"My Grief Is Still Real: When a Child Dies from Addiction"

By Teresa Carnes

Grief doesn’t come with a measuring stick.

But after my daughter Kaylee died from an infection caused by heroin use, I quickly learned that judgment often does.

Some people extended compassion freely. Others hesitated. There were silent pauses when I told them how she died. Awkward glances. Shifts in tone. As if somehow her death was less deserving of sympathy as if I was less deserving of space to grieve because her death came with stigma attached.

But here’s what I’ve come to say, for myself and for every other parent out there:

Grief is grief. Love is love. And loss is loss.

The Unspoken Hierarchy of Grief

When a child dies from cancer, people rally. When a child dies in a car accident, they mourn with you. But when a child dies from substance use?

The room grows quiet.

The support grows distant.

The looks change.

There’s a hidden hierarchy that some people place on death as if how our child died should determine how deeply we’re allowed to feel their absence.

Let me be very clear:

I did not love my child any less.

She was not just her addiction. She was a whole, beautiful person with dreams, laughter, and a fierce love for her family  especially her little brother, Colton, and her sons, Rowan and Colt.

She mattered.

And she deserves to be mourned with the same tenderness as any other soul gone too soon.

The Worst Stigma Came from Me

The truth is, the harshest judgment didn’t always come from others sometimes, it came from within.

I found myself comparing my grief to others who had lost children to cancer or tragic accidents. I told myself they had done nothing wrong. They were so young, so innocent. Their deaths were met with sympathy and sorrow.

But my daughter… she had developed this terrible disease. Addiction. And though I knew it wasn’t her fault though I knew it was a disease a voice inside me whispered that maybe I wasn’t worthy of the same kind of grief.

Maybe I should carry it quietly.

Maybe I didn’t deserve the casseroles, the cards, the kind words.

That voice was wrong.

But it took me time and truth  to silence it.

I had to remind myself that my love for her was not conditional.

That her life had value.

That her death, no matter the cause, cracked my soul in half.

Grief is not a competition. It’s a reflection of love.

And no matter how a child dies, their parent deserves to grieve them fully and freely  without guilt, without shame, and without apology.

She Was a Mother, Too

Kaylee didn’t just leave behind me and her brother  she left behind two sons, Rowan and Colt.

They were her pride, her joy, her heartbeat.

She loved being their mom. She was silly with them, protective of them, and utterly devoted to them in the ways she could be, even in the midst of her struggle.

And now they have to grow up without her.

That’s another layer of grief no one prepares you for grieving your child while watching her children carry the weight of her absence.

Knowing they’ll have to piece together memories of her through photos, stories, and the love we try to pour into the space she left behind.

Addiction robbed me of my daughter.

But it also robbed Rowan and Colt of their mother — and that is its own unspeakable tragedy.

The Battle She Fought

Addiction is not a moral failure. It is not a character flaw. It is a disease complex, ugly, and misunderstood. My daughter didn’t wake up one day and choose to die. She was struggling. She was hurting. And she was trying over and over again  to find her way back to herself and to us.

I didn’t envision telling our story like this.

I thought one day we’d sit beside each other, sharing her recovery story  a story of hope, redemption, and triumph.

Instead, I’m here, telling it alone.

But I still choose to tell it  because her life mattered. Her fight mattered. And her death deserves the same weight, the same sorrow, the same honor as any other child’s.

Your Grief Is Valid

If you’ve lost a child to substance use, and you feel like you’re being asked to grieve quietly  I want you to hear this:

You are allowed to cry out loud.

You are allowed to talk about them.

You are allowed to tell the truth about how they died and still expect compassion.

You are allowed to feel every bit of the pain, love, guilt, and sorrow that comes with this kind of loss.

You do not have to shrink your grief to make others comfortable.

You do not have to defend your child to deserve mourning them.

We Are Still Mothers. Still Fathers.

We stood beside hospital beds. We paced the floor. We answered calls in the middle of the night. We begged. We prayed. We hoped. We showed up.

And in the end, we said goodbye  not because we gave up, but because we didn’t get a choice.

We are not broken parents.

We are broken-hearted parents.

And we deserve the same grace, support, and space to grieve as anyone else.

A Call for Compassion

If someone you know is grieving the loss of a loved one due to substance use, don’t let stigma silence your kindness.

Say their child’s name.

Send the card.

Show up.

Choose empathy over judgment.

Love doesn’t disappear because of the way someone died.

And neither should our right to mourn them.