A Mother's Plea

I copied and pasted this here so more people will read and hopefully will not be ignored

It's painful but honest. This could be your child or mine and it's TERRIFYING. 💔😢

Open your hearts.❤️ We NEED great change and we need it NOW!

COPIED from Christine Moore's FB page

 We’re leaving Sunday for Nelson.

It’s a trip that comes with heavy emotion.

The K9 search is about to begin—something I’ve been pushing for since January. The conditions finally allow it: the weather is safe for the handler and the dogs, and the terrain is ready to be searched. What I’ve long fought for is now happening.

And yet I go with a weight in my chest that’s hard to put into words.

This is the tightrope I walk—every single day.

My heart tells me I need to be there, just in case.

My mind tells me to stay away, just in case.

This is the war I live with: the hope for answers and the fear of what those answers might be.

We won’t be part of the search itself. That’s left to the experts. But my heart wins over my mind.

So we go.

We go because love demands it.

We go because the unknown is worse than the truth.

We go because no parent should wait in silence far away while others search for their child.

Nelson is a beautiful place—on the surface. But for me, the city carries a heaviness that’s hard to explain. A darkness that doesn’t come from its landscape, but from the tension just beneath it—a city at war with its own conscience when it comes to the unhoused.

I’ve seen comments comparing Nelson to Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside.

Let me be clear:

I’ve walked the DTES.

I’ve driven those streets looking for my son.

I’ve stepped into shelters. Sat with people others pass by. Looked into eyes that still carry pieces of the children they once were.

There is no comparison.

People living on the DTES describe it as “the end of the road.”

It’s not just a crisis—it’s apocalyptic.

It’s a place where hope fights for air.

And yet even there, humanity is still alive—if we’re willing to see it.

I’ve been called a bleeding heart.

If that means refusing to look away, refusing to dehumanize people suffering on our streets, then I’ll wear that name with pride.

Because when I walked into places others called “drug dens,” I didn’t see criminals—I saw stories. I saw pain. I saw the wreckage of a system that lets trauma, mental illness, and addiction fester until people are unrecognizable even to their own families.

And I’ve spoken with frontline officers, too. One officer told me plainly: even they don’t feel safe walking the DTES.

And that should never be the case—not for them, and not for the people forced to live there.

He spoke of families who are desperate—watching their children spiral while they’re powerless to intervene. The lack of wraparound supports is so severe that some parents—grieving, afraid, and helpless—feel there are no options left. That letting their child go is less painful than watching them slowly disappear on the streets, in the throes of addiction.

And I ask myself this every day with Christopher:

If he’s in the grip of heavy drug use…

If his schizophrenia is unmanaged and worsening…

If he’s alone, vulnerable, and unable to access care—

How is that anything but a danger to himself?

How can we say he’s choosing this, when his ability to choose is so deeply impaired?

We’ve created a system where even when someone’s life is visibly at risk, families can’t step in unless they meet a narrow legal threshold.

We say it’s about freedom. But what kind of freedom is this?

We keep debating forced treatment, but no one is talking enough about the real issue: what comes after.

There’s no plan.

No coordinated system of care.

No guaranteed housing.

No long-term support.

And cleaning up encampments is not a solution.

People don’t disappear—they move.

They rebuild.

Because what other option do they have?

Meanwhile, the drug supply grows more toxic.

The dealers keep making money.

And the body count keeps rising.

This is not a sustainable system.

It is a slow, collective collapse—and we are watching it in real time.

We need wraparound services.

We need intervention pathways that allow families to act.

We need to treat addiction and mental illness as the urgent, complex health crises they are—not as moral failures.

And I know—some people in Nelson may question why I’m speaking out, because I don’t live there.

But I’m not here looking for approval.

I’m not asking anyone to like me.

I’m asking people to start talking about real solutions.

Solutions that provide safety in their communities

—and at the same time—

ensure the people who are struggling on the streets receive proper, humane, evidence-based care.

These two things are not in conflict.

You can care about public safety and still care about people.

In fact, true public safety depends on it.

Christopher is not invisible.

He is not disposable.

He is a person.

He is my son.

And he is loved beyond words.

I will keep searching for him.

I will keep fighting for him.

And I will keep speaking—for him, and for every family still begging to be heard.

⸻

If this resonates with you, please don’t scroll past.

• Share this post.

• Start the conversation in your community.

• Push for change in your province, in your policies, in your people.

• Because if we don’t fight for the vulnerable, who will?

Someone out there is missing.

Someone out there is still alive—but barely hanging on.

And someone like me is still searching.

For me, that someone is Christopher.