Dad is eight months sober. He’s working hard to rebuild his life and our relationship. We still have a long way to go, but I’m proud of the progress he’s made. More importantly, I’ve learned that it’s okay to ask for help—for him and for myself. Addiction is a family disease, but recovery can be a family journey.
If you’re struggling with the impact of a loved one’s addiction, know that you’re not alone. Intervention Services and Coaching gave me the tools and support I needed to take the first step toward healing. It’s never too late to reach out, and it’s never too late for hope.
If you’re struggling with the impact of a loved one’s addiction, know that you’re not alone. Explore how an alcohol intervention can bring healing to families affected by addiction.