Three Gifts

Last week, I walked through our hallways at Woodhaven and looked up at the gratitude chains hanging from the ceiling.

Red and green paper loops, each one holding something someone was grateful for. Individual loops connected to become family chains. Family chains connected to other families. The entire community linked together, stretching down the hallway, a visual reminder that no one here is alone.

Parents and their sons sat together during Family Day and wrote what they were grateful for. Some families could not be there, but every boy still wrote. The words came, and they connected into something real.

I stood there looking at it and thought: this is what belief looks like. This is what trust looks like. This is what grace looks like.

Not perfect. Not polished. Just real.

So this Christmas, I want to offer you three gifts.

Not something wrapped. Not something purchased. Not something meant to distract you from what is real.

My gifts to you are belief, trust, and grace.

Belief.

Belief in who your loved one is beneath all of this.

Not the version shaped by addiction. Not the one who broke your heart or stole your peace or made you question everything you thought you knew about love.

The one underneath.

The one who sat at a table last week and wrote what they were grateful for on a paper loop. The one choosing recovery, one day at a time. The one becoming someone neither of you has met yet.

And belief in yourself as the parent they need.

Not the parent you thought you would be. Not the one with all the answers or perfect confidence. But the one showing up right now, learning to love differently.

You are learning to hold boundaries that feel impossible. To step back when stepping in feels more natural.

You already carry this belief, even when you cannot name it.

You hold it when you see small shifts no one else notices. When you hear something different in their voice. When you allow yourself to imagine a future that has no clear shape yet but feels possible anyway.

This belief does not erase the grief. It sits right next to it.

You can miss who they were and believe in who they are becoming. You can ache for what this season used to be and still trust what is being built right now. You can hold disappointment and hope in the same breath.

Belief is not certainty. It is choice.

The choice to see them whole when the evidence is incomplete. The choice to see yourself as capable when you are not sure what you are doing.

Trust.

Trust that healing is happening, even when you cannot see it.

Trust in the work your loved one is doing. Trust in your loved one to do that work. Trust in the people guiding them.

This is hard because trust asks you to let go when every instinct wants to hold tighter.

It asks you to believe that the people walking alongside your loved one every day know what they are doing. That the structure holding them is not keeping them from you. It is protecting what is being built.

It asks you to trust your loved one with their own recovery. To believe they are capable of making choices, of showing up for themselves, of doing hard things you cannot do for them.

It asks you to trust that whether they are home this season or spending the holiday away, love is still present.

Those paper loops did not write themselves. Each boy sat down and chose what mattered enough to put on paper. Each parent who could be there did the same. That choice, that small act of naming what is good even in the middle of what is hard, is trust in action.

Trust does not mean you stop worrying. The fear does not disappear. The questions do not quiet down.

But trust knows that love does not require control to be real. Your loved one is stronger than you sometimes remember. The people walking alongside them are doing work you cannot do. Your parenting still matters even when you step back.

And trust holds steady anyway.

Grace.

Grace for yourself.

For the exhaustion no one else sees. For the tears that come without warning. For the anger you did not ask to carry.

Grace for wanting this season to feel different than it does.

Grace to let Christmas be smaller this year. To skip the traditions that feel impossible. To leave early. To say no. To stop performing joy you do not feel.

Grace to grieve what is not here while still loving what is.

Grace does not ask you to be grateful for the struggle. It does not demand silver linings or lessons or growth you cannot yet name.

It simply says: this is hard. You are allowed to feel it.

Grace knows that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is rest. That presence does not require strength. That showing up exactly as you are is enough.

It knows you are carrying weight most people will never understand. And it does not ask you to explain yourself.

Grace is the kindness you forget to offer yourself. The softness you save for everyone else. The gentleness you need when everything feels too heavy.

These are my gifts to you.

Belief in your loved one and in yourself as the parent they need. Trust in the work being done, the people doing it, and your loved one's ability to grow. Grace for yourself in the middle of it all.

If this season feels heavier than you expected, let that be okay. You are loving someone through something profoundly difficult. You are holding steady when everything feels uncertain. You are choosing belief, offering trust, and learning to extend grace to yourself.

You are linked to other families walking this same road. You are part of something larger than your own struggle. And you are not alone.

You are not falling behind. You are not failing.

You are showing up in the way this season asks of you. Even when it feels quiet or uncertain, that presence matters.

That is enough. You are enough.

Belief. Trust. Grace.

May they carry you through this season and into the next.