Adult Children
I’m a mother. But I’m also a person. A journal helped me not burn out while trying to save my son.
I have a son. He is 26 years old. He is kind, smart, and a good person. I love him deeply.
And I’m afraid he will kill himself.
Not intentionally. Not on purpose.
Just one day he might simply not wake up.
Because for the past three years he has been drinking. Not every day. Not constant binge drinking. But regularly. Beer during the week, sometimes something stronger, and on weekends — always.
It started as “just relaxing after work.”
Now it’s simply part of life. Like breathing.
And I don’t know what to do.
I feel like I’ve tried everything.
Part 1. Helplessness
It all started quietly.
First he became more irritable.
Then he stopped cleaning his room.
Then he started being late — to meetings, to work, coming home.
And eventually he stopped feeling joy.
I remember celebrating his birthday two years ago. We were sitting in a café. I looked at him and saw empty eyes.
He smiled. He made toasts.
But his eyes looked dead.
As if someone had switched off the light inside him.
I asked him:
“Son, what’s going on with you?”
He brushed it off:
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Work is just exhausting.”
I tried to persuade him:
“Maybe talk to a doctor. Or a psychologist.”
He got angry.
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
I shouted:
“You’re destroying yourself!”
He left, slammed the door, and didn’t answer his phone for three days.
I cried every night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.
I’m a mother.
I’m supposed to help.
But how do you help someone who doesn’t want help?
My husband said:
“Leave him alone. He’ll figure it out.”
My friends said:
“He’s an adult. Don’t interfere.”
But I couldn’t.
I woke up at night listening for the door.
I counted bottles in the trash.
I checked his things when he left for work.
I turned into a guard.
A control freak.
A mother who does nothing but nag and monitor.
I started to hate who I had become.
But I couldn’t stop.
Part 2. The moment I broke
One night he didn’t come home.
I called him. His phone was off.
I didn’t know who to call.
I didn’t know where to look.
I couldn’t sleep. I waited. I worried. I cried. I got angry.
Early in the morning he came home drunk, making noise in the hallway.
And in that moment I realized something:
I couldn’t live like this anymore.
The pain my son was causing me had to go somewhere.
I had to share it with someone.
Otherwise I would break.
The next day I called a friend and told her everything.
She listened quietly and then said something I’ll never forget:
“Natalia… who’s going to save you? You’re destroying yourself trying to save him.”
She suggested I try an app called Reflectly.
“Just write everything that’s in your head,” she said.
“Treat it like a safe place where you can unload everything.”
I thought it sounded silly.
But I created an account anyway.
Because I had to do something.
Part 3. My journal entries — raw and honest
That evening I started writing.
Everything that was boiling inside me.
Night.
“He didn’t come home again. I hate him. No… I don’t hate him. I’m scared. I’m terrified that one day someone will call and say something happened. I can’t live like this anymore. Why is he doing this to me? I’ve lived my whole life for him…”
Day.
“I met the neighbor today. Her son is the same age as mine. She proudly told me he got married, bought an apartment, and got promoted at work.
I smiled and nodded.
But inside I was burning.
Why does everyone else have normal children and I don’t?
What did I do wrong?”
Evening.
“My husband says I’m obsessed. That I need to live my own life.
Easy to say.
How do you live your own life when your life is your child?”
I wrote about my thoughts and emotions.
In response, the journal gave me AI insights.
It helped me see patterns and emotional triggers.
Each time it gently suggested what I could pay attention to — and how I might take care of myself.
For the first few weeks I only complained.
The same circle of thoughts:
He’s ruining his life. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how to go on.
But the journal kept bringing me back to one thing:
me.
And one day I noticed something strange.
In all my entries… there was no me.
There was only him.
His problems.
His behavior.
His life.
But where was I?
Where was Natalia?
So I tried writing about myself.
Day 45
“Today I bought myself a pair of shoes.
I’d wanted them for a long time but kept thinking — what for?
But today I bought them.
They’re red. Beautiful.
They’re standing in the hallway.
And I stood there smiling at them.
For the first time in a long time.”
Day 48
“I went to the swimming pool.
A friend made me go. She said: ‘You used to love swimming.’
And she was right.
I did.
And I still do.
For one whole hour it was just me and the water.”
Part 4. I didn’t stop being a mother. I just stopped being only a mother.
Six months passed.
The problems didn’t disappear.
My son still drinks.
He still disappears sometimes.
He still doesn’t enjoy life the way I wish he did.
But something changed.
I changed.
I stopped controlling him.
Not because I stopped caring — but because I realized something important.
I cannot live his life for him.
I can love him.
I can be there.
I can support him when he asks.
But I cannot force him to want to live.
Now I go swimming twice a week.
I bought a membership.
The red shoes are no longer alone — I bought a red bag and a scarf to match.
I even signed up for Italian classes.
Just for fun. For my brain.
My husband and I started going out together again — to the cinema, to cafés.
Before, I was afraid to leave my son alone.
Now I remind myself:
He’s an adult.
If something happens, he’ll call an ambulance.
Or maybe he won’t.
That’s his choice.
I still open my journal almost every evening.
But now I don’t just write about my son.
I write about the weather. Books. Random thoughts.
Today’s entry:
“Snow is falling. Big beautiful flakes. I stood by the window watching. It reminded me of childhood — when I used to catch snowflakes with my mouth.
Such a silly memory.
But it made me feel warm.”
The hardest insight
Do you know what I learned?
The hardest part of being a parent is knowing when to step aside.
To let your child live their own life — even when you see they’re making mistakes.
Because your job is not to make them happy.
Your job is to teach them how to live.
And sometimes the only way to do that is to stop living their life for them.
I don’t know if my son will overcome this.
I truly hope he will.
But if he doesn’t — at least I won’t destroy myself alongside him.
I will remain.
For myself.
For my husband.
For the life I still have.
My journal became my life raft.
A place where I could pour out everything without fear of judgment.
And it kept me from drowning.
Psychologist’s comment
Natalia’s story is a classic example of codependency, where a parent’s life becomes completely intertwined with the life of an adult child.
In situations like this, the only place to start is with yourself.
The journal became a tool for emotional separation: Natalia learned to distinguish her feelings from her son’s feelings, and her responsibility from his responsibility.
This doesn’t guarantee the son will change.
But it does mean the mother will survive.
Have you ever watched someone you love struggle and felt helpless?
How did you cope?