The letter I needed

So many of us who grew up with a parent’s alcohol misuse grew up in silence — without the reassurance, explanation or understanding we needed.

Nacoa ambassador Jen Payne had an idea: to collect letters from children of alcoholics to their younger selves or others living through parental drinking now. She wrote the first one – the letter she wishes someone had given her – and it stopped us in our tracks.

We’d love to collect other letters like this with the hope of one day bringing them together into a collection. Letters can be anonymous and will always be handled with care.

If you’d like to share a letter, please email admin@nacoa.org.uk along with any photographs you’d like to accompany your words.

Jen’s letter to her younger self

Dear You,

I know how hard you’re trying.

You’re trying to be good.

To be helpful.

To not make things worse.

You’ve become very good at reading the room. You can tell by the sound of the door closing what kind of evening it will be. You’ve learned how to shrink yourself when things feel unpredictable.

But listen to me carefully.

None of this is your fault.

Mum’s drinking is not because you weren’t lovable enough.

It’s not because you were too loud, too emotional, or too needy.

It’s not because you didn’t try hard enough.

You were a child.

You deserved steadiness.

You deserved safety.

You deserved to just be little.

I know you love her. And I know you’re confused.

Both can be true. You can love someone deeply and still feel hurt by what their choices create.

That doesn’t make you disloyal. It makes you honest.

One day, you will understand that addiction is complicated. It isn’t a reflection of your worth.

It’s something she carries. It isn’t something you caused.

And here’s something you don’t know yet:

The strength you’re building right now, the empathy, the awareness, the resilience, it will become your superpower. Not because this was fair. Not because it was right. But because you survived it without losing your heart. You grow into someone who speaks about the things children are told to keep quiet.

Someone who makes others feel safe to say, “Me too. And helps break the silence.

You are not alone, even when it feels like you are.

There are other children sitting in rooms just like yours, thinking the same thoughts. And one day, your voice will help them realise they’re not crazy, not dramatic, not weak.

They’re just children trying to cope.

And if you ever wonder whether it’s okay to talk about it, it is.

Speaking doesn’t mean you don’t love her. It means you love yourself enough to tell the truth.

I am so proud of you. For surviving. For staying soft. For becoming strong without becoming hard. You didn’t imagine it. You weren’t too sensitive. You were doing your best. And you still are.

With love,
Jen