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I had my therapist appointment last night.

We talked about you and me, about our upbringings, parallel lines drawn in different places, tracing the same patterns. And then, the realization: I love addicts.

It’s familiar.

I come from a history of intoxicating highs and devastating lows, from people who chased good times until the good times swallowed them whole. And you, you come from the same. Every love I’ve given my heart to has carried this thread…either lost in addiction or fighting their way out of it, sober, counting days.

It makes sense now why I forgive so easily, why I hold on. I don’t just see who you are; I see the version of yourself you don’t believe in yet. I see the man who longs to be understood, who drifts through the world like an outsider, like the noise is too much, like the weight is too heavy. I see the way you reach for something, anything, to quiet it. A drink, a smoke, a distraction, a moment where you can just be.

I see your inner child.

And I want to hold that little boy in you, the one who still aches, who still waits to be told he is good, that all is good. I want to smooth his hair, take his small hand in mine, and tell him that he doesn’t have to fight to be worthy.

Because I was a little girl once, too. Waiting for love from caregivers who had nothing left to give, emptied out by their own battles, their own addictions, their own demons.

The cycle repeats.

I have so much love to give. I always have. But I keep giving it to little boys who have none left to return, who are exhausted from fighting to love themselves.

But I understand. And I forgive.

I love me enough for the both of us.

Welcome to the family.