“Sometimes the thing that keeps a person alive isn’t a place to stay, money, or even treatment. Sometimes it’s simply knowing that someone will still answer the phone.”
I grew up in the 90s, when pop culture really embraced, dare I say even celebrated, drug use. Its influence is evident in the fashion, music, and cinema from that decade.
“Heroin-chic” was an actual look models at the time were going for. Greasy stringy hair, malnourished emaciated bodies, dark circles under the eyes, and pale skin were all part of the controversial aesthetic that mimicked the physical side effects of chronic substance abuse. Supermodels like Kate Moss helped to popularize this look, as well as blur the line between looking strung out and being an actual junky.
Kids idolized musicians from bands, such as Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, and Red Hot Chili Peppers, whose members battled drug addiction very much in the public eye.
Popular movies of the time, such as Trainspotting, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Basketball Diaries, and Pulp Fiction, helped bring drugs into the limelight and glamorized their use.
I remember being curious and intrigued, starting at a very young and impressionable age. By the time I began watching the show Intervention, sometime as a young adult, that curiosity and intrigue was just as strong, if not, more so.
I used to love Intervention.
Long before I became an addict myself, I watched it religiously. I loved that it showed addiction as it really was—not a dramatized movie version, not a cautionary tale from a textbook, but the messy, uncomfortable reality of real people chasing a high.
There was something about that world that fascinated me.
I grew up in a safe, sheltered, upper-middle-class household. The gritty realities of addiction, homelessness, poverty, and crime existed somewhere beyond the edges of my world. You knew they were there, but they were easy to ignore unless you intentionally went looking for them.
And for whatever reason, I wanted to look.
The danger piqued my interest. The unpredictability. The people. The places. The feeling of living on the edge without a safety net.
Looking back, I think I romanticized it.
A life lived moment to moment with no guarantees sounded exciting—until I found myself living it.
Then everything changed.
From Viewer to Addict
Once I became addicted myself, one of my biggest fears, ironically, was ending up in my own episode of Intervention.
Every time I agreed to attend a family gathering, I would pull into the driveway and feel my stomach tighten.
What if this wasn’t really a birthday party?
What if I walked through the door and found my family sitting in a circle, each holding a letter?
What if there was an interventionist waiting for me?
The fear was real.
Thankfully, it never happened.
But the longer I lived with addiction, the more my opinion of the show changed.
Not because I suddenly believed addiction wasn’t destructive.
Not because I thought families should simply stand by and watch someone self-destruct.
But because I started seeing things from the addict’s side of the room.
The Problem With Ambushes
One thing addiction teaches you is that trust becomes incredibly valuable.
Addicts and homeless people spend a surprising amount of time around dishonest people. People lie. People manipulate. People make promises they never intend to keep.
After a while, you start expecting it.
That’s why I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of tricking someone into attending their own intervention.
I understand the intention.
I know families are desperate.
I know they are scared.
But when the few people an addict still trusts suddenly become people who deceive them—even for what they believe is a good reason—that trust can be damaged.
And trust is often one of the last bridges connecting an addict to the people who genuinely care about them.
When that bridge collapses, many addicts don’t think:
“My family loves me enough to do this.”
Instead, they think:
“Great. Now I can’t trust them either.”
Boundaries and Conditions of Love
Before I go any further, let me make something clear.
I believe in boundaries.
In fact, I think boundaries are absolutely necessary when dealing with addiction.
You are not required to fund someone’s addiction.
You are not required to let them live in your home.
You are not required to tolerate manipulation, theft, abuse, or chaos.
No one should sacrifice their own mental health trying to save someone who isn’t ready to be saved.
But there is a difference between a boundary and what feels like a condition of love.
Many interventions include consequences if the addict refuses treatment.
No more financial support.
No more housing.
No more help.
Sometimes even no more contact.
The first few make sense to me.
The last one is where I struggle.
Because from the addict’s perspective, that doesn’t always feel like a healthy boundary.
Sometimes it feels like:
“I will love you if you go to rehab.”
“I will talk to you if you get sober.”
“I will care about you if you do what I want.”
Whether that’s what the family intends or not, that can be how it feels.
And for someone who is already drowning in shame, depression, loneliness, and hopelessness, that feeling can be devastating.
What Addicts Need Most
People often assume addicts need money.
Or housing.
Or another chance.
And sometimes they do.
But many addicts are starving for something much simpler.
Connection.
Genuine human connection.
Someone who sees them as a person instead of a problem.
Someone who can talk to them without immediately turning every conversation into an argument about drugs.
Someone who answers the phone.
Loving an addict where they are doesn’t mean enabling them.
It doesn’t mean giving them money.
You can say:
“I won’t give you money.”
“I won’t let you live here while you’re using.”
“I won’t participate in your addiction.”
And still say:
“I love you.”
“Call me if you need to talk.”
“I hope you’re okay.”
“I’ll answer when you call.”
Those messages matter more than people realize.
The Difference One Phone Call Can Make
I believe this so strongly because I’ve lived the alternative.
When my family discovered my addiction, I was living with my mom and stepdad and working for them.
Within a very short period of time, I lost everything.
My car broke down.
I lost my job.
I lost my home.
I was dropped off nearly an hour away with a garbage bag full of clothes and told not to come back.
But losing those things wasn’t what hurt the most.bWhat hurt the most was losing access to my mom.
For years, she had been one of my closest friends. Suddenly, many of my calls went unanswered. Sometimes I wasn’t even calling for help.
Sometimes I just needed someone to talk to. Someone to tell me things would eventually be okay. Someone to remind me I still mattered.
Instead, I felt abandoned.
Hopeless.
Alone.
I stopped caring what happened to me because it felt like everyone else already had.
People talk a lot about addicts needing to hit rock bottom.
What they don’t talk about enough is how easy it is for rock bottom to become complete despair when every meaningful connection disappears too.
What I Believe Now
Today, I still believe addicts need consequences.
I still believe they need boundaries.
I still believe families have the right to protect themselves.
What I don’t believe is that love should be withdrawn as a treatment strategy.
If someone is dangerous, violent, abusive, or putting others at risk, safety has to come first. There are situations where distance is necessary.
But for many addicts, there is a middle ground between enabling and abandonment.
Tough Love Can Have Unintended Consequences
One of the main techniques used in an intervention to force an addict to get clean is by strictly enforcing tough love and standing firm, unwavering, rigidly in their decision to set those boundaries. Some call it “detaching with love,” as a way to describe stepping back emotionally to let someone experience their own consequences, forcing them to take responsibility for their own actions and decisions.
One of my concerns with the intervention model is its heavy reliance on tough love. While setting healthy boundaries can be important, tough love does not always produce the intended results.
When used incorrectly, tough love can create shame rather than accountability. Instead of motivating change, it can leave a person feeling rejected, judged, or abandoned. Some people respond by isolating themselves, becoming more secretive, hiding their behavior, or distancing themselves from the very people who are trying to help them. Others may shut down emotionally or become resentful, making meaningful communication even more difficult.
What concerns me most is that tough love can sometimes be used as a one-size-fits-all solution. Every person, every addict, is different, and how an individual responds to certain situations can differ drastically from person to person. People struggling with addiction often have histories of trauma, mental health challenges, or deep feelings of worthlessness. In those cases, an approach that feels confrontational may reinforce the very emotions that fuel their addiction in the first place.
I also believe that the phrase “tough love” can sometimes be used to justify behavior that is not particularly loving. There is a difference between setting firm boundaries and using shame, ultimatums, or emotional withdrawal as a means of forcing change. Genuine support can include accountability, but it should also preserve a person’s dignity and humanity. I feel some people who do not have their loved ones best interests at heart like to hide behind the guise of “tough love” to make their manipulative or opportunistic behavior seem noble to those viewing it from the outside.
The goal should not simply be to make someone stop using substances. The goal should be to help them build a life they no longer feel the need to escape from. Sometimes that requires boundaries. Sometimes it requires compassion. Most often, its both
Questions for the Journey
Rock bottom is different for every individual. What does rock bottom look like for you personally?
How different is the reality of addiction from the version we imagine from a safe distance?
Where do you draw the line between helping and enabling?
How can you protect yourself without making someone feel abandoned?
What kept you going during your darkest days?
Who is one person that remained a source of support for you when everyone else pulled away?
Closing Thoughts
You can refuse to support the addiction without refusing to love the person.
You can enforce boundaries without disappearing.
You can protect yourself without making someone earn your care.
In fact, I think that’s often the hardest thing to do.
And sometimes the most important.
Because recovery doesn’t begin when someone loses everything.
Recovery begins when they finally believe there is still something worth coming back to.
And sometimes that starts with nothing more complicated than knowing someone will still answer the phone.
If someone you love was struggling with addiction tomorrow, would they know that your boundaries are unconditional—or would they wonder if your love is?
If recovery begins when a person finally believes there is something worth coming back to, what are we doing to make sure they know that something still exists?
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