LETTERS BY TERESA VANHATTEN-GRANATH
On Aug. 5, 2023, my son, Kyle Granath, passed away of an overdose. He was found near the baseball stadium in downtown Denver, Colorado. He was alone. He was 18 years old.
A week later, I stood up at his funeral to share a eulogy in the form of a letter I wrote to him. More letters to Kyle followed in each subsequent month. I learned that our story can help others who are struggling, so I’m sharing my letters to Kyle here.
Aug. 12, 2023
Dear Kyle,
As you know, I have gone through a lot of school. I graduated from high school, two undergraduate degrees, and then graduate school. I was a college professor for 15 years. I have met so many amazing teachers during all that time in education.
Little did I know that you, my sweet son, would be my greatest teacher of all. You taught me so much in your 18 short years of life.
You taught me to listen more and talk less.
You taught me to be more grateful and less greedy.
You taught me to be less controlling and more compassionate.
You taught me to communicate, not close down.
You taught me more patience and less anger.
You taught me to judge less and learn more.
You taught me to live in the moment. The past is history, and the future is a mystery.
You taught me to let go of what I thought would be, that today’s expectations are tomorrow’s disappointments.
You taught me that comparison is truly the thief of joy.
You taught me the only thing I can control is myself.
You taught me to have less ego and more understanding.
You taught me to make amends to people I have wronged.
You taught me to let people help and comfort me.
You taught me to let go and let God.
You taught me to connect with my God in a way I never thought possible.
You taught me that sharing my story, our story, can help other people.
You taught me that giving back fills my soul.
You taught me that addiction is a soul-sucking, awful disease that most people don’t understand and can happen to anyone in any type of family.
You taught me that people who are sober—who fight every day, every hour and every minute for sobriety—are the most badass people on the planet.
You taught me to love you fiercely no matter what.
You taught me that my love for you is never ending, that I will carry you in my heart and soul forever, and that you are a part of me that will never die.
Most importantly, you taught me the meaning of the Serenity Prayer:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
My dear Kyle, as much as I wanted a different ending to your story, my greatest hope is that your story, our story, can help others who are struggling.
I love you more than you will ever, ever, ever know.
Rest in peace, my sweet son. The demons are gone.
Love,
Mom
Sept. 5, 2023
Dear Kyle,
It’s been one month since you left this earth for a better, safer, more peaceful place. You are free of the disease of addiction that haunted you the last few years of your life. For that, I am so grateful.
My friend and former colleague, David, wrote something so profound in a letter to me. He wrote, “I keep fixating on that perfect photo of Kyle stretched out between two canyon walls, balanced tightly between a rock and a hard place.” I didn’t see the photo that way until he said that, but it makes perfect sense.
You were truly stretched between a rock and a hard place for the last few years. The “rock” was the disease of addiction that kept weighing you down and eventually crushed you.
The “hard place” was sobriety, which I know was a very hard place for you.
The best way for me to describe the situation to other people is to say you had “Stage 4 terminal addiction.” No treatment or therapy worked. For that, I am profoundly sad. Sad for the boy you were with so much love, laughter, and affection for the people around you and for the life you lived.
I grieve that little boy and am so sorry for the disease that took you away from us. My heart hurts. My soul is crushed. I’m so thankful you are at peace and no longer balancing between a rock and a hard place.
I love you so much,
Mom
Oct. 5, 2023
Dear Kyle,
It’s been two months since you left this earth. Sigh. I so wish our story could have been a different one, but knowing you are at peace gives me peace, too. These last few years were hard on all of us.
The most difficult part is looking at photos of you when you were younger—so happy, so much potential, so much spirit in your eyes.
I have been taking bits of your ashes with me when I travel. I have now left small parts of you in Gualala, California (ocean, river and redwoods); Idaho (Priest Lake); and Scotland (in Loch Ness, a beautiful cemetery in Fort Augustus, and the Water of Dye near Glen Dye).
I know you are most excited about Loch Ness. Go find Nessie! More places to come…
I miss your smile, sweet son. I miss your laughter. I miss that you will never grow up. I miss hearing you say that you love me.
I love you,
Mom
Oct 13, 2023
Dear Kyle,
Happy 19th birthday! Wish I could tell you that in person. Dad and I spread some of your ashes at Steamboat Lake. It’s gorgeous. There’s even some snow on the ground. We also put some ashes near your wind chimes.
It’s been a hard day knowing we will never watch you grow up. You will be forever 18.
Rest in peace sweet son.
We both love you so much,
Mom and Dad
Nov. 5, 2023
Dear Kyle,
It’s been three months since you left this earth. In this photo you are about 3 months old. It’s still hard to believe you are actually gone, and we will never see you again.
You would be surprised at the number of people who have reached out to tell me their stories of how the disease of addiction has touched their lives. Parents, children, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles. Addiction seems to be a disease everyone has experienced to some extent.**
I’m so sad you fell victim to the very worst clutches of this illness. However, I am grateful you are at peace and can feel the grace of God. I am grateful for the time we had you as part of our family. I am grateful for the love and laughter you shared with the world. I am grateful you were my son.
I love you with all my heart,
Mom
**For those of you who are struggling with addiction in your family, I highly encourage you to seek help in the form of Al-Anon or a similar group. Full Circle (which is an offshoot of AA/NA/CA and the Al-Anon based parent group) was a lifesaver for me and my family. Happy to talk to anyone one on one, just message me. Thanks to all who have trusted me with your stories, those who have checked in on me and my family and who keep sending so much love. We are hanging in here, moving through grief with as much grace as possible.
Nov. 22, 2023
Several people requested I share a speech I gave at the The FullCircle Program Denver gala. Here it is with a photo from 2015 that popped up in my Facebook memories the day after the gala. I love this photo!
My son, Kyle Granath, passed away on Aug. 5, 2023, of an overdose. He was found near the baseball stadium in downtown Denver. He was alone. He was 18 years old.
Two days later, I went running to help deal with my grief. One of the songs that happened to be on my playlist was “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls. There is a lyric in the second verse of the song that says:
Well, darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable
And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear
All I could think of after I heard that was what it must have been like for my son. The darkness of drugs was insatiable. And the call of lightness was hard for him to hear.
My son started using drugs in middle school and never wanted to stop. My husband and I did everything we could until he turned 18 to help him hear the lightness of sobriety. Unfortunately, he could not escape the dark hunger of drugs.
Even though my son had what I describe as “Stage 4 terminal addiction,” I’m here to talk about me and my three-year-journey as a part of the FullCircle program.
On Nov. 30, 2020, my husband, son, and I walked into the offices of FullCircle Denver to meet with Director Ben Stincer. I use “office” as a loose term because the space could more accurately be described as a grunge warehouse, and Ben’s office a hole in the wall. (This has since changed to much better facilities, by the way.)
Ben met with Kyle first, then my husband and me. The first thing Ben said to us was, “You know this isn’t your fault, right?”
My husband and I looked at each other dumbfounded. Kyle had previously been in 12 weeks of wilderness therapy and then a residential treatment center for over six months. A large part of that time was spent blaming ourselves and wondering what we did wrong.
Ben went on to explain the three Cs to us. He told us that addiction is a disease. We didn’t cause it. We couldn’t control it. And we sure as hell couldn’t cure it.
From that moment on, I knew we needed FullCircle. Kyle started attending the kid meetings, and my husband and I attended the parent meetings which, during the COVID pandemic, were on zoom.
As much as we wanted the nine months of treatment and then FullCircle to work for Kyle, the insatiable darkness pulled him back into drugs. We made the decision to send him to treatment again in February 2021. He was out of our home for a year. During that time, my husband and I kept attending FullCircle meetings, and I started working the parent 12-step program with my sponsor.
I’ll never forget the first Sunday I met with my sponsor to talk about Step 1. After the meeting, I went running. After my run, alone on a trail near my house, I started sobbing. It took me a while to figure out why I was crying. I finally did. Beginning the 12 steps meant giving in. It was admitting the life I had once envisioned for my family would never be the same. It was admitting my son was an addict. It was admitting my son was not the only one who needed help. I needed help, too. It was admitting I had work to do on myself.
After I finished my 12 steps, Ben asked me to join the parent steering committee, of which I was a member for a year and a half.
Kyle graduated from high school and residential treatment in February 2022. He came back home to live with us, got a full-time job at McDonald’s, was attending FullCircle, and even got a sponsor of his own. We were so hopeful and grateful for the support he had been given and was continuing to get.
Unfortunately, the disease of addiction and the hunger of drugs was still too strong, and he started using again. He left FullCircle, lost his job, and left our home shortly after he turned 18.
We knew he needed to be on his own and learn from the “school of hard knocks.” He traveled around the country, had a few jobs, eventually wound up back in Denver and back at FullCircle where Ben suggested he try sober living. He was in sober living for four months before he checked himself out on July 24. He was found dead less than two weeks later.
I wish I had a happier ending to tell you about my son’s story. My child didn’t make it to 19. As a mother, it is heartbreaking to watch your kid struggle and know there is nothing you can do. Treatment only works if the addict wants it, and my son didn’t.
However, I am standing here today not to make you feel sorry for me and the loss of my child. I am here to give you hope. Hope that FullCircle has helped countless kids hear the lightness of recovery. Hope for mothers and fathers of addicts to know they are not alone and have a safe space to talk about their journey without judgment. A safe space of love, understanding, and amazing support. The only reason I am able to stand here and tell you my story is because of the love and encouragement I get every day from members of FullCircle. My heart and my life are broken and will never be the same. But due to the work I have done, and my incredible support network, I am slowly melding into a different life. I miss the son I had before he was consumed by addiction and drugs. Our family will never be the same. Yet, because of my journey, doing my steps, helping other parents, and everyone at FullCircle—each day, little by little, the closer I am to fine.
Dec. 5, 2023
Dear Kyle,
It’s been four months since you left this earth. It’s still so hard to believe.
What am I supposed to do?
What am I supposed to do with your baby box full of mementos that I saved to pass down to your kids?
What am I supposed to do with your clothes, books, toys, school awards, and Boy Scout memorabilia?
What am I supposed to do with your Christmas tree ornaments that I hoped would hang on your family tree one day?
What am I supposed to do with the Kyle-shaped hole in my heart?
I love you,
Mom
Feb. 5, 2024
Dear Kyle,
It’s been six months since you left this Earth. It still doesn’t seem possible that you are gone.
The orchid you gave me several years ago bloomed right around the time of your death. Now, it is just about to drop those blooms and bloom again! It’s so pretty and such a lovely reminder of you, my sweet son.
People keep asking how we are doing. We are ok. We are not awesome, and we are not awful. Just ok. We are ok because we know you are at peace from the awful grip of such an awful disease.
I hope you know you will always be the baby boy I brought home from the hospital and couldn’t stop kissing because I loved you to pieces.
I still love you and always will,
Mom
March 5, 2024
Dear Kyle—
It has now been seven months since you left this earth.
There are good days and bad days.
There are easy minutes and hard minutes.
There are sweet memories and tough memories.
There are times of laughter and moments of sadness.
There are times when I am strong and times when I crumple in a heap of tears.
There are moments of thankfulness and minutes of regret.
There are questions of why and answers never to be found.
There are times when I forget you are gone and times when it’s all I can think about.
There are moments of acceptance and moments of anger.
In every day there is so much love for you and so much hate for the disease that took you away from me.
I love you,
Mom
April 5, 2024
Dear Kyle,
It’s been eight months since you left this earth. There are so many moments when it doesn’t seem possible.
Photos of you keep popping up in the memories on my phone. Each time I see them, it slices my heart into tiny pieces. The photos of you as a happy, curious, fun-loving little guy gut me to the core.
I remember you as a tiny little man giving me hugs all the time. Each hug I got, I would think, Get the hugs now because one day he will be a man and not want to hug his mama.
Little did I know that hugging you would not be an option.
I’m getting diamonds made out of some of your ashes. Three green ones for me and your sisters. It will take a year for them to grow. I’m looking forward to having a piece of you I can wear every day.
I love you so, so, so much. Why, dammit, why?
Mom
May 5, 2024
Dear Kyle,
It’s been nine months since you left this earth. It makes me so sad that you will never be a part of our family vacations, our family photos, and our family holiday celebrations ever again. I’ll never get to celebrate you on another birthday. You are forever 18.
Your orchid has seven gorgeous blooms on it. I love that it is a gentle reminder of your beautiful soul.
I am so thankful you are no longer suffering under the weight of such a tragic disease and so grateful that you are free. I remind myself of that all the time.
I love you with all my heart sweet boy,
Mom
June 5, 2024
Dear Kyle,
It’s been 10 months since you left this earth for a better place filled with peace and serenity. It warms my heart to know you are no longer haunted by the terrible disease of addiction that ruled your life for too many years. For that, I am grateful.
Your ashes have now been spread in the oceans of Hawaii and Iceland as well as the peaceful Icelandic countryside. These are your resting places along with California, Idaho, and Scotland. (More places to come as I take them every time I travel…)
Oh Kyle, how I miss that smiling, sweet face in the first photo. I miss playing chess with you. (You always won!). I miss your laughter and enthusiasm for skateboarding, boardgames, and your favorite foods. I miss your hugs. I miss, to the aching depths of my heart and soul, the you we had before the grip of addiction.
I love you, sweet boy.
I love you so much,
Mom
July 5, 2024
Dear Kyle,
It’s now been 11 months since you left this earth. Still so hard to believe you are gone from us forever. One year ago today is the last time we heard your voice. It was the last time you called, the last time you talked to me and dad.
It’s the last time we heard from you at all. In the last month of your life no calls, no texts, nothing, despite dad and I reaching out to you multiple times.
It’s hard to lose a child, but it’s even worse to not know where they are. At least we know where you are now. You are safe. You are at peace. You are loved. You are free.
I also want you to know how much your short life is helping other people. Chris and his business partner have started a facility in Denver to help young men, and they named it “Kyle’s House.” Your picture and story are there to help remind others how much love there is in the world and how easy it is for a life to be taken away far too young.
Other families will know their sons are safe in a place that bears your name.
I’m sad for all the suffering you went through.
I’m sad for the impact the disease of addiction had on all of us.
I’m sad our family will never be complete again.
I’m sad you will never grow up.
I’m sad you will never see the impact your life has had.
I’m sad.
I’m sad.
I’m sad.
I love you more than you will ever know,
Mom
P.S. Even though this is a blurry photo that Ellica took when you were only 4 years old, it’s one of my favorite photos of us.
Aug 5, 2024
Dear Kyle,
It’s been one year.
One year of…
Loss
Pain
Sorrow
Heaviness
Anger
Grief
Regret
Heartbreak
Questions
Relief
Acceptance
Memories
Faith
Life
Love
Above all love. My love for you was never in question, never in doubt, never wavered, never died. I always lived in possibility for your life. Now I live in loss.
The loss of a sweet soul who deserved so much more from this world. The loss of you to a disease I despise.
We are now a family of four, but in our hearts we will always be five.
I love you, my sweet boy,
Mom
