Just a Little Patience
Just a Little Patience - By David Weitz
Just a Little Patience
It had been years since I had found myself seated across from another person in pursuit of what I love most — journalism. Life has a way of pulling us away from the things that give us meaning, sometimes quietly, sometimes violently. I know what it’s like to battle heroin. I also know what it’s like to lose nearly everything in the process — relationships, trust, momentum, and pieces of yourself you’re not sure you’ll ever get back.
Along the way, boundaries were drawn. Some people stepped away. Others disappeared entirely. The cost of addiction is rarely paid alone, and the weight of it lands hardest on the people who love us most. In my case, that was my mother — the one person who never walked away, even when others did. When the fight seemed over to everyone else, she laced up and stepped back into the ring for me.
That truth has stayed with me.
Throughout my life, I often heard people say that being a parent is the hardest job in the world. became one. Years later, I can say with certainty that parenting isn’t a job at all — it’s an oath. A job comes with compensation, recognition, and the option to walk away. Parenthood offers none of that. It’s a lifelong contract signed internally, without instruction, applause, or escape clauses. You don’t clock in. You don’t clock out. You simply show up — again and again — no matter what.
Just a Little Patience
It was with that understanding that I picked up the phone one afternoon and called Jamie Adler after nearly six years of silence. When I asked if he remembered me, he said yes without hesitation. In the same breath, he told me he believed I was calling for a reason. He asked me to purchase his mother’s new book, Sweet Child of Mine, and extended me the honor of interviewing her.
I sensed something larger at work, even if I couldn’t yet see it clearly. I reminded myself that I was not in charge — God was. I was simply the instrument.
I read Deanna Adler’s book in four days. Somewhere near the end, everything connected. This wasn’t just the story of a mother loving her rock-star son long after fame had faded. It was the same story I had lived — a mother who refused to quit on her child. The realization broke me. Not long after, I found myself on my way to New York City.
I met Deanna Adler in the lobby of the Paramount Hotel in Times Square just before 9:00 a.m. She stepped off the elevator, and I immediately felt drawn to her warmth. Her smile reminded me of my own mother’s. She mentioned she was starving and asked if I would join her for breakfast. The restaurant was empty as we settled into a quiet booth by the window. As I set my things down, Deanna began to cry.
Just a Little Patience
When I asked what was wrong, she explained that everyone had been so kind to her during the trip — something she wasn’t used to. I excused myself briefly to pray. When I returned, I put my notes back into my bag. This interview wasn’t meant to follow an outline. It was meant to unfold.
What followed was not just a conversation, but a shared understanding between two people shaped by addiction from different sides of the same wound.
Just a Little Patience
Deanna spoke candidly about her childhood — growing up without affection, without reassurance, without being told she was loved. She explained how that absence shaped her determination to love her own children differently. When her first marriage ended and she returned to her mother for help, the conditions placed on her were devastating. She was young, terrified, and without resources. The price of help was control — even over her children.
She spoke through tears about being forced to give up autonomy as a mother, about changing her children’s names, about living in fear and confusion. And yet, when the conversation turned to Steven’s addiction, her clarity sharpened.
“I never once thought to quit on Steven,” she said. “When your child is an addict or an alcoholic, the only thing you can do is be there when they need you.”
Just a Little Patience
She described years of nagging, pleading, and pressure — and how none of it worked. Eventually, she learned that recovery cannot be forced. Presence mattered more than persuasion.
We talked about the height of Guns N’ Roses’ success, the long absences, and the quiet suffering of Steven’s brother, Jamie. We talked about enabling — how love, when mixed with fear, can unintentionally cause harm. Deanna spoke openly about taking Steven to dealers, to methadone clinics, about pretending not to see what she knew was happening.
She didn’t excuse herself. She told the truth.
When the conversation turned to hope, her voice changed.
“The best is here,” she said. “I finally have my son back.”
She explained how Steven lives by The Four Agreements:
Be impeccable with your word.
Don’t take anything personally.
Don’t make assumptions.
Always do your best.
Every day.
Today, she said, their family meets at the gym each morning. They laugh. They talk. They tease one another. The chaos has given way to connection.
When I asked her what she would say to mothers who have lost children to overdose, she was clear: it is not their fault. And to those still living in the daily battle — she offered the same advice she had learned the hard way: be there, seek help, and don’t try to survive it alone.
The epidemic of addiction continues to claim lives at an alarming rate. Families across the country find themselves navigating fear, shame, and confusion with no roadmap. While Deanna Adler may be known as the mother of a famous drummer, her story is no different from countless mothers whose children will never appear on magazine covers.
The courage required to stay present through repeated disappointment cannot be sustained in isolation. Extending a hand for help does not signal weakness — it creates the possibility of healing for both the addicted and those who love them.
It may feel overwhelming.
It may feel endless.
But sometimes, in the end, all it takes is just a little patience.
