I was one of those people who never imagined I’d ever become an addict. It started slowly, like a normal phase some people go through. I got involved with the wrong crowd, and one thing led to another—pills, weekend partying, and before I knew it, it became a daily routine. My ex—the father of my daughter, whom I now call my “sperm donor” because he’s never been in her life—was the one I used with regularly and who introduced me to this lifestyle. I don’t blame him in the slightest. He never forced me to do anything; I made my own choices and suffered the consequences. But together, we lost everything—our house, his business, our cars—and ended up living in a car or on a friend’s couch.
With no money and no stability, we fell in with an even worse crowd and eventually turned to heroin. After that, my life became such a blur that I barely remember many moments from those years. I stole countless things for money to feed my addiction, went days without eating, and eventually resorted to stealing food just to survive. I lost an unbelievable amount of weight, looked hollow, sunken, and lifeless—because that’s exactly how I felt.
My family saw what was happening and tried to help. They got me into rehab two or three times. I’ll never forget my dad, staying awake nights, sick with worry, saying over and over, “I’m just waiting for that call one day that you overdosed and died.” It was heartbreaking, but at the time, his words barely registered. I didn’t understand the pain I was causing. Eventually, I decided to go to rehab—not for myself, but for my family. Still, I left both times, drawn back by my ex, my partner in crime, who would pick me up in the middle of the night to use again. I would start rebuilding relationships with my family, only to lose them once more. Addiction numbs you to your feelings—the shame, the hurt, the love—so using again felt like the only escape. Eventually, I vanished from my dad’s life entirely, only to call him from jail months later, after running from a very serious crime.
During those years, we did unforgivable things. We stole from anyone—family, friends, strangers—just to get money for drugs. We squatted in abandoned homes, lived in a house with no doors or electricity, and I overdosed twice, nearly dying both times. Our addiction escalated rapidly: the first time we used, we injected right away, and it quickly went from once or twice a day to five times a day. I couldn’t leave the house without using; the withdrawals were unbearable.
Eventually, we committed a massive theft: over 20 assault rifles, ammunition, and more than $40,000 in cash. It drew attention from law enforcement, so we bought a car with cash and went on the run. Every day was terrifying. We ran out of money fast, and ended up in Oregon, constantly hiding. We were caught in a high-speed chase, crashed, ran on foot from helicopters and dogs, and somehow survived—until a SWAT team eventually raided our hotel room. My ex went to prison for prior charges, while I, having none, got probation and was sent back to rehab. I’ll never forget an officer telling me: “We were told you are armed. If you don’t cooperate, we have permission to fire.” The fear and clarity of that moment stuck with me forever.
Addiction has been the hardest battle of my life. I wanted to die every day, hated who I was, and felt like a failure to everyone I loved. I grew up in a small town, played sports, even earned a full basketball scholarship right out of high school. Addiction can touch anyone, anywhere, if the wrong crowd pulls you in.
My turning point came after my ex went to prison. Even then, I struggled while he was gone. We wrote letters, talked on the phone, and planned a sober life together—but when he was released, I became pregnant just two weeks later. He left me because I was still using, having had no chance to detox while he was locked up. Looking back, I think God needed to give me something bigger than myself to believe in—my daughter.
When I found out I was pregnant, I cried for hours. I wondered, “How can I care for a baby when I can’t even care for myself?” I was living in a tiny apartment on a couch with a friend and her kids, sleeping out of a suitcase. Her father accused me of having a “meth baby” and called me names. I considered abortion because I thought he was right—but my family reacted differently. My mom cried with me, believing this child could save my life. She was right.
Pregnancy wasn’t easy. I was learning sobriety, working six days a week as a server, and surviving on a broken-down car. I saved everything I could, eventually renting a two-bedroom apartment to give my daughter a proper nursery. My sister supported me through birthing classes and was the one I wanted by my side during delivery. She cut the umbilical cord and cried with pride at my progress.
When my daughter was born, I didn’t contact her father. Months later, he showed up at my door—heart racing, holding his own twin in my arms. He confirmed the paternity, but I didn’t care. We are better off without him.
Now, my daughter is almost two. She saved my life. I believe I would be dead or very close to it if not for her. She is my miracle, my angel, and the reason I fought to overcome addiction. Today, we are happy, healthy, and thriving. I earned my real estate license, left serving behind, and continue improving our life every day. Being a single mom is challenging, but nothing compares to the gift of being her mother. I will never return to that dark place. I pray for those still struggling—and for the children affected by this disease—because I know the stakes firsthand.
