My son overdosed a few days before Christmas.

The sky was a light grey but there was no crisp bite of cold that December day. I can still remember what I wore —nothing extravagant, just something that felt quietly right. Black leggings, worn and familiar, paired with a simple black tank top. Over it, one of my favorite pieces—a suede jacket in a warm camel shade, soft to the touch, adding just enough color to break the monotony. This day my partner had a surprise for me, and for once I was not my usual anxious self about being surprised. We were headed to see Elf, a play production we’d talked about catching for years. We were about ten minutes from the theatre when my phone lit up with a text from my son’s dad.

Emergency. Call me ASAP.

Immediately I dialed. He answered quickly, his voice tight with something I recognized before I could name it. The words I heard come from the phone were that my son was on his way to the hospital. He had turned blue and wasn’t breathing.

The words engulfed me instantly and completely. My body was taken over by something I can’t give words to. I’ve never felt anything close to it. I was terrified – not just for my son but for myself. I truly didn’t know it I was going to survive the next few minutes.

My gaze slipped from the road and settled on the passenger-side floorboard, as if it had found somewhere safer to land. The vinyl there held tiny, indentations—barely noticeable, the kind you’d never look at twice—but I began to cling to their shallow grooves like they were something solid, something certain. I had to keep looking—I had to keep my eyes open, fixed on something small and harmless because my eyelids were growing heavy and were being tugged downward. My body was convinced that If I surrendered, even allowing them to close for a second, something irreversible would happen. My body was convinced that if I closed my eyes, I would die.

I didn’t want to get to the hospital. I couldn’t reconcile the reality that I was quite possibly driving to a building where I would get out and see my dead son

We turned around toward the hospital. The whole way there I existed in two places at once – the car, and somewhere completely outside of it. I didn’t want to speed. I didn’t want to get there as fast as I could. I honestly didn’t want to get there at all.

I was overwhelmed with a conviction that my legs no longer held any capacity to hold me when I needed to get out of the car. I felt with a consuming certainty that they would buckle and fail to hold me once they needed to. The feeling of being suppressed and at the mercy of the way my body was reacting was terrifying. I felt taken captive.

The word Narcan came through on another call from my son’s dad on our way to the hospital.

More details. A friend of my son happened to be with him when this happened. He turned blue and wasn’t breathing. The Narcan was administered. He came back into a disoriented state, but he was going to be ok. I briefly entered back into reality with the knowing that my son wasn’t dying on this day. I was relived naturally, and if I’m honest, part of that relief was because I didn’t have to do what I felt I physically couldn’t do – get myself through the door of that hospital. My body, my mind, something in me refused to allow it. His dad was at the hospital, our son was supported. But I – his mother – did not go.

We went to the play. I needed anything that was not that hospital. I felt to watch myself from the outside. I rotated between moments where I saw myself being totally present – enjoying the actors on stage their performance pulling me in – and then slipping back into a dream like disassociated state where I understood what had just occurred, but experienced it almost from above and without any ability to feel the weight or grief of it.

Afterward we went to get dinner and a second wave similar to what I experienced initially in the car hit me there – a sweep of fear so physical I was convinced I was going to nod out and die right there in the dining room. We left quickly.

Tests later revealed cocaine laced with fentanyl. We almost lost him December 23, 2023

There’s an unspoken contract stitched into motherhood-the belief that you will show up, no matter the cost, no matter how far past yourself you have to go. It isn’t taught, it’s absorbed, and when something catastrophic happens to your child, that instinct can pull you under before you even realize you’re drowning

The journey of loving a child through addiction, or any path that breaks your heart slowly – it will take you to the floor and leave you no desire to get back up. I know that floor.

Every part of you wants to be there, to override your limits, to prove your love through presence alone. But no one hands you a guide for how to survive those moments, no one tells you that you’re allowed to need care too.

I’m learning that there are times when the most honest form of love isn’t forcing yourself deeper into something you don’t have the capacity to hold, but learning to pause and ask what you need and what you are capable of. In the middle of that chaos, I was able—just barely—to listen to that quieter voice and make a choice that protected me, instead of abandoning myself entirely. The love for my child didn’t lessen in that decision; if anything, it became steadier, something I could actually sustain rather than lose myself inside of.

I carry no guilt for not going to that hospital. I carry a sense of thankfulness for the protection I was able to give myself. In that moment, something in me knew I couldn’t, and I honor that.

My son came home from the hospital that same day. He’s still here. So am I.

A wave of anxiety still hits anytime his dad’s name lights up on my phone. I still assume, every time, that it’s the call I’ve been dreading for years. The remnants of December 23rd live in me and I continue to work toward healing – toward as much peace as I can hold while standing on uncertain ground.

If you’re a mother on this road – if you’ve made a choice that doesn’t look like what motherhood is “supposed” to look like and you’re quietly feeling ashamed or guilty about it – I want you to know: I see you, and I hope somewhere in this story you found a little permission to stop being so hard on yourself. We do the best we can with what we have in the moments that ask the most of us.