A Mother's Truth About Loving Someone In Addiction

A mirror floating in the waves

September 22, 2025

Brandi McCurdy, Author & Critical Care Nurse Practitioner

Reviewed by Tim Lineaweaver, Subject Matter Expert

Author Brandi McCurdy is a critical care nurse practitioner with over a decade of ICU, hospital medicine, and trauma experience. She helps personal injury and malpractice attorneys uncover what the charts don't say. From wrongful death and delayed diagnoses to addiction treatment failures, I translate complex records into clear clinical insight so legal teams can build stronger cases, faster. Brandi is also a mother, addiction advocate, and woman who has had her soul cracked open by this system more times than she can count.  

According to Brandi McCurdy:

I am a mom who's walked through hell and back with a child struggling with substance use. I don't just understand the overdose crisis — I've lived it. I've been the mom on the floor in the middle of the night, praying my daughter would survive her fentanyl addiction. But I've also found strength and resilience in the face of this adversity. 

Broken and Corrupt Addiction Treatment Industry 

I've fought insurance companies and seen firsthand how broken and corrupt the addiction treatment industry can be. For instance, I've encountered cases in which treatment centers prioritize profit over patient care, and where insurance companies deny coverage for necessary treatments. I've also learned that many detox protocols feel more like punishment than care, with little consideration for the patient's comfort or well-being. 

Every treatment center my daughter entered was able to tell me exactly what I wanted to hear and make unrealistic promises while draining our retirement funds. There was no real discharge plan, and no effort was made to provide genuine direction to families who desperately needed it. Nine times in treatment over four years. Relapsed within 30 days…every time. And I kept thinking: Where the hell is the person who's supposed to help families like mine? So I became her. 

Watching My Daughter Fight For Her Life

I watched my daughter fight for her life—and her dignity—through addiction and recovery. The facilities are promised to be medication-assisted treatment (MAT) friendly. They'd wean her off against her wishes, and she'd relapse. 

I'd see little compassion for people withdrawing from the hospital, and with no discharge plan or resources provided. I felt utterly alone while trying to do the right thing, with no map and no margin for error. My work then is rooted in harm reduction, trauma-informed care, and regret-based decision-making—because when you're a mother in crisis, you stop caring about the "right" way and start asking: "What can I live with?" This experience has taught me the importance of compassion in dealing with addiction.

We are hard-wired for instant gratification. Our culture thrives on it: quick results, fast fixes, and the illusion of control. But when it comes to loving someone in active addiction? It just doesn't apply. There's no straight line. No perfect playbook. And no shortcuts. People don't get sober on our timeline. They get sober when and if they're ready. That's the first truth that will break your heart.

For me, it took everything I had to stop trying to control my daughter's recovery. I had to stop obsessing over relapse, stop bringing up rehab every time we talked, and stop trying to lead her back to healing with ultimatums and guilt. Because when you finally decide to meet your loved one where they are, everything changes.

I stopped begging her to go back to treatment. I stopped trying to fix her. And I started talking to her. As a person. Not a problem. That's what humanizing looks like. That's what loving someone through addiction looks like. It's awkward at first. Because you've spent so long walking on eggshells, overanalyzing every text, wondering what version of them you're going to get. You've spent years pouring your energy into figuring out what might finally convince them to get sober. And when that switch flips, when you finally accept that you can't make them, you're left with this terrifying freedom: What do I do now?

Here's what I did: I chose to love my daughter where she was, not by ignoring boundaries. Not by handing her cash or pretending everything was fine. But by refusing to make every interaction about her addiction. She knew I wanted her to get sober.

She didn't need a reminder; she needed a reason to believe she was still worthy of love.

Love is not a quick fix. Love isn't a treatment plan. It's not a detox protocol. And it's not a guaranteed outcome. It's slow. It's painful. It will not protect you from heartbreak. But sometimes, it plants a seed.

A mom once told me she meets her daughter at a park bench every week. Her daughter is still deep in active addiction. But they sit. In silence. Together. That's all she can do. That's all she can live with. That stuck with me. Loving someone through addiction is never a simple matter of black and white. You will have guilt no matter what you choose.

I couldn't let my daughter live in my house while she was using. She was homeless. And that guilt? It nearly crushed me. But I had to protect the other children in my home. My job was to keep our home a safe space. So, I found balance. Sometimes, all I could do was send a text. "I love you. I hope you're okay." That's it. Sometimes that's all there is.

When they're not ready, you heal anyway. People often believe that healing begins when their loved one chooses recovery. But for me, the healing began when I did, when I started working on my trauma, when I owned my shit. When I looked in the mirror and said, "I wasn't the perfect mom. I caused pain, too." This realization empowered me to prioritize my own healing and self-care.

That's generational trauma. Generational trauma refers to the cumulative emotional and psychological damage passed down from one generation to another. It's what most families never want to touch. They want the person struggling with addiction to carry the weight of it all. But that's not fair. And it's not the whole story. Addiction isn't about the drug. It's about the pain underneath it, often rooted in this generational trauma.

You can court-order treatment. You can do interventions. And it may help. But more often than not, the moment the mandate ends, they revert to what numbs them because nobody has taken the time to explore the why. Until the pain is addressed, the addiction is just a symptom.

Let's be clear about boundaries. When I say meet them where they are, I don't mean tolerate abuse. You don't have to subject yourself to verbal attacks, manipulation, violence, or being stolen from to prove your love. That's not compassion; that's trauma reenactment. You can choose love and protect your peace. You can set firm boundaries and still show empathy.

In my daughter's addiction, there came a point where we had a rule: If one of us started to get upset, we would hang up the phone. No fights. No screaming. Just a line. A mutual line.

That didn't happen overnight. In the early years, we were toxic. Our dynamic was loud and ugly and fueled by pain. But even in her active addiction, we reached a place of mutual respect. And that's where the real healing started.

This isn't a formula. It's a choice. Some people try to follow my story like a blueprint. But here's the hard truth: There is no formula.

Your child might not come home. Your loved one might not get sober. This is the hardest, most excruciating kind of waiting. But if you make every choice based on what you can live with, at least you'll know you didn't abandon them out of fear. And if the worst happens? You won't be haunted by whether your last words were full of shame or love. 

This isn't a how-to guide. It's a mirror. And I hope, in some small way, it helps you see that even in the chaos, even in the helplessness, there's still something you can do. You can work on yourself. You can love without losing yourself. You can live in the wreckage and still find moments of peace.

Because this isn't about saving them; it's about surviving it with your heart intact.

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Brandi McCurdy earned her Master of Science in AGACNP at Maryville University of Saint Louis and is licensed by the Florida Board of Nursing as an Advanced Registered Nurse Practitioner. She can be reached on her website at www.brandimac.com to help families survive the wreckage of addiction without losing themselves to it.

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