My son almost died Friday night.
He’s 20 years old.
I don’t even know why I went looking for him. I haven’t done that in a long time… but something told me to go.
I drove around before asking some homeless people if they had seen him. They had. He was in the bushes behind me.
I found him twitching under a tarp, wrapped in a blanket. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move.
The paramedics had been there not long before. They gave him Narcan and brought him back.
In a moment where he was conscious enough to speak, he refused to go to the hospital, so they left.
After all, it’s his choice. Even if that choice kills him.
When I got there, the people keeping him alive weren’t doctors or police.
They were other homeless addicts.
The ones society calls “trash.”
The ones everyone steps around.
They had given him CPR while waiting for paramedics, wrapped him in a blanket, checked his breathing, and stayed.
They saved his life, the people who were barely hanging on themselves.
Those same people society looks down on are the ones who helped me load my son into my van so I could get him to the hospital.
They wished me luck. Because of them, my son survived that night.
It’s strange how often the people with nothing are the ones who give the most.
Yesterday morning, I found him high in my house.
Drug paraphernalia beside him.
He knew the rule.
He’s known it for a long time, and I have been clear that it can’t be in my house.
So I told him it was time to go.
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t shame him.
I made him brunch, told him I loved him, and gave him time to pack.
I told him he can still come here to eat, to shower, to play games.
But he can’t sleep here.
He can’t use here.
And it has to be when it works for us, not whenever he wants.
Everyone here deserves to feel safe.
I offered to drive him to the shelter. I told him I will always do what I can to help him, as long as it’s safe for everyone.
He had finally been in treatment. I knew it wasn’t magic, but I was hopeful.
We had one evening of connection. Then he went to see his friends and immediately used again.
I’ve been living this cycle for six years now.
A brief hope followed by another crisis.
Six years of watching addiction devour the person I love most in the world.
The decision to tell him to leave wasn’t “tough love.”
I don’t believe in rock bottom.
This isn’t me giving up.
This is me still loving him,
while also loving the rest of my kids enough to say, enough. I can’t allow our home to become unsafe.
The truth is… addiction doesn’t just destroy one life.
It tries to swallow the whole family.
And the system that’s supposed to help?
It’s silent.
He’s disabled and has been waiting nine months for an assessment to access the specialized supports he needs.
No stable housing.
No real support.
No safety net.
Our systems move at a crawl while people are dying every single day.
They let people who can’t keep themselves safe decide their own fate,
and call it “autonomy.”
It’s not. It’s abandonment.
I love my son.
I will never stop.
He knows that.
He knows he can call me if he’s in trouble.
But right now, he’s out there somewhere.
And I’m here, doing the only thing I can,
hoping he stays alive long enough for help to finally reach him.
I haven’t given up on him.
But every day, I know it could be his last.
If you read this, please don’t scroll past it.
Talk about how broken our systems are.
Talk about the families quietly living through this every day.
Because silence is what keeps it this way.
And awareness is where change begins.
Story shared by Grace Rowan, a mother who believes awareness is where change begins.
