Nighttime Thoughts: The Quiet Hours of a Parent’s Worry
Finding peace in the hours when worry feels endless.
By Donna Marston | Sharing Without Shame
It’s 2 a.m., the hour when the mind races, the phone feels heavy on the nightstand, and sleep seems like a luxury. Parents and family members of someone in active addiction know these hours too well. The quiet of the night can be deafening when fear takes hold.
In those moments, our thoughts become tangled in questions that have no answers: Are they safe? Are they alive? Will this be the call that changes everything? We replay old conversations and second-guess every boundary we’ve set or broken. As the clock ticks, our hearts ache with the longing to fix what we cannot fix.
But here’s the truth, we cannot think, love, or worry someone into recovery.
“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” - author Anne Lamott
Sometimes, healing begins in the dark, in the stillness, when we finally let go of control. Surrender is not giving up; it’s creating space for peace to enter.
When we start shifting our focus inward, changing our tone, our reactions, and our patterns, we begin to model the same healing we hope our loved one will one day choose. The quiet hours become less about fear and more about faith. This is where balance begins to return, one breath, one choice, one night at a time.
Example: Your phone rings at 2 a.m. Your stomach drops, your heart races. You answer, but there’s only silence on the other end. Panic floods in.
Solution: Keep a small notebook by your bed. When worry takes over, write it down — every thought, every fear. Then close the notebook and say to yourself, “I’ve done what I can for now.” Practice slow, rhythmic breathing: inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 4 seconds, exhale for 6 seconds. This simple act tells your nervous system that you are safe, even if your loved one is not.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – poet Rumi
The nights may be long, but even in your worry, there is light, the light of love, resilience, and the quiet strength of a parent who keeps showing up, even in the dark.