My daughter Mariah is the younger of my two daughters, and the two are only fifteen months apart. Because of this, Mariah has spent much of her life in her older sister’s shadow. They are very different girls. Her sister is outgoing and extroverted, always trying new things—student council, multiple sports, art, music, dance—while Mariah is quiet and introspective. Basketball was her passion, but she preferred a small circle of friends—three good friends at most—while her sister had dozens. Sleepovers and gatherings were overwhelming for Mariah; she could only handle one friend at a time. In these ways, I recognized myself in her. I understood her need for solitude, her preference for quiet, and her thoughtful, cautious approach to life.
Around age sixteen, the lying began—or at least, the lying I recognized. I caught her smoking in my house and not being where she said she would be. This was also the year she severely injured her knee, ending her basketball career. It devastated her. I suggested she see a therapist to process the loss, but she refused. Between sixteen and nineteen, I discovered multiple parties she attended, some she and her sister hosted at our home. I laid down rules, set boundaries, and tried to guide her through those turbulent teen years.
When Mariah turned nineteen, she moved out into a spare room at a friend’s father’s house. Around the same time, she met a young man named T at a Halloween party. He was ten years older, had a felony record, and had spent years in prison. I disapproved and begged her to end the relationship, but she refused. T gave her heroin for the first time. She immediately called me, terrified, and I rushed to her side. She refused medical attention, but swore she would never use it again.
Soon, T moved in with her, and their heroin use escalated. Stealing began as well; they were caught taking from her friend’s dad and were kicked out, costing Mariah a valuable friendship. They moved into T’s family home, but it was far from stable. His father had died from a prescription painkiller addiction, one brother was serving a life sentence, and another brother was in and out of jail for drugs, currently imprisoned for a death caused by a sale. Mariah was using daily by this point, calling me almost every day saying T was going to kill her and begging to come home.
A year later, I let them move into my home under strict rules. Within two weeks, approximately $25,000 worth of items were stolen. I had no choice but to kick them out. For weeks, they lived in a tent in the woods, then a car for a month, then with another friend for a brief time. They would find jobs, earn a paycheck or two, and quit—then repeat the cycle.
At age twenty, Mariah went to rehab for the first time. She came home sober, and we established boundaries, including no contact with T. I even obtained a restraining order. But within a week, T would return, and Mariah would relapse. Between ages twenty and twenty-two, she cycled through rehab four times. Every day was a battle: I waited for the phone call that might tell me my daughter was dead. I planned her funeral in my mind, saved money for it, and watched family and friends prepare themselves for the inevitable. For years, I did not sleep through the night, fearing the ring of the doorbell or phone.
Eighteen months ago, Mariah was living in the dumpster area behind a local Taco Bell. She had sold her car for drugs and weighed less than 100 pounds. The Taco Bell manager would give her and T food daily. Then, a man she met in her second rehab reached out, offering a chance to go to a treatment facility in Florida. She agreed. Someone from the facility drove both her and T there.
The first six months, Mariah did well—but T did not. He eventually got kicked out, and soon after, they received $12,000 from an insurance settlement related to my car being totaled. Within a week, they spent it on a hotel, food, clothes, and heroin, and Mariah overdosed. Someone saved her life. She was allowed back into the program, but T was sent back home on a one-way bus. She was finally free of him. For the first time, she realized she needed to be the strong one, to be away from him, in order to survive and reclaim her life.
Yesterday, Mariah celebrated a full year of sobriety. She has a new, supportive partner and a welcoming extended family in Florida. She has held a steady job for a year, attends church and meetings regularly, and has cultivated meaningful friendships. Most importantly, she is learning to love and forgive herself—a slow, ongoing process. She has good days and terrible days. A few weeks ago, she lost two friends in one week: one in a motorcycle accident, and another to an overdose. It was an incredibly hard week, but she stayed sober and dug herself out of it.
I am so proud of the woman Mariah is becoming. Do I trust her completely? Not yet. Does she still lie sometimes? Yes. Will this journey be lifelong? Most likely. But I have my daughter back—a stronger, wiser, and healthier version of her. I can see her growing and healing every day. My nights are calmer; though when a Florida number calls, my heart still races.
Addiction destroys not only the addict but everyone around them. It erodes relationships and shatters families. Mariah grew up in a loving, stable, upper-middle-class home. Her father and I have been married for twenty-five years. She had opportunities, support, and love—yet heroin found its way in. I am one of the fortunate mothers: I did not have to bury my child.
Today, Mariah is sober, productive, grounded, and happy. And for now, that is everything.
