Becoming Her

I remember vividly sitting in the rehab intake office, staring at the walls, silently asking myself: “What have you done?”

They say when it comes to alcoholism, you somehow know from the very first sip. Looking back, I should’ve known — for me, it was always all gas, no brakes. I never could stop at just one drink. Let’s be honest: if one felt good, ten had to feel even better, right?

I had managed to string together a few days of sobriety when I got the call — my dad wasn’t acting like his normal social butterfly self. Maybe we should get him checked out.

Two and a half weeks later, after three hospitals, and a major surgery. I held his hand as he left this world. My heart was shattered.

Nothing prepares you for that kind of goodbye. Nothing ever truly can.

After that, the “all gas, no brakes” mentality turned deadly real. I spiraled headfirst into darkness. Grief. Guilt. Numbness. Addiction swallowed me whole. When I look back on that version of me, I hardly recognize her. But oddly enough, I’m thankful for her. I’m thankful for the broken pieces — because they became the catalyst I desperately needed for transformation.

They forced me to crack open. To wake up. To rebuild.

And so I did.

October 18, 2025 will mark two years of sobriety.

I won’t sugarcoat this for you. It hasn’t been easy. Some days have broken me wide open. Others have stitched me back together. But every single day has been worth it. Every single lesson has been sacred.

I’ve learned that recovery isn’t just about abstaining from a drink. It’s about reclaiming your life. Reclaiming your voice. Reclaiming yourself.

If you’re reading this and feel like you’re too far gone, I need you to hear me:
You are not.

No matter what you think it looks like. No matter how far you feel you’ve fallen. No matter what other people have said about you.
You can start again.

You deserve to feel whole. You deserve to live in peace. Those aren’t just dreams. They are your future. They are your birthright.

We’re going to walk through this together — because it’s true: we rise by lifting others.

And so I will let my heart bleed on these pages. I will be vulnerable. I will be honest. Because in sharing my story, I know healing is contagious.

You’ll feel it too.

And one day, when you’re ready, you’ll pass it on — because that’s the sacred rhythm of recovery.
That’s the circle of life.