Before that date, my life had not been easy. When I was 25 years old, I gave birth to a son. We called him K.K. The next thing that happened changed my life forever. He was struck by a car. That is the day I lost him. At only five years old, he was gone. His laughter, his love, his energy were all taken from me.

My life became a downward spiral. I began to drink. Drinking led to substance use. For the substance use, I was imprisoned. Every time I left prison, I swore I wouldn't go back. But I did. Over and over and over again.

I remember one day, standing in front of a judge and asking that judge, "Is there any help for me?" And the judge sentenced me to prison one more time. No one cared. No one was listening.

On October 4, 1997, I walked into a room unlike any room I'd ever entered before. People were standing up, sharing their stories. A wave of relief washed over me. I got a cup of coffee and just took everything in. At that point, I was at the lowest point in my life. I was out of ideas, and I didn't know how I was going to make it out of the condition I was in.

But when I walked into that room in 1997, I was ready to be heard. In the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, they listened. I took a deep breath and stood up, and said, "Look what drugs and alcohol have done to me." The immediate compassion, empathy and love that rolled off these complete strangers was enough to put a sizable dent in my pain, my shame, my guilt and all that sorrow.

I kept talking, and they kept listening. I shared all the thoughts I had spent decades trying to silence. As they listened, I began to heal. Listening saved my life, and it opened a door.

I got sober in Santa Monica, an affluent part of Los Angeles. And I noticed something there. People in Santa Monica weren’t going to prison for substance use, for alcoholism. And I thought, why didn't that judge give me a paper and say, "Miss Burton, go to AA.” Was I not worth a piece of paper? Was I not worth direction toward a solution?

So as I got stronger in my recovery, I thought about women just like me, cycling in and out of prison, looking for safety and not finding it. So I got a job. A minimum wage job. And I saved $13,000. And I took $3,000 of it and put down on a house. And I bought some furniture.

Every morning I’d wake up, and I'd go down to the Greyhound bus station where women leaving prison were dropped off. And I knew that station well because I had been dropped off there so many times myself. And as they got off the bus carrying a trash bag of belongings and hope in their hearts, I would walk up to them and I'd say, "Girl, I have a house. And if you want to come live there, it's a safe place to be. You can come live there."

And before long there were 11 of us living in that house. We cooked together. We went to meetings together. We shared resources. We laughed together. We cried together. But most of all, we healed together.

Before long, people saw what I was doing, and they joined me. And we created a team. Today, there [are] 12 houses across Los Angeles. (Applause) Thank you.

What we built was a house of women helping women. Each house is staffed to support its residents who pay rent, do chores, buy groceries and learn to be accountable, responsible members of the community. We help them find jobs, learn financial literacy and help them with any legal issues. As a result, thousands of women have come back to the community and hundreds of mothers have been reunited with their children.

In 2017, I published my memoir, "Becoming Ms. Burton: From Prison to Recovery to Leading the Fight for Incarcerated Women." In order to tell my story, I held book talks all over the nation, behind prison walls.

There I would listen to women. They were pleading for a place to go after they were released. They were sitting with tears streaming down their faces, wanting to rebuild their lives, be reunited with their children, find a job in their community [and] break free from the criminal justice system.

Every year in this country, around two million women are released from prisons and jails. They walk out with a trash bag of belongings, hoping someone will listen. Hoping someone will help. When there's no help, when there's no safe place to land, too many of them will go back.

I knew I could not provide resources of a new way of life to all those women. So I created SAFE, Sisterhood Alliance for Freedom and Equality, to replicate my model. Our first training was with 13 women. To date, we've trained over 700. (Applause) To listen. To create support. To give hope.

When women like me have safe housing, families reunify, recidivism drops and communities stabilize. I started with one house of women helping women. Today, there is an entire network of women helping women in 20 US states and also in Uganda, Kenya and Nigeria. (Applause)

We have replication down to a science. The leadership is there, the demand is there, and the goal is clear. More houses in more cities. More mothers reunited with their children. More women breaking a cycle that has lasted generations.

I believe we all share a responsibility to heal the harms caused by the criminal justice system. This is public safety. This is family preservation. This is community repair.

When someone listened to me with compassion rather than judgment, it changed my life. My story since that day in 1997, shows what is possible when people have support, hope and determination.

I cannot bring my son back. But I know every time a woman walks through the doors and finds safety, every time a child is reunited with his mother, every time a woman breaks free from a cycle that once held me, his legacy goes way beyond his years. I believe he's smiling down on my efforts, and I hope he's proud of his mother.

I am so grateful to be on the TED dot. (Laughter and Cheers) (Applause) And this happened because someone listened with compassion rather than judgment. Thank you so much. (Applause)