In 2018, we were the story people whispered about. Addicts. Homeless. Lost. Broken.
In 2025, we became a story people tell — to offer hope. The police department that once arrested us now shares our journey with new officers as an example of what recovery looks like when two people rise together.
And yet, right now, I’m preparing to possibly say goodbye to the man who helped me build all of this.
This isn’t a post about defeat. This is a post about redemption. About risk. About how doing the right thing doesn’t always guarantee safety.
My boyfriend — my partner in every fire we’ve walked through — is facing a Colorado judge this July. We reopened an old case voluntarily, hoping to finally clear his record, close that chapter, and step fully into a future we’ve spent nearly five years rebuilding.
We weren’t running. We weren’t hiding. We were trying to heal the right way. He completed probation here. Graduated DV and IOP classes. Passed every UA for years. Held steady employment since August 2020. Earned letters of recommendation from officers who used to know us at our worst and now know him as a man who made it all the way out.
The probation officer in Colorado looked up his entire Idaho record from 2012 to 2024 and printed it out. He claimed that every single mark, every charge, every mistake over those 12 years counted as a probation violation in Colorado.
The prosecutor had no recommendation. He said he didn’t know how to proceed and would leave the decision to the judge.
The judge said, “I feel like I’m being played,” and mandated him to appear in person on July 2nd.
And just like that, we’re facing the weight of 12 years of probation violations being held against him. Twelve years of a past that he’s spent the last five years trying to redeem.
A man who is now the father figure my children chose.
A man my 16-year-old, who once hated him, now wants to adopt her.
A man whose bond with my autistic daughter is so deep, she picked him as her person the moment she met him. He is the only one who’s ever made her feel truly safe, truly loved, and truly protected.
A man who has never laid a hand in violence. Who was never a danger. Who used to be addicted — and clawed his way back to a life worth living.
The system talks about rehabilitation. We are it.
We’re not asking for a free pass. We’re asking not to be erased.
Because if they take him away… they’re not just punishing a man. They’re tearing apart a family. A hard-won family. A healing family. A miracle that crawled out of the ashes.
He is not the same man he was in 2012. And I am not the same woman.
Together, we broke the cycle. Together, we raised the bar. Together, we fought for my children — and saved them from the life they were trapped in.
And here’s the truth I hate admitting: I dont know how to do this without him. I never thought I’d truly ever have to think about that. Even with both of us working full-time, it’s a struggle to meet the basic needs of our family. We stretch everything — time, energy, finances — just to make sure the kids have a shot at healing and normalcy. If he gets taken from us, I don’t know how I’ll carry it all: six busy lives, trauma recovery, therapy schedules, school, soccer, survival… and still somehow be the pillar they lean on.
Now I may have to drive with him to Colorado to kiss him goodbye.
And come home alone.
Not because he failed. Not because he’s dangerous. But because he did the right thing.
We did the right thing.
The officers who used to arrest us are now writing letters of support for him — letters we’ll present to the Colorado judge. They share our story as part of training for how to approach addicts with humanity. They tell it to people who think they’re too far gone — as proof that healing is possible.
To be called one of the biggest success stories in North Idaho is huge. To have support from the very people who once fought us in our addiction… speaks volumes.
If this is justice… then the system needs to take a long, hard look at what it claims to stand for.
Because we’re what people hope for when they say, “I just want to get better.” We are what comes after the fire.
Please. Don’t burn it all down again.
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Letters From the Edge 