Breaking the Cycle: A Personal Look at Substance Abuse, Survival, and the Power to Change
By Trinity Barnette
When Addiction Hits Home
I didn’t grow up hearing about substance abuse in a classroom or reading about it in some pamphlet. I grew up living it. For me, addiction wasn’t some abstract issue—it was personal. It was my mother.
My mom struggled with substance abuse throughout my life, and while that sentence is simple, the reality behind it is not. Addiction is messy. It’s ugly. It’s isolating. But it’s also deeply human. And I think that’s the part most people miss when they talk about it—the humanity. The “why.” The pain behind the pattern.
This blog isn't about shaming my mother—it's about telling the truth—our truth. She's given me full consent to share parts of her story here, and I'm doing it because silence never saved anybody.
If you’ve lived through this, you know what it feels like. And if you haven’t, then I hope reading this helps you understand those who have. Because substance abuse doesn’t just impact the person using. It ripples outward, touching everyone in its path. Especially the kids. Especially the ones who had to grow up too fast.
This is about what addiction looks like from the inside. This is about healing. About cycles. About survival. About change.
And about the love that, somehow, still found a way to survive through it all.
Why Substance Abuse Happens
People love to ask “Why would someone do that to themselves?” when they talk about addiction. But the real question is—why do so many people need to escape in the first place?
Addiction rarely starts with the intent to self-destruct. It usually starts with curiosity. With boredom. With trying to have fun or fit in. For some people, it starts with a prescription. For others, it starts at home—with trauma, neglect, too much freedom, or not enough love.
For my mom, it started when she was 14. She smoked weed with her friends just to have fun. That’s it. By 15 or 16, she was already experimenting with Percocets, Xanax, acid, mushrooms, ecstasy—whatever was around. She wasn’t trying to spiral or fall into addiction. She was just a teenager who had too much freedom and not enough guidance.
Her parents were focused on her sister, Michelle, and the issues she was facing. So my mom slipped through the cracks. She was overlooked. Unsupervised. And left to figure out life alone, like a lot of kids are. That’s how it starts sometimes—not with pain, but with neglect. Not with trauma, but with silence.
But the thing about substance abuse is that it doesn’t stay casual. It builds slowly. It tricks you. What starts as a choice becomes a cycle. Then a pattern. Then a need.
“I had the power to stop in the beginning,” she told me. “But once I started taking pain meds every day, it wasn’t about fun anymore. I needed them. Or I wouldn’t feel good. That’s when it changed.”
That’s what people don’t realize: addiction changes your brain. It rewires your sense of safety, reward, and emotional regulation. At a certain point, it’s not even about getting high—it’s about not getting sick. Not falling apart. Not feeling everything all at once.
For my mom, the drugs were her way of numbing what she didn’t want to face.
“They made me feel nothing. And that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want to feel anything.”
So when people judge addicts, they’re usually judging the symptom—not the root. The truth is, most addicts aren’t trying to destroy themselves. They’re trying to survive the pain they never learned how to carry.
A Daughter’s Perspective – What It Was Like Growing Up
Growing up around addiction is like living in a house where the lights are on but nobody’s home. Everything looks normal from the outside—but inside, something’s always off. The energy is different. The air is heavier. You learn to pick up on things other kids your age shouldn’t even have to think about.
I don’t remember a specific moment when I realized my mom was addicted. It was more like a slow unraveling. Like waking up one day and realizing I had been surviving things I didn’t even have the language for yet.
There were times I felt invisible—like she wasn’t really seeing me, just moving through me. Because when someone is in active addiction, they’re not just absent physically. They’re absent emotionally. They’re chasing the next high, the next escape, the next way to not feel. And as their child, you feel that distance. You internalize it.
It made me grow up fast. I had way too much freedom, way too young. And while some people might look at that and think, “Lucky you,” what it really means is that I had to parent myself. I had to learn how to be okay on my own. How to keep secrets. How to stay out of the way. How to pretend like I didn’t notice what I noticed.
There were moments I felt angry. There were moments I felt scared. But mostly, I just felt confused. Because no one really tells you what to do when the person you love most is also the person hurting themselves in front of you. You want to help, but you don’t know how. You want to scream, but you don’t know where to put the sound.
And still—I loved her. I never stopped loving her. Even when I didn’t understand her. Even when I resented her. Even when I felt like I came second to something she couldn’t put down. That’s the part people don’t get: love doesn’t disappear just because someone is struggling. It gets tangled in the struggle. And sometimes, that’s what hurts the most.
Looking back, I realize now that it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t that she didn’t care or didn’t want to be there. It was that the addiction had a grip on her so tight, she couldn’t even hold herself—let alone hold me. And that doesn’t make it okay. But it does make it real.
And real is what I’m here to tell.
My Mom’s Story – In Her Words
My mom didn’t grow up thinking she’d become an addict. Nobody does. It started when she was 14—smoking weed, just wanting to have fun. By 15 or 16, she was already experimenting with Percocets, Xanax, acid, mushrooms, and ecstasy. It wasn’t about pain at first. It was about freedom. About doing what her friends were doing. About chasing something she didn’t even have words for yet.
But underneath that freedom was a quiet kind of neglect. Her parents were focused on her sister, Michelle, and the chaos that came with her. My mom was overlooked. Unwatched. Too much freedom, not enough attention.
“It didn’t feel like a problem at first,” she told me. “I had the power to stop. I wasn’t addicted yet. But then I started using pain pills every day, and after a while, I couldn’t not use. If I didn’t take something, I’d feel sick. That’s when it got real.”
She didn’t want to feel anything. That’s what the drugs gave her. Silence. Numbness. A way out of her own mind.
And addiction—when it takes over—becomes its own prison. She didn’t stop loving me. But the drugs had more power than her love could reach in that moment.
“It wasn’t you,” she said. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want you or didn’t care. The drugs had more power over me than I wanted them to. I was trying. For a long time. I just couldn’t win.”
Parenting became a background task—something she wanted to do, but couldn’t keep up with. Her focus was always on getting high or getting money to get high. And I had to figure out life around that.
Eventually, it all caught up to her.
She overdosed.
She had to send me back to Maryland.
She started getting arrested.
She knew she was losing everything.
But recovery wasn’t some instant decision. It wasn’t like flipping a switch. It was brutal. It was physical. Mental. Spiritual.
“The withdrawal is what always stopped me. I couldn’t handle it. And I couldn’t get clean around the same people I got high with. I had to cut everyone off. Even some of my family. Those 30-day programs never worked. I’d always go back to the same cycle. I had to kill that version of me completely.”
What finally helped her was Teen Challenge—a long-term, Christ-centered recovery program focused on transformation. It wasn’t just about detoxing. It was about becoming someone new.
She found people who told her the truth. Who didn’t sugarcoat anything. Who shared their stories and made her feel seen. She started building a relationship with God. She learned how to sit in the discomfort, the craving, the memories—without running from them.
And most importantly, she started to believe she was worthy of a second chance.
“There were times I wanted to leave,” she said. “But I had nowhere else to go. And for once, that was a good thing. I stayed. I grew. And I saw that change was actually possible.”
She picked a verse that helped her keep going when she felt like giving up:
“So humble yourselves under the mighty power of God, and at the right time he will lift you up in honor. Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you.”
Since I moved back to Florida in 2020, we’ve been rebuilding our relationship. Slowly. Carefully. Honestly.
It hasn’t been perfect. But it’s real. And it’s ours.
Recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s not one moment—it’s a thousand small choices every day. It’s cutting people off. It’s grieving who you were. It’s learning how to feel again without breaking.
She made it.
And I’m proud to be her daughter.
Breaking the Cycle – Rebuilding Our Bond
When I moved back to Florida in 2020, things weren’t instantly perfect between us. You don’t just step back into a mother-daughter relationship after everything that’s happened like nothing changed. And honestly—at first, I wasn’t interested in rebuilding anything.
I was angry. Resentful. In my head, she had chosen drugs over me. She had let me go. And no matter how much time had passed, that pain didn’t just vanish.
For a long time, I didn’t care about explanations. I didn’t want to hear “sorry.” I just wanted to protect myself. Because I had already learned how to survive without her—and opening that door again felt dangerous.
But with time, I started to understand addiction for what it really is: a disease. A trap. A trauma response. I began to see that it wasn’t about me—it was about what she was going through internally, what she didn’t have the tools to face. And once I understood that, something in me shifted.
I wanted to rebuild. Not because I forgot what happened, but because I finally understood it.
I allowed her back into my life—not all at once, but little by little. I started learning how to trust her again. Not blindly. But intentionally. With boundaries. With real conversations. With honesty on both sides.
She had changed—but so had I. I wasn’t the same kid who once had to raise herself. I had walls. I had questions. I had memories that still stung. But I also had love. And I could see how much she was trying—not just for me, but for herself.
There’s a quiet kind of bravery in breaking generational cycles. It’s not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s just saying no more. No more chaos. No more secrets. No more pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.
My mom broke the cycle by choosing recovery. I’m breaking it by choosing awareness. Self-worth. Boundaries. Therapy. Accountability. Peace.
There’s still pain in our past, but there’s also pride in how far we’ve come. We laugh more now. We say what we mean. We tell the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. That’s what healing looks like—not perfection, but presence.
Our story won’t ever be spotless. But it will be honest. And that’s enough for me.
To the Ones Still Struggling
If you’re in the middle of addiction right now—whether it’s your own or someone else’s—this is for you.
Addiction is messy. It ruins plans. It ruins trust. It ruins relationships. But it doesn’t have to ruin you. You’re not broken beyond repair. You’re not unworthy of love or incapable of change. You’re not too far gone.
I’ve watched my mom come back from what most people wouldn’t survive. I’ve watched her fight urges that felt bigger than her. I’ve watched her cry over the things she can’t take back—and still choose to keep going.
She told me something that stuck with me:
“You don’t have to live like this anymore. You can be normal. But you have to want it. Most people relapse. Most don’t make it. But it starts with you.”
It starts with believing that you’re worth saving—even if no one else told you that before. It starts with letting go of the shame and deciding you want something different. And it continues every single day after that.
And if you love someone in addiction, I won’t lie to you—it’s one of the hardest kinds of love. Because you can’t save them. You can only love them from a distance, protect your peace, and hope they find the strength when they’re ready.
You can set boundaries and still care. You can walk away and still wish them well. You can protect your own heart without feeling guilty. Because watching someone destroy themselves will destroy you too if you’re not careful.
To the child who feels forgotten, like I once did—your worth is not measured by how available your parent was. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just a kid trying to understand something that wasn’t your burden to carry.
You are allowed to heal, even if they haven’t. You are allowed to thrive, even if they never said sorry.
Addiction doesn’t define you. Love doesn’t excuse abuse. And survival doesn’t mean silence.
You are allowed to break the cycle.
And you are allowed to be free.
Final Words – The Truth, the Hope, the Healing
Addiction tried to write the ending to our story. But it didn’t get the last word—we did.
We chose healing. We chose honesty. We chose to look at the hard parts instead of pretending they didn’t happen. And most importantly, we chose each other.
There’s still grief. Still memory. Still healing in progress. But there’s also love. Real love. The kind that survives.
My mom got a second chance—and she took it. And because she did, I got one too. I got my mom back. I got my voice back. I got to stop surviving and start living.
So if you’re reading this and carrying the weight of someone else’s addiction, or your own, I hope you know: you’re not alone. You’re not weak for feeling broken. You’re not dramatic for still being hurt. And you’re not foolish for still hoping.
There is always a way forward.
And sometimes, it starts with telling the truth.
Resources
National Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services (SAMHSA) Helpline
1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Free, confidential, 24/7 help for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) Helpline
1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or text “HELPLINE” to 62640
Offers resources, emotional support, and education for those struggling with mental health and addiction.
Text HOME to 741741
Free, 24/7 support for anyone in crisis. Whether you’re overwhelmed, anxious, or in emotional pain, trained crisis counselors are here to help.
Support for friends and families of people with alcohol or substance use issues.
Searchable database of addiction treatment centers in your area, based on ZIP code and specific needs.
