I still mother them….

Every August, I begin posting what we’ve come to call The Faces of Addiction.

One picture.

One story.

One life.

To the people scrolling through Facebook, it’s just another post. To me, it’s a walk through a cemetery without ever leaving my chair.

As I search for photos and write each story, I relive the phone calls, the funerals, the hugs, the tears, and the conversations with parents who were forced to say goodbye long before they ever imagined they would.

I see Vincent.

I see Gabriella.

Then I see Alex. Matthew. Earle. Deanna. And so many others whose faces have become part of my everyday life.

By the end of the month, I’ve looked into the eyes of hundreds of people we have loved and lost.

People often ask me how I do this work.

The truth is…sometimes I don’t know.

There are days when writing these posts feels incredibly heavy. Every story reminds me that another family had their world shattered. Another bedroom sits empty. Another birthday comes and goes. Another holiday has a chair that no one will ever fill again.

Some days it feels hopeless.

Not because I don’t believe people recover. I do. Recovery happens every single day, and I’ve been blessed to watch it happen.

It feels hopeless because I know every face represents a ripple that never stops. Addiction doesn’t just take one life. It changes every life connected to that person.

A mom who still buys her child’s favorite cereal without thinking.

A dad who still reaches for the phone.

A brother who wonders what he could have done differently.

A child growing up with memories instead of moments.

A best friend who still waits for a text that will never come.

When you look at enough faces, you stop seeing statistics. You see people. You see unfinished stories.

And yet…

Every August, I keep posting.

Not because I enjoy reliving these losses, but because someone has to remind the world that addiction doesn’t have a look.

The faces are beautiful.

They are athletes, artists, parents, college students, construction workers, nurses, musicians, and kids who loved to make people laugh.

They look like your family.

They look like mine.

If these posts make you uncomfortable, that’s okay. They make me uncomfortable too. But if even one parent looks at these faces and stops saying, “Not my kid,” then every difficult post is worth writing.

These are the faces of addiction.

They deserve to be remembered for how they lived, not just how they died.

And as long as there are stories to tell, I’ll keep telling them. Because behind every face is a name. Behind every name is a family. And behind every family is love that never stopped.