CENTENNIAL, Colo. — Sarah Wright stops by her peer support specialist’s hotel room-turned-office in this Denver suburb several times a day.
But her visit on a Wednesday morning in mid-October was one of her first with teeth.
The specialist, Donna Norton, had pushed Wright to go to the dentist years after homelessness and addiction had taken a toll on her health, down to the jawbone.
Wright was still getting used to her dentures. “I haven’t had teeth in 12½, 13 years,” she said, adding that they made her feel like a horse.
A new smile was Wright’s latest milestone as she works to rebuild her life, and Norton has been there for each step: opening a bank account, getting a job, developing a sense of her own worth.
Wright’s voice started to waver when she talked about Norton’s role in her life during the past few months. Norton wrapped her arms, adorned with tattoos of flames, spiderwebs, and a zombie Johnny Cash, around Wright.
“Oh, muffin,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”
Norton, 54, is a Harley-riding, bulldog-loving, eight-years-sober grandmother and, professionally, “a cheerleader for the people that look bad on paper.”
People like her. “If you were to look me up on paper, you wouldn’t be in this room with me,” Norton said. “You would not let me near your house.”
If she were a therapist or social worker, hugging and sharing her experiences with drugs and the law might be considered a breach of professional boundaries. But as a peer support specialist, that’s often part of the job.