Helping an Alcoholic

Guest Columnist

By Mary Keyes Rogers | Nov. 1, 2025

My name is Mary, and I’m the child of an alcoholic. My mom passed away years ago, when I was in my mid-thirties, but lately, memories of those years have been resurfacing—the chaos, the heartbreak, and all the strange little moments that come with loving someone who’s drinking their life away.

If you have a loved one who struggles with addiction—booze, heroin, or something else—you have my deepest sympathies. Especially if that person is someone you depend on, as children often must. It’s a confusing kind of heartbreak when the person who’s supposed to protect you is the one you have to protect from themselves.

Even today, when I’m around someone who’s clearly had too much, I can feel my whole body tense up. My inner siren starts blaring: Get out, get away, this is familiar and not safe. It’s not logical, it’s reflexive—like a smoke detector that still goes off years after the fire’s out.

Here’s what I’ve learned and what I want to say, especially to those on the sidelines: If you haven’t personally confronted the drinker—taken their keys, let them sit in jail overnight, or looked them straight in the eye to tell them how their behavior affects you—please, do not call their family to “express concern.”

Families don’t need more calls. They need more courage from the people standing right in front of the problem. Offer your help directly to the person who’s drinking. Be kind, be compassionate, but don’t protect them from their own reality.

There’s no compassion in calling their spouse or kids. I promise you, you’re not revealing any breaking news. We already know.

When I was younger, my mom’s employees would call my dad—or sometimes me—saying, “Your mom’s drunk at work again. What should we do?”

At first, I’d say, “Get her in the backroom, make some coffee, and I’ll send Dad.” A few years later: “Tell her she’s drunk and walk out.” And eventually: “Why are you still working there? You’re not helping her—or us.”

Everyone around her was so afraid of embarrassing her that they ended up enabling her. They thought they were being kind. They weren’t.

Back then, the big advice from experts was: Let them hit rock bottom. It sounded cruel at the time. But I started to understand that sometimes pain can be a wake-up call. I figured that if nobody would work for her, maybe she’d see she needed help. If she insisted on driving drunk, I’d take her keys—and yes, I was prepared to call the police if I had to. That wasn’t punishment; that was love with boundaries.

Today, we know more. Alcoholism is now classified as a brain disease, and that’s important—but it doesn’t mean the rest of us are powerless. Families and friends can still make a huge difference. We can also, unintentionally, make things worse if we keep shielding the person from consequences.

The old “rock bottom” idea came from the belief that only when life becomes unbearable will an addict seek recovery. But modern thinking—and science—say otherwise. Waiting for the crash can be dangerous, even deadly. Here’s a better way to look at it:

Rock bottom looks different for everyone. For one person, it might be losing a job; for another, a health scare or a night in jail. There’s no single breaking point. Don’t wait for one—act early. 

Addiction isn’t just about bad choices—it’s a disease that hijacks the brain. When someone’s deep in it, they literally can’t see straight. Early intervention can save their life.

Help, don’t enable. Set boundaries. Refuse to excuse destructive behavior. Stay compassionate but firm. That’s the sweet spot where change can begin. 

And most importantly, connection helps more than isolation. Research shows that early, loving, direct engagement—offering treatment, therapy, or just a listening ear—works better than watching from the sidelines hoping they’ll hit bottom.

In my family’s case, it took two trips to rehab before things truly changed. Both times, loving friends and family had to step in with real conversations and real consequences. The first time, a group of her closest friends joined my dad and me for an intervention that led to her entering The Betty Ford Clinic. She got sober for a while, but after my dad passed away, she relapsed.

When it happened again, there was no big crowd—just me and her best friend sitting across from her, hearts pounding, determined to help. She agreed to go to a rehab program for people over 60 and stayed for six weeks. That stay gave her back her life, and she stayed sober for the rest of it. It wasn’t easy or perfect, but it was proof that love, honesty, and timely intervention can still break through the fog of addiction.

Mary Rogers is a 25-year resident of Traverse City and a freelance writer, with a husband and two grown children.