There are moments in life that change everything, and for me, that moment was the birth of my son. I thought his arrival would be the turning point—the chance to finally become the mother I had always wanted to be. And eventually, it was. But before it could become the beginning of my recovery, it marked the start of my last, most destructive run.
The Decline
On the outside, I looked like a mom adjusting—stressed, exhausted, but capable. On the inside, I was already slipping. The medications I’d been given in the hospital had awakened cravings I thought I’d buried, and soon I was seeking again—doctor visits, excuses, any way to quiet the pull.
I left my son with my mom under the guise of needing “a break,” but really I was escaping to the casino, desperate for relief. I started seeing a doctor for anxiety and was prescribed medication. At first, it felt manageable, even justifiable, but before long I was taking more than prescribed and slipping into old patterns.
I told myself I was still managing—but I wasn’t. I was driving loaded with my son in the car, convincing myself I was fine. The truth was clear to those around me, even if I refused to see it. Eventually, they stepped in. She’s using again, they said. She needs help. We will take him.
Selfishly, I wanted the freedom to use. But I didn’t want to put my baby in harm’s way. Signing him over felt like I could finally breathe, with every intention of going straight to treatment.
The Spiral
That was the plan. But promises don’t mean much when addiction is in control. The silence that followed was deafening. Without my son, the house didn’t feel like a home—and before long, I didn’t have a home at all. I became homeless almost overnight, still longing to be the mother I wanted to be, but unable to stop using.
Homelessness was brutal. I bounced between couches, cars, and nights on the street. Each day revolved around the same cycle: how to get money, how to get high, how to keep the shame from swallowing me whole. I woke up already sick—begging, stealing, manipulating—just to feed a hundred-dollar habit. The relief was always short-lived, and within hours, I was right back where I started.
All the while, guilt sat heavy. I thought about my son constantly—wondering what he was doing, who was holding him, whether he missed me. No amount of using could bury that pain.
Bottoms of the Run
One of the scariest moments came when my car was stolen. Weeks later, I found it abandoned in a casino parking garage. Police there cleared me and released it back. I should have taken that as a chance to stop, but instead, I drove back toward my hometown—still loaded.
Red and blue lights lit up behind me. My name and history were well known in my hometown and my plate coming up as “stolen vehicle” was enough for them to swarm. Within minutes, I was face down on the pavement, guns drawn all around me. The shame burned hotter than the fear. I insisted the car was mine and pointed them to paperwork in the backseat. When they saw it, they had no choice but to let me go. But the image of that moment—guns aimed at me from every direction—never left. And still, I kept using.
Toward the end, my brothers tried to get me into treatment. I fought it. At one point, in a rare moment of surrender, I handed over what I had to my oldest brother. My last fix. I thought it was an act of trust. Never did I imagine he would take it to the sheriff’s office. But he did—and I was charged with a felony.
The Last Stop
The felony charge changed everything. Suddenly, it wasn’t just another bottom—it was about losing everything permanently. I wasn’t just risking my freedom, I was risking any chance of being a mother to my son again.
For years, I had slipped through the cracks, convinced I still had control. But this time, there was no way out. My brothers had stepped in, the law had stepped in, and the disease had finally cornered me.
From selling myself, to the numerous dangerous people I was surrounded with, to being taken advantage of, to the damage that was done in my relationships and ultimately risking losing my son forever, I reached a bottom like never before.
As terrifying as it was, it was also surrender. I was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of chasing a high that never gave me what it promised. Deep down, I knew: this was it. Either I fought for my life, or I would lose it all for good.
That April, the run ended. It didn’t end clean, and it didn’t end easy, but it ended. For the first time, I began to believe that maybe freedom was possible.
Reflections
Looking back, I see how close I came to losing everything. This run was darker and more destructive than anything before, and I experienced things no one should ever have to experience, but it was also the one that broke me open. Without it, I wouldn’t have found the surrender I needed.
The felony charge, the homelessness, the prostitution, the guns drawn in a parking lot—none of those moments were enough on their own. But together, they formed the reality I couldn’t ignore. Painful as it was, it became the foundation of the life I have now.
My son was the reason I wanted to fight, but this run taught me that wanting wasn’t enough. I had to surrender fully, one shaky step at a time, if I ever wanted to be the mother he deserved.
Today, I get to live that choice. And though the road has not been easy, it has been worth every step.
Surviving The Odds 