Introducing The Hope Holders

Hope When It Hurts: A Sacred Invitation for Moms of Addicted Children

The Night That Changed Everything

I pulled up in front of a dark, abandoned house in the worst part of town and threw my car in park. My hands were shaking. I turned to look at my daughter—dirty, frail, barely conscious beside me—and tried to keep the panic from rising in my throat.

This was it. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Just hours earlier, I’d been making dinner like it was any other night… until the phone rang. She’d collapsed in a convenience store deep in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in our city. An ambulance had taken her to the ER. And now—I was bringing her back to the only place she had left.

Malnutrition. That was the diagnosis.

How was that even possible? Just hours earlier, I’d been cooking a feast—steaks, potatoes, all her favorites—for the rest of the family. And now here she was, collapsing from hunger.

She had parents who loved her. A warm, safe home. A stocked kitchen and an open door. And she chose this—a boarded-up house with no electricity, no heat, and nothing but a boyfriend and a few garbage bags to chase her addiction.

I wanted to drag her home—kicking, screaming, whatever it took. I wanted to shake her until she saw what she was doing to herself. How could I leave her here? No food. No warmth. No safety.

What kind of mother eats steak while her child is starving? What kind of mother crawls into a warm bed knowing her daughter is curled up in a rotting shack?

How was I supposed to live like this?

I sat there in the car, paralyzed. Torn between what I wanted to do and what I knew I had to do. I’d never felt so powerless. So defeated. So hollowed out by fear and grief. The kind of hopelessness that presses on your chest and makes you question everything—your motherhood, your faith, your ability to survive one more day of this nightmare.

But even in that moment—even in that unbearable stillness—Jesus didn’t leave me there.

He didn’t fix everything right then. He didn’t swoop in and carry her home. But He did carry me.

He whispered truth into the silence: “I see her. I see you. I’m still here.”

And that whisper—that presence—that hope—was the only thing strong enough to hold me when I couldn’t hold anything else.

From Heartbreak to Holy Ground

A little over five years later, I can see what I couldn’t see that night—that Jesus was planting something deep in me. A hope that didn’t come from what I saw or felt, but from who He is. It was (and still is) a hope that defies logic, circumstance, and emotion—a hope that holds steady when everything else falls apart.

Now, He’s called me to share that hope with other moms—moms like you.

Moms who are loving an adult child in addiction. Moms who are holding on by a thread, who feel invisible, ashamed, or just plain exhausted.

I see you trying to hold your head up while the weight of guilt and grief tries to pull you under. I know that yoke. I’ve worn it. I’ve wept under it.

But can I tell you something?

You were never meant to carry this alone. You are not just surviving this—you’ve been called to something holy.

To stand in the gap. To pray when they can’t. To love with boundaries. To release with trust. To walk in holy surrender—not because you’ve given up, but because you’ve given it to Him.

Who Are the Hope Holders?

That’s why I created Hope Holders—a space, a sisterhood, a sacred identity for moms like us.

Because we don’t just love our children… we fight for them in prayer. We don’t just survive… we surrender, over and over again. We don’t pretend we’re okay… we hold hope when it hurts.

A Hope Holder is a mom who keeps showing up with faith, even when her child is still using, still running, or still breaking her heart.

She believes in a God who can restore what addiction has stolen. She refuses to let shame be her story. She chooses to hold on—to Jesus, to truth, to hope—even when her hands are shaking.

This isn’t a group of perfect moms. We’re not here to compare who’s handling it best or hiding it well.

This is a safe place for surrendered moms—the ones who’ve cried on their bathroom floor, the ones who’ve begged God for a miracle, and the ones who are still learning to let go without giving up.

We don’t have all the answers. But we have each other. And we have a Savior who knows exactly what it feels like to love someone who keeps running.

 When Hope Gets Heavy

Hope sounds beautiful until you’re in the middle of the storm. Until you're crying in the dark because they didn’t come home again. Until you’re watching your child disappear behind glassy eyes and broken promises. Until your prayers feel like they’re echoing off the ceiling.

And that’s when it hits you—

The ache of guilt: Where did I go wrong?

The sting of shame: What will people think if they knew?

The bone-deep exhaustion: I can’t keep doing this.

The isolation: No one really understands what this feels like.

This is the silent suffering of so many moms. Still smiling in public. Still showing up at work. Still folding the laundry. But inside, barely hanging on.

Despair starts to sound logical. It tells you to stop hoping. To lower your expectations. To numb out so you won’t feel the sting anymore.

But here’s what despair won’t tell you:

Hope is not denial of reality, it is defiance against the darkness. Hope is not naivety, it is warfare.

It’s looking the pain square in the face and saying, “I still believe God is good.” It’s choosing to light one small candle in a cave of shadows— to keep praying, even if your voice shakes, to keep loving, even if it breaks your heart, to keep standing, even when you feel like sinking.

Yes, mama. Hope gets hard. But it is holy ground.

And you? You’re not failing. You’re fighting. With every breath, every boundary, every tear on your pillow— you are holding hope.

And that is no small thing. That is sacred.

 The Kind of Hope That Fights Back

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” — Romans 15:13

Hope can feel like a fragile thing when you’re watching your child spiral. It’s hard to hold onto when the phone rings late at night, or when they promise change only to slip back again.

But biblical hope isn’t fragile—it’s fierce. It’s not tied to whether they get clean, call home, or come back to Jesus. It’s tied to Him. The unchanging, faithful God who still writes resurrection stories.

Romans 15:13 doesn't promise that everything will work out the way we want. It promises something better:

That when we trust in the God of hope, He fills us—even here—with joy, peace, and a hope that overflows by the power of the Holy Spirit.

That’s what makes Hope Holders different.

We’re not waiting on perfection. We’re learning to surrender without giving up. To set boundaries not as punishment, but as protection. To pray even when words fail us—because the Spirit intercedes with groans too deep for words.

This kind of hope costs something. But it also creates something. A holy resilience. A steady flame that darkness cannot snuff out.

Hope isn’t just a feeling. It’s a form of spiritual warfare.

And sister, it’s holy—even when it hurts.

 Your Invitation to Belong

Before you go any further, I need you to know something: You don’t have to prove anything to be here. Not your strength. Not your faith. Not your ability to “handle it.”

If you’ve ever sat at the edge of your bed with tears soaking your hands, If you’ve ever whispered prayers through clenched teeth or collapsed into silence because words just wouldn’t come— If you’ve ever kept loving a child whose choices keep breaking your heart— Then you are already one of us.

You are a Hope Holder.

Not because you feel hopeful. But because you keep showing up. Because something inside you—maybe buried deep—still believes God is who He says He is, even when everything else is falling apart.

This is your space. Where you don’t have to smile through the ache. Where you don’t have to carry the weight alone. Where no one is judging your story or rushing your healing.

We’re not fixing each other. We’re holding hope—together. Sometimes shaky, sometimes stubborn. But always sacred.

Because you were never meant to carry this alone. And you don’t have to hold it all—just hold on to Him.

So say it out loud or whisper it in the quiet: “I am a Hope Holder.”

Not because you’ve arrived, but because you’re still here. Still loving. Still praying. Still believing.

And that? That makes you one of the bravest women I know.

 Take the Next Brave Step

Hope isn’t meant to be held alone. There’s something powerful that happens when we speak our stories out loud—when we name what we’ve been carrying and let others carry it with us.

💬 So tell us… How long have you been holding hope for your child? Or… What does being a Hope Holder mean to you?

Your words might be exactly what another weary mama needs to read today.

✨ Want to stay connected with a community of women who get it? Join our private email list and be part of a sacred space where stories are honored, hearts are lifted, and hope is held—together.

👉 [Click here to join the Hope Holders email list]

 Closing Prayer

Father, For the one reading this right now—You see her. You know the ache she carries, the fears she doesn’t voice, the nights she’s cried alone. Remind her, Lord, that she is not forgotten. Not forsaken. Not alone.

Breathe fresh strength into her spirit today. Let her feel Your nearness in every quiet moment. Wrap her in Your peace that passes all understanding.

And when hope feels heavy, Hold her. And remind her that You still are— Faithful. Present. Good.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Come back to this space whenever hope feels heavy. We’ll be here—holding it with you.