Softly Unseen

They say the squeaky wheel gets the oil. In our family, that’s always felt true. There were four of us growing up. Me, the oldest, then my sister, and two younger brothers. We were raised in the same house, yet each of us walked away with such different experiences of childhood.

For me, so much of it is tied to my brother Rick. His struggles with addiction began earlier than I realized at the time. None of us could see then what it would grow into. What I do know is that my mom would have given anything to save him. And she did. Really, we all did in our own ways.

My siblings Ali and Brett have always been firm with their boundaries, able to draw clear lines in black and white. Rick and I, though, never quite got that part right. My boundaries are strong everywhere else in my life, but with Rick, they have always softened.

From the time we were little, he and I shared a closeness that felt different from any other relationship in my life. Rick was deep like me. He felt things the way I did. Music touched him the way it touched me. He understood me, sometimes better than I understood myself. He was loyal, kind, and full of compassion. But he also knew exactly how to push my buttons. And he did that often. When addiction wasn’t clouding his life, he would give the shirt off his back or the last dollar in his pocket without hesitation.

But addiction has a way of stealing everything good. Over the years I’ve watched it strip pieces of him away, and my heart has broken more times than I can count. I’ve chased him down when he disappeared, begged him into treatment, slept in hospital rooms next to him, spent sleepless nights searching for him, sat through countless meetings, and pleaded with my mom to stop enabling him.

I think this is part of why everyone just expected me to be the strong one. 

Even when my own life was unraveling. Even when my marriage fell apart and I discovered things I never imagined could be true. Even then, I was supposed to carry the weight. I was holding it together for my kids , cheering at baseball games with one ear tuned to rehab calls, stretching money that wasn’t there, taking clients while finding rehabs for my husband in between. I was doing everything I could not to let my children feel the shift, even as I felt myself breaking inside. It seemed that nobody could ever show up for me, I could never let my guard down.

When I finally reached the point where I couldn’t hide it anymore, what I longed for most was comfort. But instead, my mom walked out of my house and told me I needed help. No shit, mom. She wasn’t wrong , but the way it was said cut deep.

That’s where so much of my hurt has lived. Why was it that Rick could cause so much pain, neglect his family, and make choices that hurt everyone but always have an excuse? Why was I, the one trying so hard to hold it all together, the one who could never seem to get it right in her eyes?

Over the years, I’ve wrestled with resentment. I’ve tried not to let it take root, but some of it has.

Lately, though, my focus has shifted. Over the past year and a half, I’ve been asking God to teach me how to live with more grace. To be more Christlike — gentler, kinder, more forgiving. I remind myself often that my brother didn’t choose to be an addict. He doesn’t need me to judge him; he needs me to love him, while also holding firm boundaries that protect my own heart.

Prayer has shown me how to step back without stepping away. To let go without abandoning who I want to be as his sister. And while it hasn’t erased the pain, it has softened it, and it has reminded me that loving him doesn’t have to mean losing myself.