Change is the hardest thing to do!

In a world that seemed so distant from what I'd come to know intimately, being a CEO of a non-profit dedicated to helping veterans find their way back from the darkest corners of life's battlefield. Our mission is clear: to provide them with the warmth of understanding and the healing embrace of compassion. Our substance abuse treatment program is a beacon of hope, a lifeline that has saved countless lives, and our work is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

But there is a chapter in my life that even my closest friends didn’t understand. You see, despite my commitment to bringing life-saving change into veterans' lives, someone very close to me had fallen into the abyss I fought so fiercely against. It was my son, a boy I had adopted when he was just 8 years old, discarded by parents who had turned their back on him, a child who had known the cruel reality of abandonment before he knew the warmth of a loving home.

At the time, my wife and I lived in a grand, imposing house that overlooked a serene landscape. Horses galloped through our front yard, and our days were filled with the simple pleasures of fishing in our pond, and riding our horses when not working for our company we started from scratch. I believed I had what it took to be "that dad," one who could provide unwavering support and guidance to a troubled child. But I was wrong—painfully wrong.? As time passed, it became clear that this journey was far from the fairy tale we had envisioned. Our adopted son rebelled against the structure, the rules, and the love he had never known. Our home, which had once felt like a sanctuary, became a battleground of emotions and frustrations leading to our divorce, the loss of our business, and ultimately our home.

My son, accustomed to a life of chaos and independence, despised the structure, the rules, and the love he received. He rebelled against a world that was foreign to him, one filled with parental love and boundaries. As he grew into a "man" of 18, he yearned for his freedom, rejecting the safety and warmth we offered.

He made choices that no parent could ever condone. He chose to be homeless, his life a balance between freedom and danger, wrought with drug abuse. As his parents, we became trapped in a never-ending cycle of worry, waiting for the dreaded phone call or visit that would bring us the news we feared most.

The nights of restless sleep were temporarily eased when he found himself behind bars, but that relief was short-lived. Each release brought a renewed sense of dread. I tried everything in my power to help him. I placed him in our detox facility, hoping it would be a turning point, but he left before his detox was complete. Then, in a desperate attempt, I enrolled him in our substance abuse treatment program, only to see him expelled due to his unyielding resistance.

Then, just last year, the monster we had feared for so long found its way into his life: Fentanyl, known on the streets as Fenty. It was a new friend—one that threatened to be his last. He was found unconscious, teetering on the brink of death. Miraculously, someone walked into the room at that critical moment, armed with Narcan it took three doses to breathe life back into him.

Yesterday as I looked at my son across the lunch table on his 26th birthday, barely three weeks after his overdose, I couldn't help but feel a complex blend of emotions. Relief washed over me like a tidal wave, knowing that I wasn't staring at him in a morgue or a casket. But with that relief came the realization that our battle was far from over.

The sleepless nights returned, my radar on high alert for the ominous late-night call that would only be the worst news. It killed me inside that, despite all the lives we had saved through our non-profit, I couldn't save my son from the clutches of addiction and the unforgiving streets. I think of it every night when I put my cell phone on the night stand.

Amid our efforts to heal the lives of veterans, I was reminded of the painful reality that sometimes, even with all the compassion and understanding in the world, we can't always rescue everyone. But we refuse to give up. If there was breath in my son's body, there is hope, and I am determined to be there for him, just as I am here for the veterans we serve—no matter the challenges, no matter the setbacks, for love and compassion knows no boundaries or conditions.? I know that the journey is far from over, and I will continue to fight for those who need help, even as I face these struggles within my own family.

Ask me if I know what I am talking about in the struggles of addiction and homelessness and I will point at my son and ask, “What do you think?”

Randall Britt