Supporting the Journey of Parallel Recovery™
When my son was deep in the grips of his addiction, I often felt like I was living life on the edge of a cliff. Or maybe it was him on the cliff, and I was right below, scrambling desperately to make sure he didn’t fall. If I’m honest, it felt more like he was walking on a tightrope, high above, teetering with every step, and I was running around underneath, clutching a small exercise trampoline, fully convinced that I could catch him if he slipped. I thought what I was doing was love. I really did.
Looking back, I realize now that what I called "love" was actually fear. Fear had me running around, trying to control every situation. It was fear that had me constantly asking, “What’s next? What if he doesn’t make it? What if this next choice is the one that takes him from me forever?” The need to protect him, shield him from harm, and step in at every turn wasn’t love. It was fear masquerading as love.
I wasn’t catching him when he fell, I was denying him the space to learn how to stand on his own.
Fear in Disguise
As a mother, I’ve always been led by the idea that my love for my children is the most powerful force in their lives. I still believe that’s true, but what I didn’t understand was how easily love can be distorted by fear. When my son was struggling the most, I was driven by a belief that I needed to control every aspect of his life in order to save him.
Fear will convince you that if you just do a little bit more, step in a little bit faster, or soften the blow a little bit further, you can fix it. Fear will whisper that your intervention is the only thing keeping your loved one from falling apart. So, in the name of love, I tried to control, to protect, to shield. But what I didn’t realize was that my fear-based actions were ultimately undermining his ability to find his own strength and resilience.
Fear vs. Love: What’s the Difference?
I know firsthand how hard it is to distinguish between acting out of fear and acting out of love, especially when you’re watching someone you care about struggle. The lines are blurry, and the stakes feel impossibly high.
Fear-based support often feels urgent, anxious, and controlling. When you act from fear, it’s about trying to avoid the worst-case scenario at all costs. For me, it looked like stepping in to make decisions for my son, cleaning up his messes, and absorbing the natural consequences of his actions so he wouldn’t have to face them. It felt like love because I thought I was protecting him. But really, I was protecting myself—from my own anxiety and helplessness.
Love-based support, on the other hand, feels different. It’s still scary, but it’s not about control. Love, true love, is about giving someone the space to navigate their own journey while offering support from the sidelines. It’s about being compassionate and empathetic while respecting their autonomy. It’s understanding that you can’t fix someone, but you can love them through their struggles.
Shifting from fear to love in my actions took time, and it wasn’t easy. I had to let go of the illusion that I could control everything and face the fear that my son’s life was his own to lead. I had to trust that his story wasn’t mine to write, and that the most powerful way I could support him was by being present, not by being in control.
How Fear Damages Relationships
The more I operated out of fear, the more strained my relationship with my son became. He felt smothered, like I didn’t trust him to figure things out. And he was right—I didn’t. My fear told me he wasn’t capable, and my actions reinforced that belief for both of us. It was damaging not only to him but to me. The constant worry, the sleepless nights, and the guilt of not being able to fix things—it wore me down. And it wore down our connection.
Fear-based support often backfires because, in trying to prevent harm, we unintentionally create distance and resentment. The tighter we hold on, the more our loved ones pull away, searching for their autonomy. They need to learn their own lessons, and as much as it hurts to watch, sometimes the most loving thing we can do is step back and trust them to walk their path.
Choosing Love Instead
Learning to love better with with my support didn’t mean I stopped caring or stopped being involved. It meant I learned to be there in a way that empowered my son rather than undermined him. I started asking myself different questions. Instead of, “How can I save him from this?” I began asking, “How can I support him in finding his own way out?” Instead of stepping in to fix, I practiced stepping back to allow him to face the consequences of his choices.
I learned to hold space for him, to listen without judgment, and to offer encouragement without trying to control the outcome. I stopped running around with the mini-trampoline and accepted that sometimes, he was going to fall—and I learned to get okay with that. Sometimes, falling is what teaches us how to get back up.
This shift wasn’t just about helping my son; it was about helping me, too. It allowed me to release the anxiety and guilt that had weighed me down for so long. It freed me to love better, not because I was controlling his journey, but because I was walking alongside him with compassion, trust, and respect for his process.
In the end, love is not about control; it’s about connection. It’s about trusting that your loved one has their own path to walk and that, while you can’t walk it for them, you can walk with them. Fear tells us we need to control, protect, and fix—but love shows us that real support comes from standing by someone’s side, even when it’s hard, and letting them find their own strength.
If you’re feeling like you’re running around with that trampoline, trying to catch every fall, I see you. I’ve been there. But let me tell you from experience: love, not fear, is the way forward. When we shift from fear to love, we open the door to healing—not just for our loved ones but for ourselves, too.
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