For every mother who has loved a child through chaos and still chooses compassion over closure.
By Naazi Morad
There are moments in motherhood when love feels powerful—and moments when it feels painfully helpless. When your child is struggling and nothing you give seems to be enough, you may find yourself carrying fear, guilt, and exhaustion in silence. Many parents live in this space, loving deeply while slowly losing themselves in the process. If this feels familiar, this story is for you. It is not about failure or blame—it is about understanding, healing, and learning how to protect your heart while still loving your child with compassion and strength.
From the time John was seven, I knew something was not right. It was more than mischief, more than stubbornness. There was a storm inside him, unpredictable, restless, uncontained. He moved through school like a warning signal. Once, he slashed his teacher’s car tyres. By Grade Seven, I found myself sitting in a police station, trying to understand how a child so small could already be carrying so much destruction.
By fifteen, drugs entered his life, or perhaps they had been circling him long before we noticed. From that moment on, they became his most loyal companion.
They never asked him to be accountable.
They never demanded consistency.
They numbed what he did not know how to face.
He stole heirlooms that belonged to my late mother, pieces of her life, her scent, her history. Things that can never be replaced. He has been in jail, in prison, in courtrooms that smell of despair and paperwork. He married. He had children. He lost them, not because he lacked love, but because responsibility crushed him. Ryhaan is intelligent. Charismatic. He walks into high-paying jobs with ease, impresses employers, earns trust quickly. And just as quickly, he disappears after the first paycheck. Theft follows. Promises evaporate. Hope shatters again, like glass swept up only to be broken once more.
We sent him to rehabilitation centres. We pleaded. I spoke to him with every piece of knowledge I have gathered through years of working with trauma and broken systems. Nothing held. His siblings stepped back to protect their own lives. His friends became reflections of his chaos. And still, we tried.
Last week, he said he had been robbed. His phone was stolen. His arm was broken in a fight with a “friend.” He asked for another phone, promising to work with his father and pay it off. We believed him, not because we are naïve, but because we do not believe in abandoning someone already curled at the bottom. The next day, we rushed him to the emergency room. His ear cartilage was torn. His head bloodied. Another fight. Another bill. Thousands more. My husband paid it. Who else would have?
The day after that, my family gathered in the house to sing Happy Birthday to me. John did not join. He stayed on his phone with a friend. No greeting. No acknowledgment. I still bought him cigarettes, hoping it might soften the moment, lift his mood even slightly.
I knocked gently on his door. He opened it, scowled, and said, “What must I do with cigarettes every day? You keep knocking. It’s annoying. I’m not in the mood.” He took them without a thank you and slammed the door in my face. Something inside me finally broke. The tears came not just from that moment, but from years of moments. From surgeries I endured. From pain I swallowed.
From love I gave when there was nothing left to give. And still, when he greeted me later, I smiled. Because that is what mothers do.
We smile through the ache. We carry grief quietly so our children do not feel its weight. This is the unseen labour of motherhood, the kind no one applauds. Loving a child who keeps choosing destruction requires a strength few speak about. It is where compassion meets discipline. Where mercy must walk alongside boundaries. There comes a moment of reckoning when your child wounds you deeply. You begin to ask yourself:
What part of me is still bleeding?
What does it need to feel seen?
Am I responding to this moment—or to decades of heartbreak?
What truth am I finally ready to reclaim, not about my child, but about myself?
You cannot control another human being’s choices, no matter how fiercely you love them. But you can choose how you meet those choices. With boundaries and with grace. With the quiet strength of someone who understands that love is not always enough to save another person—but it can be enough to keep you whole.
Healing is not passive. It is a practice. Sometimes it begins with releasing the fantasy that they will change and holding tightly to the truth that you deserve peace.
A Letter He May One Day Read
If you ever find this page, Johm, know this:
I loved you with everything I had. I fought for you in ways you will never fully see. I carried you through storms that nearly drowned me. And when I could no longer carry you, I carried the memory of who you could have been.
I do not write this to blame you. I write this so you will know that even when I protected myself, I never stopped loving you. Even when I stopped saving you, I never stopped hoping for you.
If I am no longer here when you read this, know that my love never left. It simply learned to rest.
Your mother, who loved you beyond the breaking point.
You mattered. You were seen.
And even in your darkest moments, I never stopped believing you could rise.
If this story resonates with you, know that you don’t have to carry this weight alone. Loving someone who struggles can be exhausting, confusing, and painful—but you deserve support, clarity, and space to protect your own well-being. At Wellness Within Therapy, we provide a safe, compassionate space to explore your emotions, set healthy boundaries, and rebuild strength from within. Take the first step toward healing and self-care—book your session today and begin prioritizing your own peace and resilience.
