When Love Isn’t Enough
A reflection on the illusion that love can cure addiction.
We’re raised on a steady diet of rom-coms and fairy tales. We’re taught that love conquers all, that if you just hold on long enough, it will all make sense in the end. But loving someone in active addiction isn’t a love story. It’s not Pride and Prejudice or The Notebook. It’s Heathers. It’s beautiful and explosive and a little bit dangerous, where passion and self-destruction share the same room and you keep telling yourself the chaos means it’s real.
Addiction turns romance into a survival exercise. You become the clean-up crew, the alibi, the emotional medic. You learn to read moods like weather patterns—hyper-aware and vigilant, hoping today is a good day, bracing for the storm when it’s not. Being told that you’re a narcissist and you never think about them—when, in reality, you don’t take a breath unless they show you it’s okay. You mistake intensity for intimacy, volatility for passion. You start thinking that being the one who stays through it all makes you loyal, when really, it’s making you disappear just as much as their addiction is making them disappear.
You tell yourself that love can fix it. That if you’re kind enough, patient enough, forgiving enough, you can outlove the addiction. But love isn’t medicine, and it isn’t magic. It’s not a detox or a cure. You can love someone with every part of you and still watch them choose the thing that’s killing them. That doesn’t mean your love wasn’t real—it means it wasn’t enough to rewrite their story.
There’s a moment when you realize that what you’ve been calling devotion is really depletion. That what you’ve been calling faith is really fear. That what you’ve been calling love is really self-preservation. That’s the moment you begin to understand the difference between compassion and codependence.
Compassion says, I love you, and I hope you find your way.
Codependence says, I’ll lose myself trying to make sure you do.
It’s a brutal kind of clarity—to understand that saving someone is not the same as loving them, and loving them is not the same as saving yourself.
You can still believe in love. You can still hold tenderness in your hands. But you can also admit that sometimes the kindest thing you can do for both of you is step out of the story before it burns the whole set down.
After-Reading Exercise: “Where Did Love Become Sacrifice?”
Time: 7–10 minutes • Tools: pen, paper, honest breath
Name the scene. Recall one specific moment when you “stayed to save.” Write three sentences about what happened—only facts.
Body check. In one sentence each: where did you feel it (chest, jaw, stomach)? what did your body want to do (speak, leave, go still)?
Two columns. On the left, title it Compassion (keeps me intact). On the right, Codependence (erases me). List at least three behaviors from that scene under each.
Boundary line. Write one boundary that would have protected you in that moment. Make it concrete and measurable.
Example: “If you use, I will not stay the night.”
Rewrite the belief. Finish this sentence twice:
“Love means I…” (what you used to believe)
“Now, love means I…” (what protects your peace)
Tiny act, today. Choose one action you can do in the next 24 hours that honors the new belief (tell a friend, write the boundary, schedule therapy, sleep).
Core prompt: When did I mistake sacrifice for love? What will I do differently next time?
The Love & Letting Go Workbook: A Journey Through Love, Addiction, and Letting Go
Find it here: https://www.amazon.com/Love-Letting-Go-Workbook-Addiction/dp/B0F1MMR9PY
