I Got Clean, But I Lost My Parents

I thought when I finally turned my life around — when I got clean, when I started walking on the path of recovery — my parents would be proud of me.
Not for what I had, not for where I lived, not for how much money I earned…
But simply because I made it.
I survived.
I didn’t ask for their money.
I didn’t ask to move back in.
I didn’t even ask for forgiveness for my past, because I’ve already owned it.
All I wanted was a healthy relationship.
A space to talk without fear.
A bond that wasn’t built on guilt, control, or fear — but on love, mutual respect, and peace.
But when I answered my mother’s call, it didn’t feel like love.
It felt like the same old attempt to control me, to push me back into the role where I had no voice.
And when I didn’t follow that script… suddenly, I was “bad” again.
Clean or not, strong or not, my worth in her eyes still depended on how obedient I was — not on who I’ve become.
That realization broke something inside me.
And my father…
God, how I miss him.
He’s a good man, a gentle soul, but so deeply afraid of her — emotionally controlled to the point of silence.
He watches, he listens, but he doesn’t speak.
And while I know he loves me, it hurts that he never stands up for me.
This is not the reunion I dreamed of.
This is not the homecoming I hoped for.
It’s a strange grief — to lose people who are still alive.
To mourn the relationship you wish you had, while knowing it may never exist.
To walk away, not because you don’t love them, but because you finally love yourself enough to stop being hurt.
Recovery taught me many things.
But maybe the hardest lesson is this:
Some people won’t love the healed version of you, because they only know how to relate to your broken one.
And that’s okay.
I’m learning to carry both —
The pain of what I lost,
And the strength of what I’m building.