I’m Barbara, the founder of Light to Light Inc NFP, a vision I shaped into a nonprofit after a long journey—but its true beginning lies with every soul who shared their light with me. This organization exists because of them, their radiance igniting the flame I now carry forward.

My story is a tapestry of love stitched with heartbreak, growth, and yes, healing—a road I never chose, but one that shaped me. Addiction first struck close when I lost my children’s father—not to death, but to abandonment. He was my first dance with this cruel shadow, a man I loved who slipped away into its grip, leaving me and our children adrift. My kids lost their father not to a grave, but to a void he chose, and I carried that ache alone—bewildered, helpless, learning too young how addiction steals what matters most. Not only did I pour my heart into helping him break free from drugs—for my children needed a father—but back then, understanding and awareness were shadows in the wind, and recovery resources were nearly nonexistent in the beautiful rural haven I called home. How could I do this alone? With two toddlers and a baby clinging to me, I had no marketable skills, no money, no place to live, and no connections to lean on—yet I soon learned to surrender to a power beyond myself, for God became my only prayer, my only hope, my only source of strength. When we had to flee our home abruptly, with no destination or next step in sight, the angels lifted me, carrying us to the start of a new journey.  That was my beginning.

Years later, it came for my son. He was barely a teenager—bright, tender, all possibility—when addiction sank its teeth into him. I watched it drag him from boyhood into a haunted adulthood, a thief I couldn’t outrun. My son skirted death’s edge more than once. I remember the phone ringing—one of his friend’s mothers, her voice trembling with urgency, propelling me to rush across town, fear clawing at my throat as I prayed I’d make it in time. Another time, a call summoned me to a doctor’s office in our little Will County town, where I found him—pale, fragile, hooked to IVs, a lifeline stitched together by mercy. Angels and humans worked as one to pull him back-and I’ll never have words for how grateful I am. Their hands held my son when mine couldn’t. Yet my journey was not over.

During my time in this small town, doing my best as a single mom of three, I became uncomfortably aware that we had many suffering from addiction. My little family wasn’t the only family going through it. I knew a boy—my son’s friend—whose light flickered out too soon. He was a familiar face, a kid I’d welcomed, laughed with, worried over. Addiction took him, and I spoke at his funeral, my voice trembling with loss. There, I met his mother for the first time—our eyes locked across a sea of grief, strangers united by a shared wound. She didn’t know me, nor I her, but in that gaze, I felt her pain as my own. How do you stand when your child’s gone? I’ve leaned on others who’ve borne even heavier loads—a woman, sweet and steady, who lost two sons, one to war in Afghanistan, another to a sudden crash. She’d answer my midnight cries, guiding me through my son’s storms. And recently, at a community event, I heard a voice I admire—a tireless giver in my community—plead to stop fentanyl’s flood. Then she spoke of her daughter, lost two years ago to addiction’s grip. I’d seen her shine, serve, never guessing the sorrow she carried. My chest tightened, tears falling as her strength pierced me.

Addiction scars us all—the ones who wrestle it and the ones who love them. If you’re lost in it, know this: someone holds you in their heart, yearns to help, even if they stumble finding how. You’re worth fighting for. If you love an addict, feel my hand in yours—you’re not alone. My son survived. Another I cherish—anonymous still—survived too. Strangers turned saviors, friends turned anchors, they poured light into me when I was crumbling. I can’t fathom their grace, but it held us upright.  As the years slipped by like whispers, my children blossomed into adults, and I became a psychologist—a path that opened my eyes to the depths of the human condition, growing my understanding, awareness, and love for humanity with each passing day. Now, after more than 20 years of offering therapy and psychological care, I feel a stirring within—a beautiful transition unfolding—as I pivot to serve in deeper, more meaningful ways, yearning to become a better, more effective servant to others, so that all I’ve gained can truly help someone find their own light.

Why us? Why did we endure when others faded? I’ve wept over that, tracing ghosts I’ll never touch again. The answer sears through: we’re here for a purpose. A mission. To reach into the night and pull others free—to share the light that saved us. Light to Light is my vow, born from every soul who steadied me when I couldn’t stand, every whisper that promised dawn. I founded this because I’ve lived addiction’s ruin—fathers gone, sons teetering, friends buried, hearts shattered. But I’ve seen redemption too—my son’s smile breaking through, a quiet victory after years of war. One light sparks another, then another, until the glow overwhelms the dark.

My son is a miracle now—thriving, gainfully employed, surrounded by good friends, living a stable life with the love of his life. After years of addiction’s grip, he didn’t just survive; he turned to give back. I saw it firsthand at the Clean and Sober Home he runs, named for his young friend—the one I spoke of at his funeral, a boy I knew and mourned. My son invited me to a fundraiser he hosted, cooking and serving people in recovery at every stage—fresh from detox, years sober, and everywhere between. I sat with them, listened to their stories—raw, jagged, beautiful—and felt their hunger for hope. Then he spoke, his voice steady, words landing like lifelines on a crowd hanging on every syllable. I watched their eyes light up, inspired, drinking in what they needed. My heart swelled—he’d found his calling.

Soon after, I was a guest at another gathering, a fundraiser for a recovery community. I dined with souls who’d been clean for 20 years and others just days out of detox, their tales a mosaic of struggle and triumph. I began to see it—the gap, the weak link. That fragile moment after detox, when the body’s clean but the life skills, the resources, the tether to sobriety aren’t there. Too many fall through that crack. Then came a dinner with what I call his Care Team Colleagues—people from that second group, all in recovery, all giving back. They run sober homes, offer peer counseling, pour their lives into this work with a fire that felt like a Healing Revival. I was enveloped in it—my enlightenment blazed tenfold, my hope not just for my family but for all humanity soared. I knew I had to act, to find my part in this authentic, unshakable inspiration.

But even as my son thrived, another storm brewed. A cherished loved one—anonymous still—relapsed, threatening an entire branch of my little family with ruin once more. As an adult, a father, a husband, he overdosed twice, teetering on death’s edge. My soul screamed, “No—not again!” I couldn’t bear it—my children’s father lost to abandonment years ago, now this. But I learned a hard truth: we don’t control outcomes. I had to let go, walk by faith, trust a grace bigger than me. Launching Light to Light became my therapy, my lifeline—a way to say, “I can do something,” and let God guide the rest. And here’s the rest of that story: after four years of anguish, that cherished one graduated from an inpatient program. By God’s mercy, he’s fully functioning—providing for his family, his marriage mending, his children’s laughter ringing again.

Looking back, I see it clear—a single mom, three kids, their father gone to addiction’s void, sustained through decades by grace and miracles I can’t repay. We’ve all been blessed beyond reason. Now, my anonymous loved one and his radiant wife are seeking their own way to uplift, to unbind and free souls in their county, their state. This is how it works—this is Light to Light. I founded it because I’ve seen the gaps, felt the pain, and witnessed the redemption. Addiction kills, families fracture, but light spreads. I asked the questions—why, with so many good hearts, do we still lose? I dug into the cracks—those vulnerable moments—and vowed to help. Together, we can bridge them, one flame igniting the next, until healing drowns out suffering. This is my why, my fire, my mission.

This is why I’m here: to share the light that was shared with me, a flame passed hand to hand until it became mine to carry forward. Together, we can lift souls—unbound and free—from the relentless wheel of pain and suffering addiction spins. Collectively, we can turn grief’s raw ache into healing’s gentle strength, proving—step by hard-won step—that hope outlasts despair. Light To Light will stand for Will County, for every life addiction stalks, for you. Light always overcomes darkness, and united, we can win this battle—one steadfast flame at a time. Join me in this fight.