No mother ever imagines that one day she’ll be arranging for her 18-year-old son to be transferred directly from jail to an inpatient rehab facility. No “good mom” envisions that her beloved firstborn—the baby she once held with such hope—will struggle with addiction.
Yet here I am, a mother who never dreamed this life for her child or for herself, sharing our story because silence only deepens the pain.
The Girl Who Was Afraid to Become a Mother
When I was a freshman in college, standing before my Journalism 101 class of 300 students, I remember declaring something that shocked everyone:
“I don’t know if I ever want to have a family. I’m afraid of what the world will be like.”
The entire lecture hall gasped.
As a child, I loved playing house and Barbies—but as I grew older, the thought of pregnancy and childbirth filled me with anxiety. I spent most of my twenties chasing fulfillment through work, moving from job to job, making friends through my career rather than dating. My standards were sky-high, my fears even higher. I told myself I’d only marry someone like Dean Cain.
From Corporate Life to Teaching Dreams
By my early thirties, corporate life felt hollow. I remembered how much I had enjoyed teaching Junior Achievement lessons years earlier—and realized I wanted to make a difference. I left my job, got certified in elementary education, and accepted that I might never marry or have children.
My friends even joked that I’d become a “cat lady,” and I leaned into it so much that I researched hypoallergenic cats—despite being allergic!
But life had other plans. My sister and a close friend set me up on a blind date, and everything changed. He wanted a big family; I wasn’t so sure—but love moved quickly. We got married, and soon I was expecting our first child.
A High-Energy Beginning
Pregnancy terrified me. I nearly lost my son in the first trimester, but he was a fighter even then. Nurses commented that he was the most alert newborn they’d ever seen. He kicked constantly in the womb and entered the world wide-eyed and ready to go.
By nine months, he was walking. By two and a half, he was talking nonstop and climbing everything in sight. His YMCA nursery teachers gently told me, “He’s… different.” They recommended an evaluation. I had no idea what that meant.
Early Signs of Neurodivergence
From age two and a half on, my son had some form of early intervention or IEP. He was incredibly bright—once testing near a 130 IQ—but his energy overwhelmed teachers. He was “too much.”
He was kicked out of preschool on the first day for playing with fire trucks instead of sitting still. His teacher sent home a single-spaced, two-sided letter listing every “offense.” He needed a behavioral therapist just to stay in class. He bit until age five, and every day was a challenge.
By kindergarten, around the time of the Sandy Hook tragedy, dropping him off became heartbreaking. He would cry and beg not to go. But like many parents, I listened to the professionals who said he needed structure. I pushed him forward, even when my gut whispered otherwise.
The Labels Begin
By age six, he was diagnosed with ADHD. Later came Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (DMDD)—a name that only partly explained his storms of emotion. He had explosive tantrums, broke skin when he bit, and struggled to connect socially.
By nine, he was exhausted by rejection—from peers, teachers, even administrators. The breaking point came when police knocked on our door one night. A classmate had misunderstood him: he’d talked about wanting a BB gun to practice shooting, and it was reported as a school threat.
At ten o’clock that night, officers searched our home. The trauma of that moment—seeing strangers go through his things—changed him forever.
When Childhood Breaks Under Pressure
Days later, he faced back-to-back substitute teachers who knew nothing about him. He melted down, shouting, “I hate you! I hate school! I want to die!”
The call from the school still haunts me. I picked him up to find him sobbing, trembling, screaming that everyone was mean to him. At home, he threw everything from the pantry shelves and said again, “I don’t want to live anymore.”
That night, we made an impossible decision: we admitted our nine-year-old to an inpatient mental health facility.
A week later, he began daily one-on-one therapy. And that was only the beginning of our long road toward understanding, treatment, and—eventually—addiction recovery.
A Mother’s Ongoing Hope
No one hands you a manual for parenting a neurodivergent child—or for watching that child grow into a teen who self-medicates his pain. You just do your best, guided by love, guilt, faith, and fear.
If you’re reading this because your family is walking a similar path, please know this: you are not alone. Your child is not “bad.” You are not a failure. And even in the darkest chapters, there is still room for hope, healing, and redemption.
Where We Are Now
Today, our son is in jail—words no mother ever expects to say. It’s not the first time we’ve sought help; he’s already been to rehab several times, each stay offering moments of clarity that eventually slipped away. Now, we’re doing everything we can to make sure he’s transferred into an inpatient treatment program again—hopefully one that can finally help him begin to heal for good.
This chapter of our story is the hardest yet, but also the one that feels most necessary to tell. In my next post, I’ll share what led us here—the repeated cycles of rehab and relapse, the gaps in the mental-health and justice systems, and how we’re learning to hold on to hope even when everything feels impossible.
🕊️ Coming Next: When the System Fails Our Kids
In my next post, I’ll open up about what came after — the three rehab stays that couldn’t keep our son safe, the moments of hope that vanished too soon, and how we found ourselves navigating a justice system that wasn’t built for kids like him. It’s a story about broken systems, impossible choices, and a mother’s refusal to give up on her child.
