What We Thought We Were Missing

The text came after Family Day on Saturday: "Just want to thank you for today! It was the first happy, fun, stress-free afternoon the three of us have shared in years."

Then she told me what happened. They had dropped paint. It splattered. And her son said, "No big deal, it's fine."

She wrote: "It sounds small but previously he would have freaked out and given up or gotten frustrated. He was the calming force which was awesome."

When our kids are in treatment, especially long-term treatment, we often feel like we're missing out. We imagine the everyday moments we're not part of: meals around the table, inside jokes, the little ups and downs of ordinary life.

But when I stop and really think about it, I ask myself: what was I actually missing? The slammed doors? The grunts when I asked how school went? The avoidance, the tension, the silence over dinner? In some ways, those are exactly the things treatment gives us relief from.

That afternoon, I watched families painting Halloween scenes on the windows and glass doors in our dining room. Each family had their own space, their supplies, their approach. Some planned it out carefully. Others just started. There were smiles. Compromise. And when things didn't go perfectly, there was acceptance.

Divorced parents worked side by side. Families stood back when they finished, proud of both their artwork and the time they had shared.

If I add up the hours these families spend together during visits, I think it exceeds the quality time they had at home before treatment. Probably more than most families with teenagers have in general. During Family Day, these moments become real: a scavenger hunt, building a shelter out of random supplies, painting windows. Families laugh together in ways that felt impossible just months ago. Off-site visits are part of this too. We ask families not to go shopping, but instead to share a meal, visit a park, or choose an activity they can enjoy together.

When my loved one was in treatment, I didn't have experiences like this. Our first trip to his sober living house, we picked him up and he rattled off a list of things he needed. We went shopping. Bought a TV, a refrigerator, video games, food he would actually eat. We ate lunch. Then we dropped him off.

We felt used on the long drive home.

There was no window painting. No family programming. Just a list of things he needed. We wanted so much more for families, and now we see it happening: the structure that creates space for connection, the trust that builds when families laugh together instead of just transact.

So maybe instead of mourning what we're missing, we can ask a different question: what are we gaining? Time that feels different. Moments where spilled paint becomes something to laugh about instead of something to survive. Hours of connection that add up to more than we had before.

The painted windows will stay up for the next few weeks. The boys will walk past them every day and remember. And those families will carry something else too: time together that actually felt good. The reminder that we weren't missing daily interactions. We were missing moments that mattered.