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 like he’s frozen in place. Like he’s behind. Like he failed. And nothing I say seems to convince him otherwise.

He isn’t lazy. He isn’t giving up. He’s overwhelmed. He’s hurting. And he’s trying, even if that trying looks invisible to the rest of the world.

He gets out of the house a bit, but it’s hard. Some days are better than others. He has moments of light, humor, warmth — the person I know is still in there. But most days, he’s carrying a weight I can’t lift for him. And he knows it’s there. That might be the hardest part — he knows.

He says things like: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “I should be doing more.” “I feel like a disappointment.”

And that’s when my heart breaks all over again. Because I see the kind, beautiful soul inside him — the one who used to be curious about the world, who made people laugh, who felt everything deeply and cared so much about others. That person is not gone. He’s just buried under sadness, fear, and pressure — internal and external.

I wish I had a way to fix this. I wish I had the right words. I wish I could lift him out of this and place him somewhere safe and clear and full of hope. But that’s not how this works.

So I sit beside him in the dark, metaphorically speaking. I show up. I bring him food. I check in. I offer options — therapy, support, small steps. Sometimes he’s open to hearing them. Sometimes not. And I try to accept that, without giving up.

This is his battle. But he’s not alone.

To my son: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not a disappointment. You are a person going through something incredibly difficult, and still waking up each day. That takes more strength than most people know.

I love you. I believe in you. And I will not stop being here — not waiting for you to “get better,” but walking with you while you find your way.

And to anyone else who is watching someone they love go through something like this: I see you. It’s hard. It’s painful. And it can feel hopeless. But love doesn’t require that we fix everything. Sometimes, just staying present is the most powerful thing we can do.

We stay. We hope. We believe — even when they can’t.