95. A Letter to a Grieving Mother

I recently wrote a letter to a grieving mother whose daughter was a childhood friend of mine.  We grew up together, and as we got older, we found ourselves walking a similarly painful path — both of us struggling with the heavy, relentless grip of addiction.  I wrote the letter because I needed her mother to know that her daughter wasn’t just another life lost to this disease; she was someone who mattered deeply, someone who fought harder than most people will ever understand.  Writing it broke something open inside me.  It made me think about how fragile recovery is, how easily it could have been me instead, and how love — real, unconditional love — endures even in the face of heartbreaking loss.  This letter isn’t just a goodbye; it’s a way of honoring her fight, her spirit, and the people who never stopped believing in her.  Out of respect for the family's privacy during this difficult time, I have changed the names of all those mentioned.

Dear Grieving Mother,

I’ve sat with this blank page for what feels like forever, trying to find the words that could possibly bring you even a moment of comfort, but I know there aren’t any words strong enough to ease the pain of losing your daughter.  I still can’t believe I’m writing that.  She should be here.  She should be laughing.  Living.  Healing.

First, I need to say how truly sorry I am.  Sorry for your loss, sorry for the way this disease stole your daughter, and sorry for not being able to make the wake.  Please don’t take it as a sign that I didn’t care.  I do.  Your daughter mattered to me, and so do you.  But the truth is, I don’t do well with those kinds of things.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever.  Funerals and wakes twist something inside me that I can’t always untangle.  They remind me of the friends I’ve lost, the people I’ve used with, cried with, and gone to treatment with.  People who wanted to live but couldn’t make it through the storm.  People just like your daughter.

But just because I wasn’t physically there doesn’t mean I wasn’t with you.  I’ve been thinking of you constantly.  And of her.  I’ve replayed every time we spoke, every smile, every time she was raw and honest about how tired she was.  Not just physically tired, but soul tired.  Addiction has a way of doing that to us.  It makes everything feel heavier.  And when you’re trying to carry that weight day after day, sometimes it just becomes too much.  But please, please believe me when I say: your daughter did not fail.  She fought.  She fought hard and longer than most people could ever understand.  And she loved deeply, even when she was hurting.

You raised a daughter with a beautiful heart, a quick wit, and a spirit that refused to be defined by her pain.  She didn’t always win the daily battle, but she never stopped trying.  That counts for something.  That means something.

I hope you can hold on to the truth that she’s at peace now.  I know that doesn’t fill the space she’s left behind, but maybe it can soften the edges of the grief you carry.  There’s no more suffering for her.  No more guilt.  No more waking up in that dark place, wondering how to claw her way out again.  She’s free.  I like to believe she’s somewhere full of light and warmth, where none of the weight follows her anymore.

As someone still walking the recovery path, I want you to know that your daughter’s life—and now her passing—has left a mark on me.  A real one.  I’ll carry her memory with me in every meeting I go to, every time I share, every day I fight to stay clean.  I’ll think of her when I’m tempted to give up.  I’ll think of her when I see someone struggling.  Her story, her strength, and your love for her will continue to ripple outward, even now.

And you—God, my heart breaks for you.  No parent should have to endure what you are enduring.  I wish there was something I could do to take even a fragment of that pain from you.  Please know that I’m holding space for you in my thoughts and in my heart.  I’m praying for peace to come, even if it’s only in the quietest of moments.  You deserved more time with your girl.  And she deserved more time with you.

Thank you for loving her so fiercely and for never giving up on her.  That love carried her farther than you probably know.

With all my heart,
Kyle Borisewich

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.