The Chapter No One Warned Me About

My beautiful daughter, Mya, and I.

Imagine being trapped behind a glass wall. On the other side, you see your child — the baby you once rocked to sleep…slowly being led away by what looks like a kind, gentle stranger. Something in your gut twists. A mother always knows. Deep down, you sense the danger long before your child does. You shout, you plead, you cry out their name;  but your child can’t hear you. They’re mesmerized by the stranger’s charm; caught in a trance you don’t understand.

That “stranger” was addiction. And I’ve lived through this nightmare.

I found a small crack in that glass and ran. I chased after Mya with every ounce of love and strength I had; but the farther I ran, the farther away she seemed. Every now and then, I’d catch glimpses of her; my beautiful girl trying so hard to break free, her eyes begging for help. But by then, that “kind stranger” had become a full-blown monster — ruthless, relentless, and tightening its grip.

I screamed at that monster. I fought it. I begged it to let my daughter go. But it just laughed. It fed on her pain. And still, I chased them both…battered, broken, exhausted…because that’s what a mother does.

Eventually, Mya grew tired. The fight in her began to fade. I saw her hurting, her spirit bruised and worn. I could feel her slipping, even when I held her hand. And at some point, I had to admit the most soul-crushing truth a mother can face…. I couldn’t save her from it.

I stood there, helpless, as the monster of addiction dragged my daughter further and further away from me. And even now, though my body is still, my heart still screams:

“Please fight back. Please come back. Please don’t die.”

But Mya did die. She died from Fentanyl poisoning… and there was no chapter in any parenting book that prepared me for this.

When I carried her inside me, when I folded tiny onesies and read every “What to Expect” guide, no one told me about this. They told me about diaper rash and tantrums. They warned me about ER visits and broken curfews. But no one said: “You might one day lose your child to addiction.”

No one said I’d be forced to bury her merely months after her 20th birthday. That I’d start a foundation in her name. That I’d tell her story to strangers because I couldn’t save her, but maybe I could save someone else.

This is the chapter no one talks about. But I will. 

Because this is addiction.

And until we stop whispering and start screaming, it will keep taking our children. Let’s keep fighting… for our kids, our communities, and every family still chasing the monster.

Please don’t wait for your story to start like mine did.

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