Breaking the Cycle: A Mother & Son’s Journey to Healing

This story is hard to tell—because it puts my failures as a mother on full display.

I know there will be judgment.

Trust me—no one will ever judge me harder than I already do myself.

But more importantly, I hope that by sharing my mistakes, my pain, and the journey through it all, I might help someone else. Someone who’s quietly drowning. Someone who feels alone. Someone who doesn’t yet know that asking for help isn’t weakness—it’s where the healing begins.

There’s a moment as a parent when you realize… something is breaking. And it might be you.

At 29, I was a single mom to five children, having just left a marriage marked by addiction, instability, and emotional chaos. I had 100% custody of my boys—their father was absent, battling his own demons. My girls were from my first marriage, and thankfully, their dad has always been an amazing father. But as for everything else, I was on my own. With no physical or financial support, I stepped into every role—provider, protector, peacekeeper, and anchor—doing everything I could to keep our world from falling apart.

I worked long hours. I put myself through college and earned my Bachelor of Science degree. I built a career from scratch. I made sure my kids were fed, clothed, and enrolled in sports, playdates, and every activity that gave them structure and joy. I was the team mom. I showed up.

I was physically present.

But I didn’t yet understand how deeply I was emotionally absent.

Because underneath it all, I was in survival mode—trying to be everything to everyone. And in the process, I missed the deeper signs that my kids were struggling in ways I didn’t yet know how to hold.

Then came the unraveling.

My third child—my son—was diagnosed with a terminal form of muscular dystrophy, which led him into addiction.

My fourth son began battling his own addiction at just 15.

And my youngest—Jack—was quietly absorbing all of it.

My two oldest daughters didn’t get a carefree childhood. They stepped in, helping me run the household and care for their younger siblings. My oldest is now an amazing mom to three little girls and a stepson.

My second daughter met the love of her life and is getting married this June.

Each of my children has endured things I wish they hadn’t. And each one of them has become someone I’m deeply proud of.

But back then, we were all hanging on by a thread.

At 14, Jack was assaulted by an adult man under the influence. It shattered his already fragile sense of safety. And then COVID hit. He lost school. Sports. Friends. His entire support system vanished.

That’s when everything shifted.

The depression set in.

The rage. The anxiety. The self-harm.

I tried everything—therapists, hospitals, medications, referrals.

Nothing worked.

And like so many of us during that time, I started drinking more than usual. It wasn’t for fun—it was to cope. To quiet the fear. To survive the day. But in doing so, I began dissociating from the chaos that was growing louder inside our home. I didn’t want to believe how bad it had gotten. But I knew. Deep down, I knew.

Then came a second trauma—another violation, this time from someone I had let into our lives.

That was it.

Jack was removed from our home.

And I had to face the most painful truth of all:

My love wasn’t enough.

And my choices—even the ones I made with the best of intentions—were hurting my child.

That’s when we found Koinonia’s Crisis Resolution Center.

They didn’t just give Jack a place to stay. They gave him space to breathe. They gave him safety. Structure. Compassion. A place where he could stop pretending and start healing.

And while Jack was learning how to process and cope, I was learning too.

CRC handed me a mirror and a map. They showed me how to stop blaming my past and start owning my present. They taught me that healing doesn’t require perfection—it requires honesty, accountability, and the willingness to do the work.

It was hard. Humbling. And absolutely necessary.

Over time, something shifted.

The tools CRC gave us began to take root.

We learned how to listen. How to pause. How to stop rescuing and start rebuilding. Jack and I began reconnecting—not through fear or guilt, but through truth, trust, and grace.

Today, both of my boys are sober.

My son who was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy is still fighting that terminal diagnosis. It breaks my heart every time I hear him say, “I’ll be dead soon.” And I know that fear—of what’s coming—is at the root of his battle with addiction. But he has surpassed milestone after milestone. We are not giving up. Not now. Not ever.

My other son has been sober for two years. He’s building a beautiful life for himself and his girlfriend—slowly, intentionally, and with so much strength.

Jack? He’s getting ready to leave for the Army.

And me? I’m still learning. Still growing. Still healing.

Ironically, my kids now show more emotional maturity and healthier behaviors than I do on some days—but I believe that’s because they were given the tools early enough to make a lasting difference.

That’s what this blog is about.

That’s why I share so much of my own journey story.

Not to pretend I have it all together—but to hold myself accountable.

To walk the walk. To talk the talk.

To remind myself—and maybe you—that healing is a journey, not a destination.

I still stumble.

I still make mistakes—just like my kids.

But now we give ourselves grace.

We pull out those tools.

We revisit the roadmap.

And we keep moving forward.

If our story helps even one family reach out for support before it's too late, then every broken moment has meaning.

Because the truth is—there is no shame in needing help.

And there is so much power in asking for it.

🎥 Watch our speech here → https://youtu.be/OS5CfQjTMAA

Read our story: https://kfh.org/from-crisis-to-connection/

Learn more about the life-changing work of CRC at Koinonia. https://kfh.org/locations/home-for-teens/