Dari Story

I never thought addiction would knock on my door. I’d seen it happen to other families but never imagined it would be mine. We were happy. We were whole. Until we weren’t.

One day, the person I loved—who cherished our home and family—suddenly changed. The love disappeared. The attention turned to distance. I knew something was wrong. And then... my world collapsed.

My home became a personal hell. I was trapped between my heart and my mind, torn and confused. I didn’t know how to help my addict. I didn’t know how to help myself.

So I stayed silent. For over a year.

I didn’t want to be judged. I didn’t want them to be judged. But the silence was destroying me. I stopped doing the things I loved. My health declined. My light dimmed. And no one knew.

The Void We Don't Talk About

When my loved one went to rehab, I thought I’d feel relief. Instead, I felt more alone. People asked questions I didn’t want to answer. My kids cried constantly. The absence echoed louder than the addiction itself.

Relapses came, and so did more trips to treatment centers. But each one broke me more than the last.

My children became angry and anxious. They were confused. They missed the parent who used to tuck them in. And none of us could speak the truth out loud. We were all just trying not to fall apart.

Mom cried behind closed doors. She stepped outside to take calls. She stared at her phone to check if groceries could be bought this week.

And I thought: How can so many of us be going through this and still have no one helping us?

Finding Light Through the Cracks

During my loved one’s last relapse, I nearly broke for good. Nothing helped. I felt like a terrible mother. I couldn’t be present for my kids. I was drowning.

Then, two women entered my life. One reminded me that recovery is possible. The other gently brought me back to my faith. They checked in. They sent kind words. They asked about my kids, my work. They made me feel human again.

Those little moments—they gave me light. They helped me breathe.

This foundation was created from that pain—to give others what I never had, and to remind every caregiver and family member: you are not alone.