On a difficult day in Asheville, North Carolina, I faced a conversation I dreaded with my 95-year-old mother. "Your granddaughter needs to go to a hospital in Nashville for her depression," I explained, watching her reaction from her easy chair in her assisted-living home. "She'll be away for several months."
My mother sat in stony silence, her eyes drifting to the bookshelf where photos of her seven smiling grandchildren—including my daughter—were carefully arranged. This was her vision of a perfect family. "You mean she won't be home for Christmas?" she finally asked, her voice heavy with disappointment.
The Weight of Unspoken Struggles
"I'm afraid not," I replied, unable to share the full truth. How could I explain that my vibrant 19-year-old daughter—the grandchild my mother adored—had become addicted to heroin in college and was now fighting to reclaim her life in rehabilitation? My mother, raised with traditional values about women's roles, already disapproved of my working while raising children. "Keep your figure to keep your husband," she'd often remind me. "And always stay in control of your children."
I desperately needed her support but feared her judgment. Believing she would blame me for my daughter's struggles, I began shortening our visits, focusing on practical tasks rather than emotional connection. This distance mirrored the societal pressure women face to be perfect mothers—constantly judged for doing too much or too little for their children.
A Mother's Exhausting Efforts
For years, I had driven myself to exhaustion trying to meet impossible standards. I transported my two children to every practice, performance, and game, volunteered in their classrooms, helped with homework, and ensured we shared home-cooked meals five nights weekly. As they grew older, I followed parenting advice about letting go appropriately. Yet despite these efforts, my daughter descended into deep depression, turning to alcohol in high school and drugs in college.
When her addiction became undeniable, I felt like a complete failure. This was 2014, when the opioid crisis was escalating nationally, but heroin use wasn't yet acknowledged as something that affected "good families" or college campuses. The shame kept me silent when I most needed help.
An Unexpected Turning Point
After my daughter had been in rehab for a month, my mother experienced what doctors called a mini-stroke. They warned more would likely follow. Surprisingly, her declining health softened her demeanor—and made me more forgiving. Our relationship transformed as I began visiting several times weekly. Our goodbyes now included long hugs and whispered "I love yous," though we still avoided discussing my daughter's true situation.
Then came the call from Nashville. "Hello. This is the nurse. Everything's fine," the voice said—a trained opening that immediately raised my alarm. "Your daughter's had an accident. Her jeans caught fire, and she has a third-degree burn on her calf. She's been to the hospital and is resting here now."
After speaking briefly with my daughter, who mentioned possibly needing a skin graft, I went to see my mother. "I have some bad news," I told her. "Your granddaughter burned her leg and needs an operation. I'll be driving to Nashville tomorrow, but I don't want to leave you now."
"Of course, you must be with her," she responded immediately. When I jokingly asked her to promise not to go anywhere until I returned—both acknowledging her limited time—she smiled and nodded.
Six Life-Changing Words
"Now listen," she said, looking directly into my eyes. I braced for criticism or advice about my daughter. Instead, she offered six words that would reshape my life: "You're going to get through this."
For the first time, my mother expressed pure belief in me without qualification or suggestions for improvement. She had always loved me, but this was unconditional trust. Walking to my car afterward, I felt years of guilt and worry evaporate. Despite ongoing uncertainties, I suddenly felt confident and calm rather than anxious or inadequate.
Hospital Revelations and Relapse
At Vanderbilt's burn unit, I spent five precious days with my daughter. We talked openly about her rehab experiences, future hopes, and recovery lessons. I painted her toenails bright green, brought sandwiches from a nearby deli, and shared my own vulnerabilities—apologizing for not understanding her earlier pain and expressing sadness about my mother's declining health.
Then came a disturbing moment. A nurse delivered pain medication, and I watched my daughter pretend to swallow pills before hiding them beside her hip. "Oh, look! You must have dropped this," I said, handing them back. After swallowing them properly, she explained: "I thought if I saved three doses, I could get high."
We sat in stunned silence. The realization hit me: she was willing to endure excruciating pain for a chance at getting high. I finally understood I couldn't control her recovery or insist she get better for my peace of mind. Her journey would be long and difficult.
Passing On the Mantra
When I stood to leave, I abandoned my usual pep talks and advice about staying clean. Instead of trying to be a perfect mother, I simply held her hand and repeated my mother's words: "You're going to get through this."
While I was in Nashville, my mother suffered a major stroke. Returning home, I rushed to her bedside where she lay partially paralyzed, able only to utter a word or two. Holding her hand, I said, "I love you." She nodded. Four days later, she passed away.
The Lasting Legacy of Trust
Initially, I believed my mother's mantra referred only to my challenges with a troubled teenager. After her death, I realized she meant all of life's struggles—losing a parent, navigating relationships, and simply being human. I've since tried to give my children the same gift of trust: belief in their ability to handle whatever life presents.
Sometimes I relapse into old patterns of fear and control. But thanks to my mother's transformative words, I now have a personal mantra to guide me: You're going to get through this. This simple phrase, born from vulnerability and expressed with unconditional trust, continues to heal our family across generations.
