I'm reaching out with something that isn’t easy to write, and I want to start by saying this clearly: I understand completely if you’re not in a place where you can, or even want to help.

Many of you have known my mom & brother for years — some of you grew up alongside us, some of you have seen the best and worst of our story, some are blissfully unaware of the situation, and some have stepped back for your own wellbeing. I respect that. Truly.

My family has been carrying a lot of pain for a long, long, time. Addiction, homelessness, and instability have shaped our lives in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived through it — and many of you have witnessed parts of that journey yourselves. They have especially fallen on hard times, and most recently, things took an even more heartbreaking turn when my mom lost her foot to a sudden infection. It was unexpected, traumatic, and it’s left her facing a long recovery without the stability or support most people would have around them.

One of the hardest parts of all this is that I am will forever be the baby, the kid sister, and it's difficult to accept or even admit the reality of their situation. There’s so much embarrassment, shame, guilt and loss of dignity tied up in addiction — it changes how a person sees themselves and the world, and how they are seen by others. Memories and experiences are preserved in the past, conversations about future goals and opportunities remain ambitiously in their thoughts and ideas. Navigating that from the outside is painful and confusing, especially when you can’t fully relate to the choices addiction forces people into. I’m trying my best to meet them where they are, even when it’s messy and hard to understand.

Living in England has made supporting them even more challenging. I’m doing everything I can from across the ocean, but distance makes everything slower, harder, and more expensive. I recently flew home to try to get things back on track — helping with IDs, food stamps, clothes, groceries, and getting them connected with recovery and outreach programs. It was a start, and I’m grateful I could do it, but it’s not enough to keep them off the streets or give them the stability they need to heal and get on track.

I’m at a point where I can’t manage this alone. This isn’t about fixing everything — I know none of us can do that — but about trying to create even a small amount of safety and stability in a situation that has felt out of control for far too long.

If you choose to help, it would go toward basic needs: safe shelter and the essentials that make recovery possible. I would personally manage the donations so you can trust how they are allocated and used. If you choose not to, I want you to know that I still appreciate the role you’ve played in my life or in my family’s life. Even if things became complicated, even if distance grew, you were part of our story. That matters to me.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, for caring in whatever way you’re able, and for the memories — good or difficult — that shaped who we all became. Your support, whether emotional, practical, or simply in thought or prayer, means more than you know.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Laura