Wesley's Gift: A Story of Love, Loss, and a Soul's Whisper

      

By Vickie Menendez

Vickie Menendez   There are moments in life that reshape us entirely. Moments that leave an imprint so deep, we are never the same. Finding my son Wesley lifeless from an overdose was one such moment. It shattered me. It was like time stood still. I couldn't breathe. My knees buckled as I stepped into a moment, I never imagined I’d live through. He didn't mean for this to happen. His clothes were laid out. He had plans. But addiction has a way of sneaking in quietly and stealing away the ones we love.    In the days that followed, I found something remarkable. A piece of art tucked away among his belongings. His love letter to me. A final goodbye. It was raw, emotional, and hauntingly beautiful. When I held it in my hands, I felt his spirit. Not gone but reaching out. Not just to me, but to every parent and every person navigating the pain of addiction.  This wasn’t just art. It was his soul speaking, his truth laid bare. A message not only for me but for anyone who has ever battled addiction or loved someone who has. He had something to say. And through this drawing, he said it.  Wesley was a deep soul. Sensitive. He felt everything. Though addiction tried to silence that part of him, his creativity told the truth. In every corner of that drawing was a message: "I was here. I was trying. I wanted more."  If you’re a parent of someone struggling, I don’t need to explain the ache. You already know. The late-night worries. The helplessness. The guilt. The fear that one day, your phone will ring with the call no parent ever wants to get.  But there is something I wish someone had told me: they feel us. Our children, even when lost in addiction, feel our energy. When we carry fear, they feel that. When we carry belief, they feel that too. And that shift, from fear to love, can change everything.  Wesley didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He just didn’t know how to escape the spiral he was caught in. Maybe that’s what this message is about. Not just a warning, but a soul reaching out from the other side to say: there’s still time.  If you are someone who is struggling, please hear this: you are not broken. There is more to you than this addiction. I know the shame can feel unbearable. I know the weight of trying to hold it all together can feel impossible. But Wesley’s message is clear. You matter. Your story isn't over. You are not alone.  He drew what he couldn’t always say. Images of pain, of hope, of chaos. A soul map for anyone willing to look closely. You’ll see the choice he was trying to make. The dream he still held onto. The belief that there was more than the struggle.  And now I see this wasn’t just his story. It was ours.  As parents, we want to fix. We want to save. But what if our role is to love them exactly where they are? To believe in them even when they’ve stopped believing in themselves. To trust that maybe, just maybe, we are walking a soul contract with them, together, one that we agreed to long before this life.  That thought has changed me. And I offer it now to you.  It wasn’t until a few years had passed that I truly understood the depth of our bond. I realized that the contract Wesley and I held together wasn’t complete. His life, as painful and short as it was, carried a message that was meant for the world. That drawing wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning—his soul’s legacy. He had done his part. And now, I understand mine. It was my sacred task to share it, to be the vessel through which his voice would reach others. To put as many eyes on his visual message as possible. Because that’s what we came here to do. Together.  There’s something so powerful about Wesley’s story because he is no longer here to tell it. He is not standing on a stage saying, "I almost died of an overdose." He shares his story through his art. There are no language barriers because his message is visual which speaks louder than words. You can't unsee this amazing piece of art once you look at it as I will never unsee what I saw that fateful day.  I also came to realize that this experience was never just about saving Wesley. It was about remembering who I am in the face of heartbreak. It was about learning to trust the divine orchestration of it all. Maybe your child’s struggle is not just theirs. Maybe your presence in their life is part of a greater unfolding, one that reveals strength, grace, and compassion in places you didn’t know you had access to.  I am no longer trying to carry the burden of what went wrong. I am holding the gift of what he left behind. And I’m choosing to share it.  Because Wesley's message isn't just about loss. It's about transformation. About how we, the ones still here, still breathing, still aching, can find meaning in the mess. How we can rise.  I want to offer a moment to you—a visualization I wish I had known before.  Close your eyes. Picture your child standing in front of you, not as they are in their addiction, but as they were before the pain took over. Maybe it’s a younger version of them, smiling, eyes bright. Maybe it’s the version you know still lives inside. Now see yourself placing your hand gently over their heart, and say these words, even if only in your mind:  "I see you. I love you. You are not your struggle. You are still in there, and I believe in you."  Breathe that in. Let it settle. Let that image root itself deep in your being. This isn’t about denying the pain. It’s about remembering the truth beneath it.  Vickie Menendez is a transformational coach, speaker, and author who guides women through grief and life’s hardest transitions into a space of purpose, peace, and healing. After losing four of her children, Vickie turned unimaginable pain into a mission to support others. https://www.healwithvickie.com