Me, Unfiltered

Yesterday was International Overdose Awareness Day. Even though it was the seventh one I have attended, it still rocks me to the core. As I look around at all the families who are there to remember their loved ones, I sometimes can't believe this is my reality. Yet it is. This is me, unfiltered.

There are still moments when I wonder how we got here. No matter the circumstances surrounding the death of a child, they are still your child. And no matter how difficult the journey of walking alongside someone battling addiction may have been, it does not diminish the unconditional love you have for them.

There were many painful moments during the fifteen years Melanie battled substance use disorder. There were choices I desperately wished she had not made and paths I prayed she would not take. I wish with all my heart that her journey had been different—that her choices had been different—and perhaps, then, the outcome would have been different too.

Those are hard words for a mother to write.

But even after everything we endured, my heart still misses her more than mere words will ever begin to express.

Melanie was so much more than her addiction.

She was a daughter. A sister. A mother. A friend. A cousin. A Jesus girl. She was loyal, compassionate and generous. She loved to cook, and bake brownies and chocolate chip cookies. She loved others unselfishly and would give the little she had to someone who had even less.

That is who she was.

Addiction may have been part of her story, but it was never the whole story. It did not define the entirety of her life, nor will it define the way she is remembered.

These past few days, my heart has ached for her a little more deeply. I have found myself thinking about Heaven—what she is doing there and what it must be like for her. I'm confident she is at peace. I believe she is healed and whole, no longer fighting the battles that became too heavy for her here.

But even knowing that, I still miss my girl so very much.

I suppose when it all comes down to it, that simply makes this mama human.

This is all part of grief.

It is a journey that continues to change with time. Thankfully most days, I carry it more gently. Other days, without warning, it can still knock the wind right out of me. Seven years of awareness events and more than six years without Melanie have not erased the love, or the longing.

I am so grateful for my faith in Jesus, which reassures me that this separation is not the end of our story. It is just a pause. One day, I will see my girl again ... in a place where there is no addiction, no pain, no suffering and no more tears.

As September begins and we recognize National Recovery Month, I also want to honor those who are still fighting, those who are finding their way into recovery, and the families who continue to love them through it all. Recovery is possible, and every life is worth fighting for.

Until then, I will continue to say Melanie’s name, honor her life and remind others that those who battle addiction are so much more than the disease they carry.

And I will keep loving and missing my daughter—because that is what a mama does.