When people say “family saves you,” I used to picture something dramatic. Like being dragged out of a burning building. Or an intervention with snacks. What actually saved me looked more like this:
My mother, standing quietly by the doorway of my life, holding her breath. My father, hauling luggage across the Atlantic. No speeches. Just presence. Just love disguised as stubbornness.
They were in Canada when the car hit me.
Most people think they came “for the holidays.” December flights, Christmas lights, Romanian traditions, etc. But the real story of how they ultimately decided to come for the holidays – the one my mother only told me later – is this:
One night, in December 2022, I called her. Drunk. Wasted, honestly. Blackout. And I don’t remember it. But she does. Word for word. She said I called her at 3am (🧐 iykyk) Toronto time, slurring and crying and probably lying on the floor (I obviously do not remember said occurrence). I said:
“Mom, I know I always say I party and drink to have fun but no… I – I’m an alcoholic.”
She told me there was a sincerity in my voice that she hadn’t heard in years. Not since before I fell down the bottle. Not since before I became someone else entirely. She looked at my dad and said:
“We have to go now. Or we’ll lose her forever.”
And within a week, they were in Toronto.
Not with an army of therapists. Not with ultimatums. Just themselves. Two exhausted parents who had already done their time, cashing in their retirement quiet for emergency flights and many prayers.
I didn’t make it easy. I wasn’t grateful. Not at first. Not even close.
I was messy and mean. I was careless with everything – my health, my dreams, my finances and especially, them. I acted like love was a nuisance. Like concern was control. Like care was criticism. I told myself I didn’t need anyone while silently begging the universe to prove me wrong.
They stuck around anyway.
And not in that “we’re stuck with you” way but in the way that says: You are loved even at your ugliest. Especially then. I gave them every reason to walk away and they packed bags instead.
Even now, when I snap or spiral or shut down, my mother is trying to meet me halfway. She’s working on her own fuse – short as it’s been. She breathes deeper. She softens. She says things like, “I’m trying too, you know.” And I believe her. Because for once, I can see it. She’s not trying to fix me – she’s trying to stay with me. That’s a different kind of love. A harder kind.
My dad? Quiet. Observant. Heart heavy in his hands but steady. He buys me coffee almost everyday like that’s how he says “I love you.” And honestly? It is.
I used to think I was unlovable when I was broken. Turns out, I was just used to being alone with it. But my family – flawed and human and hilariously Romanian – they showed up. And they kept showing up, even when I wouldn’t. Even when I couldn’t.
They saved me. Not by force. Not by fixing. But by refusing to let go. And that kind of love? That’s the kind that humbles you. That’s the kind that makes you want to be better. Not just for yourself. But because they believed in the version of you you couldn’t even see yet. I didn’t make it easy. But they made it possible.
And if you’re lucky enough to have even one person who won’t give up on you – let them in. Let them stay.
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