We are a blended family with four children along with eight grandkids and two great-grandkids.
Our daughter Emily was an athlete growing up and an overachiever in school—always going above and beyond what was required. Around age sixteen, she began smoking marijuana. When she was cut from the basketball team her junior year, something shifted. She started spending time with a different group of friends and became addicted to Xanax, which carried through her senior year and into her first semester at community college. Eventually, she dropped out—skipping classes and sleeping through life under the influence.
After moving out and living with a boyfriend who introduced her to more drugs, Emily began getting into legal trouble. This became a pattern with different relationships. She would come home for a while, then leave again, only to return once things fell apart. Eventually, she was living in our basement, still using—now addicted to fentanyl—and continuing to face legal issues.
Our home no longer felt like a place of peace. It felt unpredictable… tense… exhausting. We put locks on our doors because we couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t steal from us, yet as parents, we couldn’t bring ourselves to ask her to leave.
Then she overdosed.
We got the call no parent ever wants to receive. Had someone not performed CPR and rushed her to the hospital, she wouldn’t be here today. Even now, it’s hard to think about how close we came to losing her.
That moment should have changed everything—but addiction doesn’t work that way. She asked for help and tried Suboxone, but didn’t stay on it. An opioid grant allowed her to enter rehab, but she was kicked out just weeks before completing the program—and immediately relapsed. I spent countless hours researching addiction and treatment options, holding onto hope that the next place might be the one that finally worked. She entered multiple rehabs over the next couple of years—at least five times—but kept getting discharged for breaking rules, followed by immediate relapse.
I felt drained… heartbroken… and so alone.
Desperate for support, I searched online and found PAL—Parents of Addicted Loved Ones.
From my very first meeting, something inside me exhaled. I felt heard. Understood. Accepted. Sitting in a room with people who truly got it lifted a weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.
At PAL, I learned something life-changing: I could not control or fix my daughter’s addiction. As much as I wanted to, I was powerless over it. But I also learned something just as important—I do deserve happiness, regardless of what Emily chooses.
Over time, the shame I had carried for years began to loosen its grip. I no longer felt the need to hide our story. In its place, I found compassion—for my daughter and for others walking this same painful road.
Today, Emily is in a different place. She completed a Christian centered treatment program and is now living in a sober living home connected to that program. She’s working, attending meetings, going to church, and learning how to live as an adult. She is 90 days clean and making real progress.
I am so proud of her. And for the first time in a long time, I feel a steady, quiet hope for her future.
But just as importantly, I am doing better too.
Through PAL, I’ve experienced a kind of freedom I didn’t know was possible. Letting go of trying to change my daughter didn’t mean giving up—it meant releasing a burden I was never meant to carry. It felt like I could finally breathe again.
This journey has also deepened my faith. There is peace in placing my daughter in God’s hands and trusting that, no matter what happens, He is still at work.
Today, I share PAL resources with treatment centers and churches whenever I can. I tell anyone who will listen how much it has changed our lives. I am deeply grateful for PAL—and I look forward to my weekly meetings.
Sometimes healing doesn’t begin when our loved one changes.
Sometimes it begins when we do—when we let go of trying to control and find support, and trust God with the outcome.
A PAL Mom
