Grief and Recovery

+ showing up for all of it

“God sets the lonely in families and leads the prisoners out with singing...”

– Psalm 68:6

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The first time we met, our church was hosting a women’s event for the recovery ministry. It was at a local tea shop where everything was pink and floral and more than Instagram friendly. There were kitschy decorations and trendy bubble teas and the owners had agreed to host our group of ladies from nearby treatment centers, transitional and recovery housing.

She walked in and instantly I recognized her. The sad, hollow eyes. The way her black hoodie was up over her head and down touching almost her lashes, where days’ old mascara crusted under her eyes. Everything about her screamed “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere anymore.”

I recognized her because I was her and so many points in my life. The moment when my dad pulled me close to him and I sank into the realization that I needed to change, wanted to change, or I might not make it.

She was tired.

What I didn’t know but would find out later is that she never wanted to go to the Christmas women’s event that day. It was her first day—her first day—off the streets and starting recovery. I nestled my way close to her as some of the women who’d been around a bit longer laughed and sipped tea and opened gifts.

“You are loved,” the church said by passing out gift bags with face masks and plush socks and sweet-smelling lotions.

Elyse began to relax the longer she was there. Her jaw unclenched. Her knee stopped bouncing. She talked to me when I asked her what brought her to our small town and tears welled in her eyes.

“I can’t live like this anymore. But I’m scared,” she said.

The first time Elyse entered this particular, pink-laden tea shop in Eastern Tennessee, it was a welcome home (though she may not have recognized it at the time).

It was a you belong and a you are welcome here and a you have found your people.

Photo by Kateryna Hliznitsova on Unsplash

Elyse was set lovingly in a recovery family.

As Elyse began to trust me and the other women around her and as she started seeing a therapist and getting support for not just her addiction, but also other challenges, she began to bloom. Once hidden under her hoodie, now eyes lined in blue liner and floral blouses and hair dark as the black stones I remember seeing in Alaska once. She carried her bible and went to church and started working again.

As Elyse shared her story with me by living in community with me and others, I saw what we often see in recovery: our stories are mirrors and windows. They are a reflecting back and an inviting in.

Elyse’s story was my story too.

And Heather’s story. Amanda’s story. Alex’s story.

Amy’s story. Jenna’s story. Kristi’s story. Elisabeth’s story.

All the women she met in recovery—we meet in recovery—we understand each other. Our stories reflect one another’s experiences. There is comfort in this. There is hope.

Elyse showed me what recovery looks like. And not just recovery, but hope and faith and perseverance.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a text that you want to un-get as soon as you look:

“Elyse died.”

I was prepping dinner, chopping something or stirring, I can’t remember now.

My head and stomach dropped.

No.

Not her.

Not again.

What I shared above is part of what I shared at her funeral after her mother asked that I say a few words. I wore purple like her 9-year-old daughter. Could barely get through the words.

After I sat back down and listed to one of Elyse’s favorite songs, I closed my eyes and then opened them and stared at the urn. Stared at the pictures of her with her daughter. Looked at the large, framed photograph that the family had chosen. Her hair was golden blonde and her eyes looked happy. Like how they looked when she had been in recovery and not using. In my mind I heard her laughing. A child happy again. At peace.

Was it real?

Elyse has now experienced a new kind of welcome home. And I am glad, although I miss her and although she should still be here.

You may know this pain.

You may be reading these pages because you work in recovery or have started an organization to support family members because you’ve lost your child or another loved one.

Perhaps you are like me and have been to too many funerals to count.

My friend Honesty Liller from the McShin Foundation says that she has picture frames in her office of those she’s lost and it’s been hundreds of funerals. Hundreds.

As I’ve been working on my next book about what recovery is, I’ve realized that I can’t share a book about what recovery is without acknowledging the hard truth that so many families face or the fear that so many live with. When our loved ones are misusing substances or have substance use disorders, especially in today’s world, it can be like playing a game of Russian roulette. One more time can be our loved one’s last.

Or for some families, their loved one’s first time using a substance is their last.

When my dad died suddenly from a heart attack in 2023, grief enveloped me. A long valley it was, as C.S. Lewis so aptly describes.

When Elyse died suddenly from overdose, it was a similar heart-punch, a similar fog.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

The road we walk on or trudge in recovery does have mountain top experiences. Moments of health and wellness: physically, mentally, and spiritually. Connections in community and opportunities to be of service that fill us with newfound purpose and our lives with meaning.

But then there are those moment like the one’s death brings that threaten to derail us. Our minds sometimes offering the option to “go back out,” as if using again could bring them back or really help to ease the pain. Grief can threaten to swallow us in anger or sadness or guilt or regret too.

Recovery can be hard. It is hard to feel. To show up. To live without a crutch or without blinders that will tune out the world around us, the grief, the tragedy, even the good stuff too.

But it is so much more real when we show up. When we can show up for all of it.

We can continue on this road even when it aches.

When it aches, we have each other.

You are invited to join me and the Global Family Recovery Alliance for open office hours on Tuesday March 4th at 10:00am EST. Interested in joining a group of people committed to advancing family recovery support? Join us for casual conversation. Email me back or send a DM and I’ll send you the calendar invite.