I Wish That Were My Worry

This week at Woodhaven, we have been reading Make Your Bed by Admiral William H. McRaven during our morning groups. We take a little at a time, talking about the lessons he learned during Navy SEAL training and how they connect to recovery and the boys’ lives.

The chapter we discussed this week is called “Life’s Not Fair—Drive On!” It includes a lesson about becoming a “sugar cookie.”

The name sounds much more pleasant than the experience.

McRaven describes trainees carefully preparing for uniform inspections, pressing their uniforms and polishing their belt buckles. Yet a trainee could still be told to become a “sugar cookie” without having done anything wrong. The order could come simply at an instructor’s whim. They had to enter the ocean fully clothed, then roll in the sand until they were covered. For the rest of the day, they remained wet, sandy, and uncomfortable.

The lesson was difficult to accept: doing everything right did not guarantee a fair outcome. Sometimes you still ended up as a sugar cookie, and you had to find a way to keep going.

We can talk with the boys about unfairness, disappointment, and what to do when a day does not go their way. But as a parent, I hear something in that story for us, too.

I think about listening to someone worry about whether their child will get into a first-choice college when your worry is whether your child will find recovery. Or whether the recovery they have begun will last.

You care about this person. You love their child. You understand why it matters.

And somewhere inside, you think, I wish that were my worry.

It can be hard to admit that thought. We know everyone has struggles. We know we see only part of another person’s life. Behind what looks easy, there may be pain we know nothing about.

But sometimes we do know. These are people close to us. We know what they are facing, and we can see that their lives have more room for ordinary concerns right now.

We wish ours did, too.

We may be happy for them and sad for ourselves at the same time.

That is the part of the sugar cookie story that feels familiar: trying so hard, then finding ourselves somewhere we never wanted to be.

There is a loneliness in sitting in a conversation about the future when you are trying to get through the present. Someone is talking about college visits, and you are thinking about treatment. Someone is frustrated that their child does not call often enough, and you are remembering a call you wish you had never received.

You may have very little to add. Explaining what is on your mind would change the whole room.

So you listen. And you carry it.

For families affected by addiction, the worry can become a constant companion. Sometimes it is about survival. Sometimes it is about whether treatment will help, whether trust can be rebuilt, or whether a good stretch of days means it is finally safe to exhale.

Then there is everything that has to be managed while you are afraid. Paying for care. Missing work. Explaining to an insurance company why someone you love still needs treatment.

You make the calls and gather the paperwork because they need to be done. You do them while wishing your family had never needed any of this.

And sometimes you look around and think, Why does it have to be this hard for us?

I do not think we need to rush to correct that feeling.

We can understand that life is unfair and still feel hurt by the unfairness. We can love our child exactly as they are and grieve what they have been through. We can be grateful for help and exhausted by how much help has been needed.

Those feelings can exist together.

What stayed with me about the sugar cookie story was the effort that came before the disappointment. As parents, we know that effort. We try to make thoughtful decisions. We ask questions, seek help, and show up. When things go badly anyway, we go back over everything, wondering what we should have done differently.

Loving someone does not give us control over what happens to them. Our effort cannot guarantee the outcome we want.

That is a hard truth to live with when the outcome matters this much.

Still, families keep going.

They return a call after a sleepless night. They sit through another difficult conversation. They ask for help again, even when they wish they were past needing it. They begin rebuilding trust, knowing it will take time.

From the outside, those things may look ordinary. For the person doing them, they may take everything they have that day.

I see this in the families who come to Woodhaven. By the time they arrive, they have already done so much. I recognize that effort as a parent, too.

Driving on does not mean we stop feeling the ache. There will be moments when we look at another family and think:

I wish that were my worry.

We do not have to settle the question of why this happened to our family before we can take the next step. Sometimes we need someone beside us who understands why that step is hard.

I wish the road were easier for the boys and for every family who loves them. Until it is, I hope we can listen to one another with compassion and offer ourselves a little of the same.