
Behind every story in the news and on the street is a human story.
It’s not content, sound bites and statistics, it’s real people. Someone’s child. Someone’s sibling or parent.
Sometimes we forget to put a human face on the stories, especially when it comes to mental health issues.
But the stigma around mental health, addiction and unhoused needs to change, said Christine Moore, whose son Chris, 33, has been missing since Aug. 1 from Nelson.
“The dehumanizing of people without understanding is awful and as parents we are blocked with freedom of information and privacy laws,” she said Friday.
Christine wrote a recent post on FaceBook that asked anyone with information to the whereabouts of her son to come forward, as well as to put the plight of mental health issues in a human light through her son, Chris.
Here, in a mother’s words (with her permission), is the story of Chris …
In her words
A mother’s pain when her child is lost to mental illness and addiction is indescribable. When my son, Chris, began to slip away, it felt like watching him vanish into a storm I couldn’t pull him out of.
His schizophrenia emerged before the drugs; he turned to substances in an attempt to combat the overwhelming symptoms he faced. Addiction wasn’t a choice for Chris — it was survival. He once told me it gave him a “clearer mind.” I knew what he meant, even though it broke my heart. He wasn’t trying to escape; he was trying to quiet the chaos in his mind.
Previously, when Chris would disappear — when the phone calls stopped and his voice became a memory — the silence was unbearable. It wasn’t because he stopped loving me; I know that. It was because he was drowning in his mental illness and addiction, in a world that too often didn’t see him for who he was.
Eventually, he would call but it became more difficult for him to get to a phone when drop-in places closed. A sad reality when these resources rely on funding and community support.
This may not make sense to some, but when Chris was in jail for short periods of time, at least I knew where he was. I knew he was safe, that he had food and shelter, and that he wasn’t completely alone. He would call me almost every day, and hearing his voice, even under those circumstances, brought me comfort. Those calls gave me a connection to him, a lifeline that reminded me he was still there, still my son. Now, I don’t even have that.
Chris isn’t a statistic. He’s my son. He’s the boy who called me “Mommo” even as an adult. He’s the child who loved being tucked in like a cocoon, his freckled face lighting up with a big smile. He’s the young man who spoke fluent French, who turned the radio to French stations just to stay connected to the language.
Chris was deeply spiritual. He felt a connection to his creator through the wind, sky, water and land. Nature wasn’t just a place for him; it was his sanctuary, his way of finding peace. He would send me pictures of the little creatures that visited his camp — a raccoon he called his friend, sharing his food with it, or skunks that came by, which he believed were harmless. I can still see our old texts, me as the cautious mom warning him they could be dangerous, and him reassuring me they were his companions, not a threat.
Chris had a passion for life and so many talents. He was the captain of his hockey team as a kid, and I’ll never forget the year his team won Minor Hockey Week. A photo of him hugging a teammate made the centre of the Edmonton Sunnewspaper. It captured who he was — joyful, caring and a natural leader.
When Chris was in junior high, he walked his little brother to school every day, always looking out for him. Later in life, Chris became an arborist, and he was so proud of his work. He’d send me pictures of his completed projects or of himself high in the trees, towering over the world.
He also loved skateboarding. He had a huge collection of skate magazines and could spend hours pouring over them, dreaming of the next trick or adventure. He was an artist, spending hours drawing with markers, pencil crayons and paper. He found meaning in scripture, often sending me Bible verses followed by a simple “God bless.” He was thoughtful, creative, and kind — a deep thinker who loved to make others laugh.
He was proud of the home he built in the tall grass and trees, sharing stories about it in our conversations. Chris was more than the challenges he faced; he was a person full of love, intelligence, and potential.
And now, I have to resume some semblance of a normal life while the pain of not knowing where he is haunts me. The world doesn’t stop for your grief. It demands you carry on, even as every part of you aches for answers.
Chris is missing. The last confirmed sighting of him was at the Shell station in Nelson, where he made a small purchase of just over $30. Since then, there have been no transactions, no contact, and no trace. The houseless community in Nelson remembers him as “Dancing Chris,” always smiling, always kind.
They told me he was devastated when his camp was taken down and felt like there was nothing left for him in Nelson. Did he head back to Edmonton? Did he go off-grid somewhere? I don’t know, and the not knowing is unbearable.
If you’ve seen Chris, or if you have any information about where he might be, please reach out to the Nelson Police Department, your local police detachment, or Crime Stoppers if you wish to remain anonymous. Every tip, no matter how small, could be the key to finding him.
To those who share photos and videos of people experiencing homelessness or addiction in distressing situations on public platforms: stop. These images strip people of their dignity and humanity. They dehumanize individuals like my son, reducing them to their struggles rather than recognizing them as people with families, friends and loved ones who care deeply for them.
Instead of shaming, choose to advocate. Use your voice to stand up for their humanity when they cannot. They are not “problems” to be fixed — they are human beings who are lost in the devastating grip of addiction and mental illness, deserving of compassion, not judgment.
We are in the midst of an epidemic in this country, with addiction and homelessness on the rise. Your voice has the power to make a difference — but only when it is used to uplift, not to tear down. Shaming and publicizing their pain in a negative light does nothing to help; it only adds to the problem, deepening stigma and pushing them further into the shadows.
Choose to be part of the solution. Speak up for those who can’t. Advocate for change. See their humanity. It starts with us. Together, we can fight the stigma, foster understanding, and create a world where no one is forgotten.
Chris is not just his addiction. He is not just his mental illness. He is my son. He is loved. He is missed. And I will not stop fighting for him until I find him. Please, help me bring him home.
Chris, wherever you are, if you can hear me, please know this: I love you. I miss you. I will never stop searching for you. You are not forgotten. You are everything to me and your family.
Let’s do better for Chris and for everyone like him. Let’s see them as the people they are, not just the struggles they face. Together, we can make a difference.

