When I Did My Loved One's College Applications

Senior year is supposed to be a season of looking forward, filled with campus visits, applications, and dreams of what comes next. For us, it did not feel like that. At the beginning of my loved one's senior year, recovery was still so new that every day felt fragile. Tenth and eleventh grade had been stormy with substance use and mental health struggles. There were many nights I was not sure we would even make it to high school graduation, and the idea of college felt impossibly far away.

When application season arrived, I wanted desperately to do what was best for him. But I was terrified. Each day was its own mountain, each week a hard-won gain, each month a careful count toward the fragile goal of one year of sobriety. The future felt blurry. The only clear priority was keeping him safe and moving forward in recovery.

With little guidance from our school district, and with my loved one still unsteady, I made a choice that felt necessary at the time. I believed this decision would change his life forever, and if I chose wrong, it would be nearly impossible to change course. The weight of that responsibility felt crushing. What if he didn't get in anywhere? What if he got into the wrong place? In my mind, there was no room for error, no chance to try again.

I completed his applications myself. His essay, which he wrote with help, was his own. His letters of recommendation were heartfelt, written by people who had walked with him through the difficult work of gaining sobriety. But the applications themselves were mine. At the time, that felt like the win we needed. Acceptance letters arrived, and for a moment they seemed to prove that maybe, just maybe, there was a future waiting for him.

Then came the moment that gave me new perspective. 

He had a virtual interview with a school close to our home. The interviewer asked him, "Why do you want to go to school here?" He answered honestly, "I don't." When they asked why he had applied, he said, "I didn't. My mom did."

Hearing that truth later was like being hit by cold water. It was humbling, because he was absolutely right. I had done the work for him. I believed I was protecting him and opening doors, but I had actually taken away something crucial. The applications had achieved acceptance, but they had not built his independence. They had not given him the confidence that comes from facing something difficult and completing it yourself.

What I understand now is that I stepped out of my role. My job was to be his mother, offering love, encouragement, and presence. But by taking over the application process, I robbed him of an opportunity to practice independence in a supported way. I confused advocacy with enabling. I confused protection with control.

The irony is painful. In my effort to secure his future, I had reinforced his sense that he could not handle important things himself. Instead of building the very skills he would need to succeed in college, I had sent the message that I did not trust him to take ownership of his own next steps.

If I could do it over, I would approach it differently. I would find the right support person, someone outside our family who could guide him through the process while keeping him in the driver's seat. I would let him struggle with deadlines and decisions in a safe way, with help nearby but not taking over. I would trust that the process itself could be part of his recovery, an opportunity to build confidence and claim his own story.

This is one of the hardest lessons of parenting through recovery. Sometimes our instinct to protect becomes the very thing that limits growth. Sometimes stepping back is the most loving thing we can do, even when it feels terrifying.

For families facing this season now, I want you to know that the college process can become more than just getting accepted somewhere. With the right guidance, it can be a recovery milestone. A chance for your child to practice independence, build confidence, and step into their next chapter with both skills and pride.

The goal that once felt unattainable can become real. Not because we do it for them, but because we give them the chance to do it themselves, with the right support alongside them.