When the noise of judgment disappeared, I was forced to face the quiet
By Donna Marston
When my son was actively addicted, I found myself surrounded by a kind of energy I had never truly noticed before, until it started draining the life out of me.
It wasn’t just the chaos of his choices or the constant undercurrent of fear that something terrible could happen at any moment. It was the conversations, the environments, and even certain relationships, many of them with people on the outside looking in, that seemed to feed off the situation rather than support any kind of healing. I began to recognize how often I was engaging with people who didn’t truly understand addiction, yet still had opinions. People who replayed the same hopeless narratives, who judged what they had never lived through, and who subtly reinforced the belief that nothing would ever change.
That kind of outside judgment carries a weight of its own. It doesn’t come from lived experience, it comes from fear, misunderstanding, and stigma. And if you’re not careful, you can start to internalize it.
One moment will stay with me forever. I was speaking at a diversion program here in New Hampshire, sharing my story with parents who were walking a similar path. Afterward, a woman approached me and said something I will never forget: “Your son deserved to die when he was in active addiction… and my son does too.”
I was horrified. Not just that she said it to me, but that she believed it about her own child. Dear God.
My heart didn’t break for what she said about my son. It broke for hers.
Because at that point, my son had already been in long-term recovery. I had seen the impossible become possible. I knew, without a doubt, that miracles happen every single day.
And standing in front of me was a mother who couldn’t see that. Who had lost so much hope that she believed her child was beyond saving.
That moment stayed with me, not because of the shock, but because of the clarity it gave me. It showed me just how dangerous that kind of hopeless, draining energy can be, especially when it’s fueled by voices that lack understanding, whether they come from the outside or from those who have lost their way in the pain.
There were moments when I would leave conversations, especially with those who didn’t truly understand what I was living through, feeling worse than when I entered them. More defeated, more anxious, more stuck. Instead of feeling strengthened, I felt depleted. And in a situation where every ounce of emotional energy mattered, I couldn’t afford that anymore.
I remember one day, in complete exhaustion, praying for all the negative people to leave my life.
And then it happened.
The silence that followed was loud.
I got exactly what I prayed for, but I wasn’t prepared for what came with it. The noise was gone, but so was everything familiar. I was left sitting in a quiet space where I could no longer rely on the voices around me, even the unhealthy ones.
That was the moment I realized I had to find a new way.
It didn’t happen overnight. It took time. It took intention. And more than anything, it took a willingness to look inward instead of outward.
I began a spiritual journey, one rooted in surrender, acceptance, and unconditional love for my son, even while he was in active addiction. Not approval of his choices, but love for him as a human being. That distinction changed everything.
I started to ask myself a simple but powerful question: How do I feel after being around this person or in this environment? If the answer was exhausted, hopeless, or overwhelmed, I began to create distance. Not out of anger or judgment, but out of necessity. I needed to protect what little strength I had left.
This wasn’t easy. Setting boundaries when your child is struggling with addiction can feel unnatural, even selfish, especially when the outside world is so quick to judge what they don’t understand. There’s already so much guilt, so much second-guessing. But I came to understand that protecting my energy wasn’t selfish, it was essential. I couldn’t show up for my son, or for myself, if I was constantly being pulled into spaces that drained me.
I began to seek out a different kind of energy. Conversations that were honest but not hopeless. People who could hold space without judgment, especially those who understood addiction through lived experience, not assumption. Moments of quiet where I could actually breathe, think, and reconnect with myself outside of the addiction.
Slowly, I felt a shift.
The situation with my son didn’t magically resolve overnight, but my ability to navigate it changed. I was less reactive, more grounded, and better able to make decisions from a place of clarity instead of exhaustion.
Peeling back the layers of this experience taught me something I carry with me to this day: not everything or everyone deserves access to your energy, especially during your most vulnerable moments.
Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do isn’t to push harder or give more. It’s to step back, protect your peace, and choose environments that allow you to breathe again.