I never thought my story would include addiction.
But on February 13th, 2024, my half-brother Ryan died of an overdose. He was 39, and I was 28. I never expected to feel so overwhelmed with guilt and, at the same time, love.
The call came at 4:38 a.m., just before the sun began to creep through the clouds, breaking forth light on a dreary winter morning. But nothing about the news brought joy—it brought mourning. It wasn’t a triumph to begin a new day. It was a rooster crying at dawn, reminding me I still had to live.
I made it through the day, but inside, I felt hollow.
Grief is strange.
Unexpected.
Heartbreaking.
Numbing when we avoid it or turn it off for too long.
Many thoughts and emotions ran through my brain. It took me months to stop thinking—It’s my fault. I could’ve done more. I should’ve loved him better. I could’ve saved him.
The truth is, I couldn’t. Addiction was too strong, and Ryan’s choices were his own. But for months, I lived with the thought that maybe I could’ve saved him.
A Relationship Marked By Pain
I was ten years old when Ryan threatened to kill me.
The weight of that moment has never left me. I couldn’t understand his pain then, only that it scared me. The threat felt like a wound that would never heal. We were never close. Though we lived under the same roof during my teens and twenties, I kept my distance. I loved him, but the pain from our past left me unsure how to show it.
Sometimes loving someone with an addiction feels like trying to hold onto oxygen. You know you need it, but you can’t grasp how. Before you know it, the air runs out.
I wasn’t ready to lose him. I thought we had more time.
The Addiction That Took Him
Ryan had just gotten out of rehab. A week and a day later, he relapsed. I knew those first few weeks were critical. I just didn’t know they would be fatal.
There were signs, of course. Years of them. I’d seen him overdose again and again. Once in our garage, with a needle still in his arm. We brought him back with Narcan. He was furious. Furious to face the consequences. Furious to face the pain again. That moment never left me. But I was thankful he was alive.
This time, no one was there to save him. His lips were blue when they found him, and his nine lives had run out. It was too late. He was gone.
If You’re Struggling
I’m not sure I’ve fully accepted that he’s not coming back. There are moments when I expect the phone to ring, or a memory to walk through the door. But all I can do now is face the truth.
And the truth is this—if you’re struggling with addiction, I beg you: please don’t wait. You are worth the hard work of healing. You are not too far gone. You are not alone.
If you love someone who’s battling addiction, I know how hard it is. You can’t save them, but you can love them—even from a distance.
Show up. Speak truth.
Offer grace in one hand and hold firm boundaries in the other. Pray hard. Don’t carry the weight of their choices. Love when it’s hardest to love. Never give up.
I don’t have all the answers when it comes to addiction. The epidemic is vast, and my family isn’t the only one affected. But love matters. It’s messy, complicated, and often difficult. But it matters. We may not be able to change the situation, but we can make sure no one feels alone in their struggle.
As Toby Mac wrote after losing his son Truett to an overdose:
“Why would You give and then take him away?
Suddenly end, could You not let it fade?
What I would give for a couple o’ days, oh a couple of days.
Is it just across the Jordan?
Or a city in the stars?
Are you singing with the angels?
Are you happy where you are?
God has you in Heaven,
But I have you in my heart.” (21 Years).
I have you in my heart, Ryan. And I’ll carry your story—so others don’t have to carry theirs alone.
Agape, Amber
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