When Love Wants to Rescue, But Healing Needs Time

There’s a word I used to avoid — mostly because it felt loaded: enablement. It sounded like judgment. Like blame. Like a term thrown around by people who think they know better.

But now I understand it differently.
I understand it as something that happens quietly, subtly — often out of love.

When someone you care about is hurting, every instinct tells you to do something. Ease the pain. Open the door. Say yes. Make the world feel safe again. That’s what love does, right?

But when mental health is involved — especially something like OCD — the calculus changes.

Willy is my son. He’s brilliant. He’s articulate. He can explain what he’s going through in ways that make you think he’s already figured it out. That’s part of what makes this hard. His intellect is real — but so is the illness. And one of the cruelest tricks of OCD is convincing you that you’re better just because you understand the problem.

Insight isn’t recovery. It’s only the beginning.

Before McLean, Willy was struggling — badly. He slept for hours in the middle of the day. He was exhausted, anxious, and miserable. We saw it every day. He wasn't functioning — he was coping, and barely.

Now he’s at one of the best hospitals in the country, finally in a program designed specifically for what he’s facing. He’s surrounded by people who specialize in this — people who understand what progress actually looks like, and how to build it layer by layer.

But here’s the hard part: even with all that, the second-guessing creeps in.

Maybe this place isn’t the right fit for him.
Maybe he’s already learned enough coping skills to handle it on his own.
Maybe we can support him better here, at home, where he feels safe.
Maybe keeping him there is doing more harm than good.

These thoughts feel honest. They are honest. They come from love.
But we know — if we’re being clear-eyed — they’re not true. Not yet. Not based on what we’ve lived through.

One of the first lessons I heard at McLean was: play the what-if out.

What if he comes home too soon?
What if he’s not actually ready, even if he sounds convincing?
What if we try to help — and end up pulling him out of the one place that could change the trajectory of his life?

When you look at it that way — when you weigh 29 years of struggle against one week of structure — it becomes clearer.

This is where enablement lives.
Not in selfishness. Not in neglect.
But in the instinct to protect — and the fear of making things worse.

We’ve all done it. I have. My wife has. That doesn’t make us weak. That makes us parents.

But part of this process — maybe the hardest part — is learning to not rescue.
To not soften everything.
To not bring him home just because he says he’s ready or we’re tired of holding the line.

This isn’t about being cold. This is about being committed.
To the long game.
To the team we’ve entrusted.
To the process that gives us a shot at real change — not temporary relief.

It’s not easy.
Not even close.
But healing rarely is.