For a long time, Angela woke up each morning with one single thought: Is she still alive?
That was the measure of success. Not school attendance. Not friendships. Not future plans. Just survival.
“Before, it was just that she was alive,” Angela says quietly. That was the only measure that mattered. Now, that daily fear has eased, and together, she and Ruth* can look ahead with hope and possibility.
That dramatic shift, from survival to hope, didn’t happen overnight. It came after months of crisis, countless phone calls, hospital visits, diagnoses, and Angela’s refusal to give up on her daughter.
Ruth was 15 when things reached crisis point. She had stopped going to school. She was struggling with severe mental health challenges and was using drugs. She was suicidal.
“It was an awful, awful time,” Angela recalls.
Looking back, Angela can pinpoint a traumatic event in the family deeply affected Ruth, the loss of a family member to suicide. In the period that followed, underlying mental health challenges became more apparent. Ruth was later diagnosed with anxiety, depression, autism and borderline personality disorder. At the same time, friendships at school began to fall apart, and everything started to spiral.
Angela did what most parents would do: she sought help. She rang services. She chased referrals. She tried different schools. She sat in emergency departments.
But over and over, she hit a wall. Mental health services said drugs were the issue. Drug and alcohol services said mental health was the issue. Eligibility criteria ruled them out. Support felt fragmented, conditional, and temporary.
At one point, in the hospital with appendicitis, a doctor suggested a full psychiatric assessment for Ruth while she was there. With Ruth onboard, Angela was relieved to finally get the help she had been seeking for such a long time. They stayed an extra night.
The next day, she was told there was no psychiatrist available because Ruth was under 18.
"We were in the hospital, we had a bed, Ruth was happy to be there, and they could not do any psychiatric assessment," Angela says. "It was so disappointing!”
Feeling exhausted and isolated, Angela reached out to Streetlink hoping Ruth would see a peer worker. But Ruth refused.
“I’m going to be dead anyway, so it doesn’t matter,” she had said when asked about support. So, Angela came on her own and that decision became a turning point.
“If I can’t get her help, then how can I get myself help to better support her?” she remembers thinking.
Through Streetlink’s family counselling, Angela met with Jenny, a counsellor who worked primarily with parents and families. What stood out to Angela compared to other services was the format. There was no rush. No fixed session limit. No pressure to present neatly packaged answers.
“I felt relief that I’d finally found somewhere that I could just talk openly about everything without judgement,
I was just able to pour it all out.”
For the first time, she didn’t have to edit herself. She didn’t have to protect her daughter’s reputation. She didn’t have to manage other people’s reactions.
“Just having somebody listen to me without judgement… just listening honestly was the best thing.”
But it wasn’t only listening. Through the Streetlink counselling sessions, Angela had the space and support to work out how best to respond to Ruth. What to say when she says she doesn’t want to live. How to respond when there’s self-harm. How to stop escalating situations that are already on fire.
Angela also completed a carers course focused on borderline personality disorder, and slowly, the approach at home began to change.
“We didn’t like what was going on,” she says. “But at this moment, we accept this is what’s happening and how we’re going to get through it.”
That concept – ‘rapid acceptance and harm minimisation’ – became central. Angela knew that saying “You can’t do drugs” wasn’t going to stop it. So, the question became: how do we keep her safe?
For their family, harm minimisation meant staying connected. It meant making sure Ruth was at home, not out somewhere unknown. It meant knowing what she was taking and where. It meant choosing safety over control.
“I knew she was going to continue,” Angela says. “So how do we make sure that she’s safe, supported and has a place to come home to?”
It was not endorsement or approval. It was surviving the realities of the situation they were in. And slowly, something shifted.
Ruth began to trust that she wouldn’t be met with yelling or shame. She became more open about what was happening. As the secrecy eased, their bond strengthened. That trust became the thread that held everything together.
“It wasn’t luck,” Jenny reflects. “That was your relationship. She felt like she could trust you with everything.”
For nearly 18 months, Angela attended counselling while Ruth remained disengaged. Then one day, something changed.
“It was like this light bulb just went off,” Angela says. “She went, ‘You know what, I need to try and stop using drugs and try to turn things around.’”
There was no single dramatic event. No magic intervention. And when Ruth was ready, she already had a safe place to turn.
She began seeing Brooke, a Streetlink peer worker. The service she had once refused had always remained available. Between her psychiatrist and Brooke, Ruth engaged in ways she hadn’t before.
“Things are not perfect. Not resolved. Not finished yet,
But they are a lot better. We are not in crisis anymore and life isn’t so scary.”
In the hardest months, Angela measured life in minutes.
“Survive the day,” was her mantra.
She made difficult decisions to keep everyone safe. She limited who came to the house. She withdrew from social situations. She managed siblings carefully and protected her marriage as best she could. Every choice was weighed against one question: does this keep Ruth safe?
But now, the small wins started to show. In the family group sessions at Streetlink, a peer-led space for parents of young people, they write “glitter moments” on a large tree. They are often tiny things by ordinary standards. Things that wouldn’t make sense outside that room. One week, Angela’s glitter moment was simple: Ruth turned the washing machine on. In another setting, that might barely register. In that room, it was celebrated. Because everyone understood what it represented.
“She’s not using drugs like she used to,
That’s a win for me. A really big win.”
There was a family plane holiday after a period of stability, booked quickly, joyfully. Driving lessons started, with clear boundaries and trust being rebuilt.
And gradually, Angela’s morning routine changed.
“I don’t wake up every morning wondering if she’s alive,” she says.
Today, Angela’s hopes are different. She wants Ruth to get her licence and to find sustained employment. To have friends and independence.
“To have a life really,” she says. “A life worth living.” That phrase has stayed with her throughout the journey.
Angela now speaks openly about Streetlink in her work and community. Not because she feels obligated, but because she remembers how hard it was to find the right door to knock on.
“It saved my life and Ruth’s life,” she says simply.
Her message to other parents is uncomplicated: “Never give up. There’s always hope. Just love your kids. Unconditional love.” She pauses. “And don’t judge other people. You don’t know what’s happening in their house.”
Because sometimes, behind a quiet front door, a mother is waking every morning just hoping her child made it through the night.
And sometimes, with the right support, survival becomes just a starting point and not the final destination.
