A Quiet Return
It’s been a while since we last posted.
And if you’re reading this during or just after the holidays, that probably isn’t a coincidence. This time of year has a way of loosening things we thought were settled. Old dynamics surface. Grudges reappear. Feelings we’ve carefully managed all year suddenly bubble up in kitchens, guest rooms, and living rooms that were supposed to feel safe...but never really were.
Yesterday, my husband and my father got into a fight. It was terrifying for many reasons. Too many to list and quite honestly, I don’t think I can name them all anyway.
We’ve been staying with my parents during a transitional period, and the tension has been there—unspoken, cumulative, waiting for a spark. While my husband was at fault to some degree, what followed revealed something deeper and more difficult to accept: the ongoing, unspoken refusal of my family to forgive him.
Names were used. I couldn’t even begin to discuss respect because there is so little to reference; it is nonexistent. And all of it landed on someone who has done real, difficult work to heal. Our relationship as a family is irreversibly damaged because, much to the shock of my parents and siblings, I will choose my husband, partner, and father of my children every time.
This is one of the quieter truths of loving someone with a history of addiction: recovery does not reset the social ledger. Growth does not guarantee absolution. Even when the person doing the work has changed, the roles around them often remain frozen in time, compounded by mental illness and a naturally abrasive personality; he will forever be persona non grata.
This is where The Love & Letting Go Workbook lives.
Not in the question of whether harm happened—it did.
Not in pretending accountability isn’t necessary—it is.
But in the space where accountability and perpetual punishment become indistinguishable.
Many relationships touched by addiction get framed as opposites: the responsible one and the unreliable one, the healed one and the broken one, the forgiver and the one who must endlessly earn their place. This framing suggests incompatibility—as if the relationship survives despite difference.
But more often, these relationships are polarized, not opposed.
Polarity isn’t contradiction. It is a charge—the way two people take on different emotional, psychological, or relational roles in response to the same crisis. In addiction, polarity forms as a survival mechanism. Someone has to stabilize the chaos. Someone has to absorb the risk. Over time, those roles harden into identity.
Addiction sharpens polarity. One person becomes the anchor—responsible, vigilant, holding things together. The other becomes the risk—unpredictable, monitored, forever watched for relapse. Even when recovery begins, the charge between these roles doesn’t automatically dissolve. The behaviors may change, but the emotional electricity remains unless it is consciously examined and rebalanced.
Families, especially, tend to cling to old polarity. It feels safer to stay oriented around who someone was than to relearn who they are becoming. Forgiveness, in this context, isn’t withheld out of cruelty—it’s withheld out of fear. If the roles dissolve, the system has to reorganize. And systems resist change, even when change is healthier.
Understanding polarity doesn’t excuse bad behavior. It doesn’t erase harm or bypass accountability. What it does offer is clarity. It explains why love can coexist with resentment, why progress can still be met with suspicion, and why healing often triggers new conflict instead of relief.
Polarity also explains why peace rarely comes from arguments. Arguments reinforce the charge. They lock people more tightly into their assigned roles. Boundaries, on the other hand, interrupt polarity. They shift the current. They allow each person to step out of reflex and into choice.
Peace, in relationships shaped by addiction, is the presence of balance. And this balance must be actively sought.
