This isn’t an easy post to write. But I need to, because it’s been weighing on me heavily — the kind of weight you carry deep in your chest every day, quietly, without a clear answer or outlet.

One of my sons is struggling. Really struggling.

It started before the car accident. He had already dropped out of college by then. That was a hard decision for him, and for all of us. It wasn’t a dramatic exit — just a slow fade. Semester after semester, it became harder for him to stay engaged. The pressure, the pace, the constant expectation to know what you want at 19 or 20 — it wore him down. He’s smart, thoughtful, and creative, but college never felt like his place. Eventually, he just couldn’t keep pretending it was working.

At first, we thought it was temporary. That he’d take a break, maybe get a job, maybe regroup and figure out a different path. But that’s not what happened.

Then came the accident.

It wasn’t a catastrophic crash, thank God. Physically, he walked away. But it left a mark in other ways. Mentally, emotionally — it shook something loose that’s been hard to put back together. His confidence behind the wheel was rattled. He still drives occasionally, but carefully, minimally. It’s no longer freedom for him — it’s just function, and sometimes even that feels heavy for him.

After the accident, things got quieter. He withdrew more. The little energy he had for socializing or exploring the next step in life seemed to drain out of him. Depression crept in — not all at once, but gradually, like a fog thickening over time.

Now, most days, he stays home. No job. No school. No plan, at least not one he can talk about. Just days that blend into nights, and nights into days. Sometimes he talks about how stuck he feels. Other times, he doesn’t talk much at all.

He says he’s scared. He doesn’t know what comes next. He’s ashamed of how long it’s been since he felt like himself. He watches his peers move forward — jobs, relationships, progress — and he feels l