Today, I have more questions than answers.

Someone very near and dear to me is critically ill. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if they will pull through.

They aren't that old.

There should be more birthdays. More dinners. More laughter. More ordinary Tuesdays. More life.

And yet here we are.

Alcohol addiction is taking that life away.

Even writing those words feels difficult, because I keep coming back to the same question:

This person is loved. Deeply loved.

There are wonderful people surrounding them. People who would have shown up. People who would have listened. People who would have driven across town in the middle of the night. People who would have helped without hesitation.

But we didn't know.

Sure, we knew they enjoyed wine. But nothing seemed terribly unusual. Nothing screamed that something was desperately wrong.

And now I find myself questioning everything.

How Well Do We Really Know One Another?

We see what people allow us to see.

We see the dinner out. The glass of wine. The smile. The conversation. The successful career. The beautiful home. The family gathering. The social media post.

We ask, "How are you?"

They say, "Good."

And we move on.

But what happens after everyone goes home?

What happens behind the closed door?

What happens when the glass of wine becomes another glass, and another?

What happens when something that once helped someone relax becomes something they need just to get through the day?

And at what point does the person struggling realize they are no longer completely in control?

I don't know.

That's the point.

There is so much we don't know.

Why Are We So Afraid to Say, "I Need Help"?

This question is haunting me.

Was it embarrassment?

Shame?

Fear of judgment?

Fear of disappointing people?

Did they think they could handle it themselves?

Did they know how serious it had become?

Did they think asking for help would change the way people saw them?

I may never know.

But I keep thinking about how different our world might be if asking for help were viewed as an act of courage instead of an admission of failure.

No judgment.

No lecture.

No shame.

Just help.

And Then There's Alcohol.

We celebrate with it.

We vacation with it.

We relax with it.

We toast weddings with it.

We serve it at holidays, sporting events, business dinners and neighborhood parties.

Someone says they had a stressful day and we joke, "You need a glass of wine."

Alcohol is so woven into our culture that sometimes we stop seeing it for what it is.

For many people, a drink may remain just that: a drink.

For others, the relationship can quietly change.

And sometimes the people closest to them don't recognize that change until something is terribly wrong.

That is something I am struggling with today.

Not because I suddenly have all the answers about alcohol.

I don't.

But because perhaps we need to become more comfortable asking questions about something we have become very comfortable normalizing.

When Do We Get Involved?

That's another question I don't know how to answer.

When do you respect someone's privacy?

When do you ask another question?

When do you say, "I'm worried about you"?

When do you risk offending someone because something just doesn't feel right?

And how do you know the difference between someone's private life and someone's silent cry for help?

I wish there were an easy answer.

There isn't.

Maybe sometimes we need to risk an uncomfortable conversation.

Maybe instead of asking:

"How are you?"

we occasionally need to ask:

"No, really. How are you?"

And then be willing to sit quietly long enough to hear the answer. Today, I wish I would have asked and the hard, uncomfortable questions. 

We Need to Make It Safer to Tell the Truth.

Maybe that's what I keep coming back to.

I’m constantly talking about health.

Eat better. Exercise. Drink water. Get enough sleep. Manage stress. Take care of your heart. Take care of your brain.

But health also means being able to tell someone when you're struggling.

It means having relationships where the truth doesn't cost you love.

It means knowing there is someone you can call when life has gotten beyond what you can manage alone.

And it means remembering that the person who appears to have everything together may be fighting something you know absolutely nothing about.

Today, I Don't Have a Tidy Ending.

I don't have five tips.

I don't have an inspirational quote that suddenly makes any of this make sense.

Someone I love is fighting for their life.

And I am left with questions.

How did we not know?

What could we have seen?

Could we have done something differently?

Why didn't they tell us?

And how many other people are quietly struggling while everyone around them believes they're okay?

I don't know the answers.

But maybe awareness begins with asking the questions.

Maybe compassion begins when we stop assuming we know what another person is going through.

Maybe change begins when we remove some of the shame from saying:

And maybe the next time someone we love seems a little different, withdraws a little more, drinks a little more, laughs something off a little too quickly, or simply doesn't seem like themselves, we ask one more question.

Not because we're judging them.

Because we love them.

Today, I have more questions than answers.

But there is one thing I know for certain:

We need to make it easier for people to ask for help before the people who love them are left asking why they didn't.