The wound within

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to ruin my life. Nobody does.

Addiction snuck in like a smooth-talking thief; charming, convincing, dressed up like relief.

At first, it felt like freedom. Like I had finally found the volume knob for the pain I’d been carrying since childhood.

But it wasn’t long before I realized: this wasn’t a cure. It was a cover-up. A counterfeit comfort.

I wasn’t getting high... I was disappearing.

 

My story with addiction isn’t a shameful secret.

It’s a survival song.

It’s every tear I cried in silence. Every prayer I whispered through withdrawal.

Every time I fell and found myself cradled, not by a man, not by a drug, but by God’s mercy.

Because let me be clear: I didn’t save myself.

Jesus did.

 

And that’s why I’m telling this part now.

Not to glorify the dark, but to honor the light that found me in it.

 

"where the darkness first touched me..."

 

I was five the first time I realized my daddy wasn’t just tired.

He had spent hours locked in the bathroom while me, my mama, and her seven children were curled up in the living room watching Family Matters.

The laugh track played, but in our house, the tension was louder.

 

When he finally emerged, his cheeks were puffed, his eyes wild. He started picking at the carpet like it was hiding treasure.

I didn’t know what he was doing. Not then.

Now I know, he was looking for crack.

 

He stormed up to Mama and screamed at her to give him back his drugs.

She was just as confused as we were, but we all knew, this was about to get bad.

And then, it got worse.

 

He made everyone strip.

One by one, my siblings took off their clothes, trembling and humiliated.

Mama too.

All except me.

I stayed frozen on the couch, five years old and holding my breath like it might hold the house together.

 

He patted me down like a cop, like I might be his suspect. His enemy. His answer.

 

No one had his drugs.

 

Then the lights went out.

We heard glass break.

And when the lights came back on, Daddy was standing there with a broken beer bottle held to Mama’s throat.

 

“Give me my drugs,” he growled, “or I’ll take her out.”

 

Everyone cried. Even Mama, who always tried to be strong for us, was crying quiet, like maybe if she didn’t make a sound, he’d change his mind.

 

Eventually, something in him must’ve snapped, or softened. He ran out the front door like he’d just remembered his own humanity.

 

Mama made us go upstairs.

She locked herself in her room.

But of course, he came back.

Banging on the door. Begging. Apologizing.

And Mama… Mama let him back in.

They went into the room.

The door closed.

And the fighting started again.

 

 "When the hurt grew legs..."

 

I didn’t realize it then,

but something shifted in me that night.

The part of a little girl that believes she’s safe…

that part died quietly on the couch while Family Matters played in the background.

 

I started learning early:

Men could be monsters.

Love could turn violent.

Apologies were currency, but they never paid the full debt.

As I got older, I swore I’d never be like him.

 

But trauma don’t knock, it lingers.

And pain don’t always scream, it whispers, “Just one hit. Just one drink. Just one escape.”

I was searching for numb, not knowing that numb is just another kind of prison.

It didn’t start with a needle or a bottle.

It started with emptiness.

With needing to be wanted.

With craving something strong enough to drown out the fear I still carried from that living room.

 

At first, the drugs felt like control.

Like I had the power to choose how I felt,

when really, I was disappearing again.

Not with the lights off this time,

but with my eyes wide open and my soul checked out.

 

I wasn’t getting high.

I was getting quiet.

Just like Mama did behind her locked door.

Just like the version of me that never got to cry that night.

 

 "A pill for performance..."

 

My brothers started smoking weed in their teens.

It felt like background noise, normal even.

But I kept my distance.

My dad had already shown me what a real high could do, and I wanted no parts of that legacy.

I didn’t just say no.

I said never.

 

But that’s the thing about trauma, it don’t ask for permission.

And it don’t follow your plans.

 

I was eighteen, on the rise.

Performing.

Singing songs that would later become pieces of my story.

But back then, all I felt was fear.

 

My nerves were louder than the music.

My throat tightened before every show.

I couldn’t be “her," the artist, the star, the bold and beautiful voice, because anxiety had me chained to the inside of my own skin.

 

That’s when Mama stepped in.

Trying to help, the only way she knew how.

She offered me a handful of calm, pills she took regularly.

Said it would help me take the edge off.

 

I took them.

And baby, I floated.

I don’t know if I sang in tune or talked in tongues, but I didn’t care.

The fear was gone, and that felt like freedom.

 

I smiled.

I laughed.

I connected with the crowd like I’d been born on stage.

What I didn’t realize was:

I wasn’t performing.

I was hiding.

And those pills didn’t make me confident.

They made me invisible.

To myself.

 

That’s when it started.

Not with a pipe or a bottle.

But with a silent agreement I made that night:

I need this to be myself.

 

"slipping through the Spotlight..."

 

I didn’t pop pills between shows.

Not at first.

In between, I just did what everybody else did, smoke a little, drink a little.

A blunt before the studio, a drink before the mic.

It felt harmless, casual… normal.

 

At least it wasn’t the hard stuff.

That’s what I told myself.

As long as I wasn’t acting like Daddy, I figured I was still in control.

 

But the truth is, the lines started blurring long before I noticed.

 

I drank before a show once, well, more than once, but one time stood out.

Me and a friend opened for Ghostface Killah.

I was tipsy, maybe even drunk, and thinking I was slick.

But I was sloppy.

Somebody somewhere has that footage.

And Lord, I pray they never upload it, because I couldn’t live it down.

That was the first time I felt ashamed on a stage.

But it wasn’t until after I had my first son that the real shift happened.

 

I was prescribed a heavy opioid, doctor’s orders.

And at first, it was just for the pain.

 

But pain ain’t always physical.

Somewhere between postpartum and pressure, I started needing those pills for more than healing.

They made the weight of everything feel a little lighter.

The expectations.

The loneliness.

The pain I never had time to process.

 

And when the bottle ran out,

I went looking.

 

Not to the doctor.

 

To the street.

 

That’s when I crossed the line I swore I never would.

 

"Weekend Warrior; Weekday wreckage..."

 

I did the best I could to raise my baby.

But the truth is, I was a baby myself in so many ways.

Wounded. Unsure.

Trying to mother while still mourning the girl I used to be.

 

The dreams I once held; 

music, purpose, performance, 

they slipped through my fingers like smoke.

 

I moved in with my sister, still working, still functioning on paper.

But inside, I was unraveling.

 

I was sad.

More than sad, depressed, depleted, directionless.

And without music, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

 

That’s when the drugs started changing.

My brother introduced me to something new.

Cocaine.

 

And God help me, I tried it.

I couldn’t believe I was going there, but the truth?

Pain will make you reach for anything that promises relief.

 

Weekdays were gray and hollow.

I’d cry on lunch breaks, go home and fake smiles for my son.

But Friday?

Friday meant numbness.

Friday meant meeting the dealer.

Friday meant pretending I was alive again.

 

I became a weekend warrior in a war I was slowly losing.

I used as much as I could before the sun came up on Monday,

and by Sunday night,

I hated myself.

 

Every week became a cycle of pretending, partying, and punishing.

I didn’t want to be an addict.

I just didn’t want to be me.

 

"No way out..."

 

I kept my addiction quiet.

Real quiet.

Because I knew what it would do to my mama’s heart if she found out I was using hard drugs.

So I mastered the mask.

Sneaking in the bathroom.

Calling it “girl time” while she babysat.

Saying I needed space when what I really needed was the next high.

It became routine.

 

I was 21.

No longer singing.

No longer chasing dreams, just chasing a feeling.

Any feeling that didn’t hurt.

 

Motherhood didn’t come with a manual.

And postpartum hit me like a train I didn’t see coming.

I felt detached from my own brain,

like I was living outside of myself,

like everyone was watching, judging, planning to take something from me.

I started believing my mom and sister didn’t want me around.

 

That’s when things really spiraled.

 

My mama, strong as ever, saw through the mask.

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t shame.

She made a call.

And just like that,

I was admitted to a psych ward.

 

Providence St. Vincent.

Five days. Four nights.

Locked floor. No way out.

My son stayed with her.

And even though part of me was angry,

deep down, I knew she might’ve saved both our lives.

 

That place… it triggered something.

The feeling of being caged, watched, medicated, silenced.

I’d always felt trapped in my trauma,

but now it was literal.

 

And yet…

that stay forced me to sit with myself.

 

No drugs.

No music.

No distractions.

 

Just me.

And the wreckage I’d been trying to outpace.

 

 "orbit of the unseen..."

 

They gave me a stack of prescriptions when I left the hospital.

A cocktail of calm,

meant to make the darkness hush.

But I never planned to keep the regimen.

I was 21, barely breathing through postpartum,

basically homeless, couch-hopping between my mama and my sister,

still clutching shame like a purse I couldn’t put down.

 

I’d never had mental health treatment before.

Never sat across from someone who asked me,

“When did the pain start?”

I didn’t even know I was allowed to ask that question.

 

So I figured,

“This’ll pass, right?

It’s just a phase.

A dip.

A bad stretch.”

 

But it didn’t pass.

The darkness didn’t fade, it evolved.

It bloomed like a black flower,

spreading through the cracks in my life.

 

I kept moving.

From my sister’s house to my mama’s.

Back again.

Every time I packed a bag,

I packed my shame, my silence, and my sadness right along with it.

 

And my son…

he was growing up in the background of my unraveling.

I loved him with everything I had.

But some days, I had nothing.

 

That haunted me.

Because even when I wasn’t high,

I wasn’t me.

And still… I survived.

 

 "The day everything shifted..."

 

2005 was rough.

My life was spinning out and I couldn’t find the brakes.

I was barely holding it together,

arguing with my mom, bumping heads with my sister,

trying to survive the storm inside me.

I wasn’t stable.

Not in my mind.

Not in my home.

And definitely not as a mother.

 

I’d leave Nic with them, my mom or my sister, 

while I chased the next high with “friends” who weren’t really friends.

Sometimes I’d disappear for days,

reappearing like a ghost with hollow eyes and guilt heavy on my back.

Work? That wasn’t even an option anymore.

The government gave me scraps on the first of the month,

and I stretched them thin between getting high and getting by.

I was chasing dopamine,

desperate for a feeling I barely remembered.

And then came January 26, 2006.

I was actually home that day, maybe the only time in weeks.

I hadn’t slept.

I’d tried something new the night before,

something stronger, something meaner.

I was fried.

But something in me told me to go check on Mom.

Icrept upstairs after the sun rose,

heart pounding, eyes wide.

She was in bed, wrapped in sweat, shivering, breathing too fast.

 

“Mom?” I whispered.

She didn’t look at me.

Didn’t need to.

I could feel the sickness off her like heat off pavement.

“You okay?”

"I just need some sleep,” she murmured.

But I knew better.

My fear kicked in quick,

pushed past the high.

 

“Should I call the ambulance?”

“No,” she snapped.

“Don’t call nobody.

Get out of my room.”

So I left.

Because her voice still had that power.

Even in sickness.

Even when I was grown and lost and falling apart,

her words still cut like they did when I was ten.

 

And maybe I was just high,

but it felt like something else too.

 

Colder.

Final.

 

She had been different since Sabrina came back.

Like I’d been replaced.

Like I’d become the disappointment she didn’t have the strength to fix anymore.

 

And so I walked away from the room.

But I left a part of myself lying next to her that day... 

a part that would never come back the same.

 

"The day the world ended..."

 

The hours after that were strange.

Too quiet for a house with kids in it.

Too loud in my head.

I kept pacing,

twiddling my thumbs like a child waiting for someone else to make the next move.

I crept upstairs every so often,

just close enough to hear her breath, or to wonder if I did.

Eventually, I couldn’t stand it.

I sent my niece to check because…

God, I was scared.

Scared of what I might find.

Scared I’d already lost her and just didn’t know it yet.

 

I called everyone I could.

Family.

Anybody.

But no one really understood what I was seeing.

 

“She just needs rest.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“She’ll be fine.”

But she wasn’t fine.

And I wasn’t strong enough to carry the weight of what was coming.

Still, her voice echoed in my mind... 

“Don’t call nobody.”

So I waited.

Until finally,

I stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted,

“Mom?”

And she answered,

but not as my mother.

She said,

“Sabrina, I’m right here…”

She called me by my sister’s name.

And just like that... 

I knew.

She was slipping.

Already halfway gone.

Panic wrapped around me like a vice,

and I did what I should’ve done hours ago.

I called 911.

 

Then came the blur; 

sirens screaming,

two fire trucks,

two ambulances.

So many people for just one woman.

 

She’d be so mad, I thought.

So damn mad.

 

But I didn’t care anymore.

I led them upstairs.

 

And when we walked into her room, 

there was a pillow over her face.

 

She was still breathing,

but barely.

I stood there with tears rushing down my cheeks,

trying to gather anything she might need for the hospital.

As if packing a nightgown could fix what was happening.

 

The room filled, eight, maybe nine first responders.

They used a portable gurney to get her down the stairs.

She looked…

gone.

 

I waited in the living room.

Afraid to face her.

 

Then... 

they came around the corner.

And someone dropped the handle.

My mother slipped off the gurney.

Like she was being peeled away from this world

in the clumsiest, most unforgivable way.

They scrambled, repositioned her,

brought her down the stairs.

 

I turned my face to the window, 

because I couldn’t watch death steal her like that.

But then…

the light changed.

As they opened the front door,

the sun hit her face... 

and for a moment, she was golden.

She turned her head,

as if to catch my eyes one last time.

And she smiled.

And she waved.

That wave shattered me.

She waved goodbye... 

as if she knew.

As if she was saying,

“It’s okay, baby. I see you. I love you. I’m going now.”

 

And then she closed her eyes.

And I swear to you,

she never opened them again.

 

"Another life inside me..."

 

After Mama died, the world dimmed.

The house got quieter, but not in a peaceful way.

More like… something sacred had left,

and all that remained was the echo of her spirit

pressed into the walls like fingerprints we couldn’t wash off.

 

It was just me, Sabrina, and our babies.

Two broken women

trying to keep the lights on and the memories buried.

She worked at the gas station full-time,

and I?

I did nothing.

Nothing but spiral.

Nothing but chase numbness

in little baggies, in strangers’ beds,

in loud nights that always ended in cold mornings.

I’d have men over while the kids played in their rooms.

I can’t tell you what I was looking for... 

validation, maybe.

Control.

Love in a language I didn’t yet understand.

It wasn’t sex.

It was self-destruction wearing cologne.

And then…

one of those nights turned into a second heartbeat.

 

I was pregnant.

 

I remember the hollow in my chest when I saw the test.

Not fear.

Not even shock.

Just… emptiness.

 

How could I bring another soul into this chaos?

 

I didn’t even consider not keeping him.

Not because I felt ready.

Not because I had answers.

But because somehow,

in all the madness,

I knew he was meant to be here.

 

Maybe the universe was giving me another chance.

Maybe it was just another mess.

Either way,

life had moved in again,

uninvited.

 

The night before I took the test,

I had a dream.

 

My mother was holding a baby.

She looked at me with eyes that had seen everything.

She smiled and said,

“He looks just like you.”

 

And the next morning... 

Boom.

 

Baby #2.

 

A reminder that even in the ashes,

something sacred can rise.

 

 "A womb full of worry..."

 

Getting through that pregnancy felt like climbing out of quicksand with bricks tied to my ankles.

I didn’t go to many doctor’s appointments.

Didn’t rub my belly with those soft, hopeful hands you see in parenting books.

I wasn’t dreaming of baby names or nursery colors.

I was just… surviving.

Barely.

 

My sister and I went back to working at the gas station... 

that cursed corner of our story,

where every time a baby was on the way,

we’d end up back there, wiping down counters and pretending not to be falling apart.

 

We made just enough to stay broke.

Two women, four kids, and two nickels that never met.

 

And then came the eviction notice.

 

Eight months pregnant,

barefoot in somebody else’s story,

standing on a porch where dreams came to die.

 

I remember stuffing our whole lives into garbage bags.

No moving truck.

No goodbye party.

Just zip ties and sorrow.

 

We landed in a hotel; cheap, musty, and mean.

The kind of place where hope doesn’t check in.

 

My sister and I couldn’t stop fighting.

We were two grown women drowning in the same storm

but blaming each other for the rain.

And then one day, I just snapped.

Something inside me broke clean in half.

I gathered our sad little mountain of trash bags,

held Nic close,

and left.

 

No plan.

No direction.

Just desperation on a mission.

 

I needed a roof, a lifeline, a sliver of peace.

But more than that,

I needed to breathe again.

 

Because I wasn’t just carrying a child.

I was carrying shame, fear, anger,

and the ghost of a woman I used to be.

 

And all of it was getting too heavy.

 

"Dorrians Dawn..."

 

For a minute,

just a flicker in the timeline,

it looked like things might finally be turning around.

I was staying with my sister-in-law,

rubbing my belly in silence most days,

watching the world move on while I just tried to exist.

But somehow, through the storm,

on November 12, 2008,

I gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

 

Dorrian Lee.

 

That name sounded like healing.

Like fresh pages and second chances.

But I was exhausted.

Not just from labor, but from life.

The kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix.

My body was wrecked, my mind barely tethered to reality,

and I couldn’t string together thoughts longer than a few words.

 

But I had two sons now.

Two little heartbeats depending on me to keep mine going.

So I got up.

I pushed forward.

Found a job close to the house.

Put on the best version of myself I could manage.

Saved every dollar like it was my last breath.

 

Eventually, I moved into a small apartment just down the street.

It was nothing special; four walls and a shaky ceiling,

but to me, it looked like a new beginning.

Me and my boys.

A tiny tribe of survival.

 

I put up curtains like that would keep the pain out.

Hung pictures like they could fill the empty spaces.

I whispered promises to myself at night.

We’re okay now. Things are looking up.

But I didn’t know the storm hadn’t passed.

It had just… paused.

Because trauma doesn’t care about your zip code.

And addiction don’t need a welcome mat.

 

The next chapter wasn’t a breakthrough.

It was a breakdown.

 

"Third times a charm?"

 

There was no thunderclap.

No angel’s warning.

Just a test. A plus sign.

And a familiar, stomach-dropping silence.

 

Pregnant. Again.

 

You’d think by the third time I’d be stronger.

But I was crumbling in slow motion.

 

I had tried, Lord knows I had.

Worked hard, juggled daycare and school drop-offs,

barely making rent, barely making sense of my life.

I played pretend for the sake of my babies... 

built a fort when the lights were cut off,

called it an adventure

when I was dying inside.

 

I was running on fumes,

on lines of cocaine I couldn’t even afford.

Just to stay numb,

to stay upright,

to fake “okay.”

I had shuffled through homes like they were cards... 

from my sister-in-law’s floor

to a raggedy apartment across the street

with more rats than neighbors,

more liquor than love.

It smelled like despair in that place.

Hope didn’t even bother showing up.

 

So I drank.

Heavily.

All the time.

Vodka. Whiskey. Anything that would shut my brain off.

My kids were growing up in shadows of chaos,

and I didn’t know how to stop it.

 

And then…

boom.

Pregnant.

 

Again.

 

I stared at that test and my chest caved in.

What was I doing?

Who was I becoming?

 

But somehow, in the middle of this pain,

I remembered that dream again, 

the one where my mother held a baby in her arms

and smiled like it was all going to be okay.

 

So maybe it would be.

Maybe not today.

But someday.

 

"Damian"

 

I didn’t announce it.

Not at the family BBQ,

not in a group text.

No Facebook reveal with balloons or booties.

I let the silence stretch four months long,

because shame is a loud thing in a quiet room.

 

Oh, my family was livid.

I could feel their judgment before the words even came.

“How dare you?”

“You can’t take care of the two you got.”

“Another mouth to feed? On what?”

And they weren’t wrong.

I was already patching holes in a sinking ship.

 

But still... 

I couldn’t end this one.

Even through my guilt,

even while I poured liquor down my throat

knowing full well who else would drink it with me from the inside, 

I just… couldn’t.

 

Every time I’d remember the ones I didn’t meet,

the ones I let go in pain and confusion,

I knew, 

this baby would be born.

 

But the world was cruel about it.

Cold.

Mocking.

And I was drowning in my own self-hate.

I felt like a walking contradiction:

a woman who gave life

but lived like she didn’t want hers.

 

And then the pain came.

 

Labor. On the floor. No warning.

My body remembered trauma,

but I was too numb to recognize the signs.

No phone. No ride. No help.

So I knocked on the only door I could.

 

A neighbor.

Not a best friend.

Not a sister.

Just a woman whose name I barely knew.

But God… God knew hers.

 

She opened that door like she was waiting for it.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.

Just said, “Let’s go. I got you.”

 

She kept my son.

She cradled the chaos.

She filled in the gap no one else could.

 

And in that sterile, white hospital,

while the world outside went on spinning,

I delivered my third miracle:

 

Damian Vinson Clark.

October 4, 2010.

 

Born into a storm.

Born from a mama who thought she had nothing left.

But he came with thunder and purpose,

and I knew then—

God still wasn’t done with me.

 

 "The spiral..." 

 

The sun was barely out when I brought Damian home.

His tiny cries felt like sunlight piercing through the fog of my failures.

I was too tired to cry, too numb to smile.

The plastic hospital wristband was still on my arm.

 

And there he was... 

my big brother, sitting on the steps.

The only person in this world made from the same mother and father as me.

The one who used to shield me from bullies,

wipe my tears with his dirty sleeve,

and walk me to the store with a slingshot in his pocket,

“just in case.”

 

I don’t know how long he had been waiting.

But something in me was glad he came.

 

I dropped the diaper bag, the car seat, and what was left of my strength at the door.

“I need a minute,” I whispered,

sinking into the couch like I belonged to it.

 

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

I waved my hand. “I don’t care.”

 

But that wasn’t weed.

 

I knew the smell. I knew the sound.

I knew the way the room shifted when it was that drug.

 

I went to check. I went to see.

And when I saw what he was doing,

some part of me should’ve said no.

 

But I didn’t.

I asked him to share.

And that was the beginning of the end of the beginning of the end.

 

That was the day I invited destruction in

through bloodlines and brokenness.

That was the day I met the drug that dragged me by my spirit

and left my children standing in a storm I created.

 

I didn’t mean to.

God, I never meant to.

 

But this is what it looks like.

This is what addiction looks like

when grief is the wallpaper,

shame is the carpet,

and survival is the only furniture in the house.

 

You don’t plan to fall that far.

You don’t dream of rocking your newborn

with a pipe cooling on the nightstand.

 

But it happens.

 

And I’m telling this truth

not for pity, not for judgment,

but for someone else.

 

Because somewhere, some mama

is sitting on her own couch

holding a baby

and a bottle

and wondering how she got here.

 

This is how.

This is real.

This was my life.

 

 "When the storm hit..." 

 

This is the part that knots my stomach when I say it out loud.

The part that makes my voice crack and my soul whisper,

“God, if I could do it over…”

But there ain’t no time machines in recovery. Just truth.

 

NiC; my sweet, serious firstborn... 

was only eight.

Eight.

Still small enough to believe in superheroes,

but already carrying the weight of the world

because his mama was lost in it.

 

He became the man of the house

because there wasn’t one.

Because I was barely a shadow of the woman who birthed him.

He fed his brothers,

wiped their noses,

entertained their cries.

And I missed it.

I missed it all.

 

I was somewhere else.

High.

Broken.

Tangled in a web of smoke and survival and self-destruction.

 

And then came the knock.

 

You never forget that knock.

It don’t sound like regular knocking.

It sounds like judgment.

Like consequence.

Like the sound of everything crashing down at once.

 

CPS.

 

An anonymous call.

A desperate plea.

Someone had seen too much, or maybe just enough.

 

They were right.

I wasn’t okay.

I couldn’t fake it anymore.

I was trembling, tweaking, lost in my own body.

And when the worker walked in and saw the mess that was my motherhood,

they didn’t hesitate.

 

They took my babies.

 

I stood in the middle of my living room,

staring at the backs of my children

as they were led out the door

and into the arms of strangers.

Strangers.

Foster care.

 

My knees hit the ground.

My voice cracked open like thunder.

And all I could think was... 

 

"what. the. fuck." 

 

How did I let it get this far?

How did I hand over my babies

to a system that don’t know their middle names,

don’t know that NiC hates syrup on his pancakes,

don’t know that Dorrian cries when you turn the lights off,

don’t know that Damian giggles in his sleep?

 

I lost them.

 

And it was nobody else’s fault.

Not the drugs.

Not the grief.

Me.

 

This was my rock bottom.

And even then, I wasn’t done falling.

 

 "The first step..."

 

Court felt like judgment day.

Not the kind the church warns you about, 

the kind where you sit in a cold, stiff pew

and watch your whole life flash in front of strangers

who barely glance up from their paperwork.

I sat in that courtroom

wearing the same jeans I probably wore the day before,

hair matted, heart heavy,

and I listened as they read the list of ways I had failed.

Every word sliced me open,

but what hurt the most was, 

they weren’t lying.

 

Neglect.

Substance abuse.

Unsafe environment.

Failure to protect.

 

And all I could do was nod.

Because how do you defend yourself

when every accusation is true?

 

They said if I ever wanted to see my children again,

I had to engage in residential treatment.

 

I didn’t even know what that was.

I thought it was therapy in a building.

An appointment I could go to, check off, go home.

But no... 

they meant I had to live there.

For months.

 

Live somewhere other than the hollow apartment

that held all my rock bottoms.

 

I didn’t care.

I would’ve lived on the moon if it meant getting my babies back.

 

So on May 1, 2012,

I walked through the doors of Project Network

with nothing but a black garbage bag, a cracked phone,

and the kind of desperation

that makes you willing to do whatever it takes.

 

That was the day I started to become someone else.

Not instantly, 

but inch by inch, breath by breath,

I started fighting for the mother I was always meant to be.

 

 "The Return..." 

 

Treatment felt like being launched into orbit—

foreign air, new language,

rules I didn’t understand and people

who saw through me in ways I wasn’t ready for.

Project Network wasn’t what I expected.

It wasn’t sterile walls and whispering nurses.

It was a house full of women who looked like me,

wounded like me,

mothers like me, 

trying to crawl our way back to our children

and ourselves.

 

I didn’t know there were spaces like that.

Culturally specific? For Black women?

Addiction and mental health and motherhood all in one?

What kind of magic was this?

I thought the only people who got help were celebrities

sipping smoothies in Malibu.

But this was different.

This was soul work.

This was church without a steeple.

 

I spent months there before I saw my boys again.

Months climbing out of the fog,

learning how to sit with myself

without numbing every ache.

 

Then one day, they told me I’d have a visit.

 

I sat on that swing like it was judgment day all over again.

My knees bounced like a drum. My palms were slick.

And then I saw the car.

I saw NiC; my soldier, my firstborn, 

unbuckling his baby brother.

He spotted me and ran,

full of light, like I hadn’t missed a single bedtime.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t ask questions.

He just ran into my arms

and let me bury my regret in his little shoulders.

 

I kissed his cheeks like I was trying to turn back time.

 

And then I saw Dorrian.

He didn’t run.

He didn’t even smile at first.

 

He looked at the swing set, probably thought it was recess.

But then he realized, that’s Mom.

 

He stopped cold.

Frozen between joy and heartbreak.

I crouched down and opened my arms.

 

He walked slow.

Tears already falling.

And when he got close enough, he whispered:

 

“I miss you, Mom.”

 

That hug, 

it was the kind of hug that can baptize your guilt

and make you believe in second chances.

 

 "Relapse..." 

 

Healing don’t come in straight lines.

It don’t always clap for you.

Sometimes it just whispers,

You’re not ready yet.

 

The visits had started to feel like normal.

Playgrounds and coloring books.

Short hugs that turned into long ones.

Then the day came when they said:

The boys can stay.

 

My two youngest returned to me,

back under the same roof,

where lullabies and peanut butter sandwiches

were starting to stitch us back together.

But not NiC.

He was too old, they said.

Too big to live in the treatment center.

 

So he went to a home with older boys.

One where he could stretch his legs

and maybe feel like he belonged somewhere too.

 

He came on weekends... 

my firstborn, my partner in survival.

Every time he left,

it felt like a scab being peeled off too early.

I tried to act okay.

Tried to make dinner feel normal.

Movies, chores, bedtime stories…

But nothing could soften the ache

of not having all my babies under one roof.

 

After almost a year, I walked across that stage, Project Network behind me.

Sobriety under my belt.

Keys to clean and sober housing in my hand.

And then, finally, NiC came home too.

We were a family again.

We had an address.

We had a dining table.

We had a chance.

 

But there was something no one could see; 

not the case worker,

not the counselor,

not even the mirror.

 

My mind was still bleeding.

 

The anxiety, the shame, the loneliness... 

they came creeping back.

I thought I could outdrink it.

Just a shot here, a swig there.

In the bathroom.

Behind closed doors.

When the kids were asleep.

 

And when that wasn’t enough,

I called big bro again.

Opened the door to his ghosts.

Let him bring over the storm.

Old tricks. New guilt.

 

I hid from the world

and from myself.

Because the truth is,

recovery ain’t just about putting the bottle down.

It’s about putting your demons to bed

and they don’t go quietly.

 

Then one day, a knock.

Another CPS call.

But this time,

this time was different.

 

 "Again?"

 

There he was again, Billy.

Big man, bigger clipboard,

no smile, no softness,

just facts and ultimatums.

He said he knew.

Knew I was ducking,

Knew I was sinking again.

Knew the liquor was back,

whispering lies that sounded like lullabies.

 

And I sat there…

trembling inside,

heart loud, mind louder.

This couldn’t be happening again.

Not again.

Not again.

 

He gave me two options:

Tell the truth and return to treatment,

or watch my babies get pulled

from under me

like a rug soaked in love and shame.

 

I nodded.

Maybe cried a little.

Can’t remember.

But I agreed.

 

Went home to an empty apartment.

The quiet was almost holy.

Too quiet for a mama who knows

she’s about to break her child’s heart.

 

I picked up the phone,

called Project Network... 

they answered like they’d been

sitting by the phone for weeks.

No judgment.

Just open arms and beds made.

 

Called Katie,

my best friend,

my only friend sometimes.

Told her the truth... 

well, part of it.

Asked her to take NiC.

 

She paused.

Hesitated.

Then said yes.

 

And then the hardest part... 

telling my boy.

 

When he walked through the door,

I swear time slowed down.

I felt twelve again... 

small, scared,

the way I used to feel

when my dad would disappear for days.

 

I told NiC I had started drinking again.

Didn’t mention the other stuff.

Didn’t mention the fear.

Didn’t say I was scared I’d ruin him,

like I’d ruined everything else.

 

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t yell.

Just… dropped his head and walked upstairs.

His silence louder than any scream

I could’ve braced for.

 

Three weeks.

That’s all the time I had

to pack up a life

we were just starting to rebuild.

 

Three weeks to kiss his forehead at night,

to memorize the way he looked

when he pretended to be strong.

 

Three weeks until I disappeared again

into those treatment center doors,

praying this time

would finally be the last time

 

 "The RIGHT way..."

 

October 16, 2014.

It was raining, maybe it wasn’t... 

but it felt like rain.

The kind that drips inside your bones

and carries the weight of every wrong turn.

 

I stayed the night at Katie’s,

my safe haven with walls made of mercy.

That morning, CPS drove me and my youngest boys

back to the place where I lost

and found myself before.

Project Network, only now, it looked different.

New building.

New hope.

Same mission.

 

I walked in with my head bowed,

a whisper of the woman I once tried to be.

Skin stretched over sorrow.

Too thin to hold all that shame.

 

Then they saw me.

They saw me.

Staff from before came out like a choir of second chances,

no judgment, just grace in work uniforms.

One said:

“Lift your head up. We’re gonna do this the right way now.”

 

And I don’t know what it was, 

maybe the way she said “we”

like I wasn’t alone in this climb, 

but I believed her.

 

Did I feel worthy?

Not even a little.

I felt like a ghost

trying to mother the living.

I felt like an open wound

in a world that didn’t stop bleeding.

 

But something about walking through those doors again

felt like the beginning of something

braver than hope.

 

I wasn’t just a mom who slipped.

I wasn’t just a junkie with history.

I was a woman with a fight left in her.

A mother who still believed

she was worth redemption.

 

This time, I knew the terrain, 

the long days of groups,

the late-night soul digging,

the weeping that hits during step work.

But I was ready.

 

This time,

wasn’t just about not using.

It was about healing.

It was about facing the little girl inside me

who’d been waiting for someone to choose her.

 

I chose her.

I chose me.

I chose my sons.

 

And we were about to rebuild

not the same house; 

but a new one,

brick by brick,

truth by truth,

promise by promise.

 

" I had to make it..." 

 

I spent the next few months in treatment

like I was training for war, 

a war against the me I had been.

This wasn’t about checking boxes.

This was soul work.

This was showing up raw,

tired, hopeful, shaking, determined.

 

I showed up to appointments,

I engaged in my mental health.

I learned how to tuck my babies in at night

like it was an art form.

Bath, lotion, jammies, story, kiss.

Who knew that a routine could feel like a redemption song?

 

NiC visited on weekends,

and every time he came I prayed silently:

“God, please let him see me trying.”

He did.

 

But I didn’t believe in myself yet.

I thought I was too far gone.

I thought “once an addict, always an addict”

was stitched into my DNA.

 

But Cheryl... 

Ms. Cheryl.

This beautiful Black woman with eyes like love

and a voice like God’s whisper

believed in me so hard

that I had to start believing in me too.

 

She prayed for me.

She trusted me to fall and get up.

She didn’t flinch at my pain.

She gave me permission to rise.

 

With her,

and with my therapist,

I started seeing myself as someone worth saving.

As someone worth building.

 

After graduation, I moved into clean and sober housing, again, 

but this time I was ready.

This time NiC came home too.

And I swore with every breath in me

that he would never

ever

have to pack a bag and leave again.

 

I cooked dinner every night.

We watched TV in the living room.

We had normal... 

and normal felt like winning the lottery.

 

I told God... 

or whoever was still listening,

“I won’t do it again. I swear.”

And I meant it.

Not just to Him.

To me.

 

At 33 years old, I went back for my GED.

My son was in eighth grade,

and I wanted to help him with homework like other moms did.

School during the day for all of us.

That’s when the impossible whispered:

“College.”

 

Me!?

A dropout, a mother, a recovering addict.

But I went.

And I became

the thing I used to run from:

an alcohol and drug counselor.

 

Not because it was cute.

Not because everyone in recovery says they want to.

But because I had to show my sons

that I could do more than destroy.

That I could build.

 

I finished the program.

Got my addiction certificate.

Just a few more credits? Might as well get the degree.

Then came the internship…

 

Where else?

Project Network.

I walked back through those doors,

this time not as a broken woman

but as a blooming one.

 

I learned.

I worked.

I showed up.

 

By the end, they offered me a job.

Part-time counselor.

At the very place where I found myself.

 

And the rest?

The rest was legacy.

Legacy Health, to be exact, 

Project Nurture.

Helping moms like me

hold onto their babies

and build new beginnings.

 

I didn’t just rebuild my life.

I reconstructed a blueprint

for what generational healing looks like.

 

My sons saw me.

They trusted me.

They knew me.

Not the haunted version, 

but the healed one.

 

And every decision now

was made like my soul had a steering wheel.

Because I’d already crashed too many times.

 

This time, I was driving.

With grace as my fuel.

With purpose on the map.

And God in the rearview saying,

“Look at you now, baby girl.”

For those who carry pain quietly

This page is for the person who knows what it’s like to carry pain quietly. Someone who has struggled with addiction, trauma, or loving someone who has. They’re reflective, searching, and tired of being misunderstood. They may be in recovery, on the edge of it, or still in active addiction; but something inside them knows there has to be more. They’re open to honesty, growth, and grace, and they’re drawn to stories that tell the truth without glamorizing the damage. They want to feel seen, not saved.

The emotional reality

I want to highlight the emotional and psychological reality of active addiction... not just the behavior. I want to share what it felt like to live in survival mode: using substances to numb grief, abandonment, and unprocessed trauma while still showing up as a mother, partner, and professional. I want to speak honestly about the shame, the rationalizations, the spiritual conflict, and the moments of self-awareness that existed even while I was using. Addiction didn’t start with substances, it started with pain, and recovery required relearning how to feel, trust, and live without escaping myself.