Author: The Fragrance of my Mother

Still Becoming…

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

I wake up and I already know. 

Not because I remember everything clearly – but because of the weight. It’s sitting on my chest before I even open my eyes. Heavy, familiar, impossible to ignore. 

My mouth is dry, my head is dull, and there’s this quiet dread creeping in like it’s been waiting for me to wake up so it can fully settle. 

I check my phone. 3:07 p.m. 

What day is it? I’ve completely lost track. I’m sure it’s only Friday… It’s Tuesday. 

Of course it is. 

Half the day is gone and I wasn’t even living it. Just hiding from it. Sleeping doesn’t even feel like rest anymore – it feels like avoidance. Like I knocked myself out just to not be conscious inside my own head. 

I lay there longer than I should. Staring at nothing. Thinking about everything I don’t want to think about. 

What I did. 

How easy it was. 

How fast I folded. 

It replays in flashes, not even full memories – just enough to make my stomach turn. And the worst part? There’s this sick, quiet voice in the back of my head that’s not even surprising. As if to say, yeah…. This is what you do. It was only a matter of time. 

I hate that voice. Because it sounds like me. 

Getting out of bed feels pointless, but staying in it feels worse. So I just sit there, stuck in between, scrolling my phone like I can outrun the feeling. I can’t. It’s in my body now. It’s in the way my chest feels tight, the way my thoughts won’t land anywhere without turning dark. 

I start doing that thing where I bargain with reality. 

Maybe it wasn’t that bad. 

Maybe I can just reset tomorrow. 

Maybe no one has to know. 

Maybe someone DID hack my instagram and phone and messages and phone calls…

But underneath all of it is the truth, loud and steady: 

You knew better. And you did it anyway. Not once at this point, but for days in a row now. 

That’s the part that cuts the deepest. Not the act itself – but the awareness. The fact that I watched myself cross the line a long time ago and said nothing. That the last relapse wasn’t that bad. Like I was split in two – one part screaming, the other part already too far gone to care. 

At this point, as Brad Pitt once described it, this thing had me on my back.  

Basic things feel hard now. 

Showering feels like a chore. Eating feels like something I have to force, if I even can. Texts go unanswered because I don’t even know how to pretend to be normal right now. Everything in my life suddenly feels slightly out of reach, like I’m behind glass watching it instead of actually living it. 

And there’s shame. 

Not the soft kind. Not the “I messed up, I’ll do better” kind. The kind that makes you want to disappear and draw completely into yourself. 

The kind that says if people really saw this version of you – the one who caves, who lies to themselves and everyone around them, who keeps going back to the same thing – they wouldn’t recognize you. Or worse, they would. 

I sit with that for a while. Too long, probably. 

Because the truth is, this isn’t just about one relapse. 

It’s about the pattern. The cycle. The part of me that keeps choosing something that wrecks me and then has to wake up and live in the aftermath like this. 

3 pm. Alone. Heavy. Trying to figure out how to exist in my own skin again. 

And the scariest thought isn’t even “why did I do it?” 

It’s – 

What if I do it again? 

This brings me to today. 

A few days sober, technically. But it doesn’t feel clean or triumphant – it feels like I’m walking through fog and I can’t see where I’m going or what’s on the other side. Like everything is slightly muted, slightly off, like I’m here but not fully in anything.

My brain is slow, my emotions are unpredictable, and there’s this constant low hum underneath it all that I can’t shut off. It’s not loud enough to name, but it’s there. 

This is the part no one celebrates. 

The in-between. The early days where nothing feels fixed, just exposed. 

And I’m writing this because I’m too good at hiding. Too good at smiling just enough, responding just enough for people not to worry, showing up just enough that no one keeps asking me deeper questions. I know how to disappear without actually leaving. I know how to shut people out in a way that’s almost scary. 

And that’s exactly where this thing has always grown – in the quiet, in the isolation, in the spaces where no one can see me clearly. 

I think that’s why I refuse to keep being silent about it. Why I refuse to keep sitting in denial and just waiting for my character to suddenly change. 

Because when people picture someone struggling with this, they often picture something obvious. Something messy and visible and easy to label. (I’ve been there before too). But a lot of the time, it looks like me – functioning just enough, hiding really well, slowly unraveling in private. 

And no one likes to talk about that. 

Or if they do, they soften it. They make it more palatable and easier to swallow. Less uncomfortable. 

I don’t want to do that. Not this time. 

Someone recently asked me if putting such vulnerable things about my life out there is even a good idea. What if it makes people uncomfortable? What if it upsets or embarrasses someone? 

And honestly – yeah. It might. 

But hiding hasn’t done me any favors. Silence hasn’t protected me. If anything, it’s protected the addiction – even when I wasn’t drinking. It’s giving it space to grow without resistance, without exposure, without consequence. 

I’m over that. 

I might be someone who has relapsed more times than I can count. Someone who has fallen on her face, made the same mistakes, sat in the same shame over and over again. 

But there has never been a time I didn’t get back up. 

Not once. 

Bruised, embarrassed, exhausted – yes. But I get up. 

And I’m not sharing this because I’m proud of the mess or because I need anyone to tell me I’m strong. I’m sharing it because I know exactly what happens when I don’t. 

My addiction thrives in secrecy. 

It survives in isolation. 

But it does not survive in vulnerability. 

And I’m done giving it somewhere to hide. 

So I will keep writing. 

Not just when things are messy. Not just when I’ve fallen apart. Not only when everything feels like it’s burning and I need somewhere to put out the smoke. 

But also when it’s quiet. 

When it’s uncertain. 

When nothing dramatic is happening and that’s exactly what makes it hard – the in-between days where I don’t know if I’m healing or just pausing, where I can’t tell if I’m moving forward or just standing still in the thick of the fog, unsure of where I am, and hoping it counts as progress. 

Those are the moments that usually get lost. The ones no one really documents because they don’t feel important enough. They’re either too painful, or not painful enough to be compelling, not joyful enough to celebrate. Just… existing. Floating. Unclear. 

But I think that’s where most of life actually happens… Especially for me right now. 

So I want to write it all. 

I want to write about the mornings where I still feel heavy but I get up anyway. The days where I don’t feel fixed, but  I don’t fall apart either. The quiet decisions no one sees – choosing not to isolate, choosing not to spiral, choosing to stay present even when everything in me wants to disappear and hide. 

Because healing isn’t just the big turning points. It’s not just the relapse or the breakthrough or the dramatic before and after. 

It’s the slow stitching in-between. 

And I don’t want to only remember my life as a series of extremes – broken, then better, then broken again. I want the full thread. The continuity. The small, almost invisible moments where something in me shifted and I didn’t even have language for it yet. 

Maybe that’s what this becomes. 

Not just a record of what I survived – but a testimony built in real time. Not polished. Not edited for comfort. Just honest enough to hold the truth of who I was in each version of it. 

So that one day, when I’m further on the other side of this,  I can look back and see it clearly. 

Not just the falling apart. 

Not just the getting back up. 

But everything in between that quietly made me someone who stayed. 

Here Again

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t plan to be here again. 

That’s the part I keep circling back to – the quiet confidence I had this time felt different, that I had it under control – or at least was well on my way to. And then something shifted, or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was always there, just waiting. 

I replasped.

Hard enough to make my heart sink as I write this. And even typing that feels heavier than I expected, like the words themselves carry shame I haven’t figured out how to put down yet. 

Anyone who knows me and knows my journey of the past 7 or so years of trying to get sober, of trying to figure out how to live sober, knows that relapse is not unfamiliar to me. In fact, it’s been more consistent than my actual sobriety. That’s a hard truth to have to swallow and come to terms with. Yet, it hasn’t stopped me most times from going back. 

In fact, a lot of times, I think it’s what drives me back. The shame of it all. 

It feels like it escalated so quickly – like one moment I was steady and the next I was right back in it, full force. Addiction raging and suddenly I couldn’t see the way out. But if I’m being honest, I don’t know if that’s true. I think I want it to be sudden because sudden feels easier to forgive. 

If it “just happened”, then I don’t have to look too closely at everything that came before it. But there were signs, weren’t there? Subtle shifts in my thinking, in the quiet justifications, the moments I chose not to pause and check in with myself or anyone else. 

I keep asking how I got here again, like it’s a mystery, but part of me knows it wasn’t one step – it was a series of small ones I didn’t fully notice, or maybe didn’t want to acknowledge. 

I think the hardest part to admit is that it doesn’t feel like I just slipped- it feels like I’ve been slowly giving up on myself for awhile now. Little ways, quiet ways, choosing what’s easy over what’s right, telling myself I’d try harder tomorrow.

And now it feels like that’s caught up to me, like the people around me can see it too, and maybe they’re starting to give up in their own ways. And I can’t say that I blame them. 

That’s what hurts the most I think – that this doesn’t just live inside me. It spills out onto everyone who cares about me, and somehow I feel like I’m the one causing the damage while also being the one stuck in it. 

I feel alone in a way that’s hard to explain, like even when people are there – reaching out, trying to support me – I’m separate from them, watching myself disappoint them in real time. And I want it to get better so badly, I want to feel different, to be different – but the work it takes to actually change feels so overwhelming that I don’t even know where to start. (Or start over again, I should say.) 

And that’s the trap isn’t it? Because picking up a drink cuts through all of that for a few minutes. It softens the edges, quiets the noise, makes everything feel manageable – until it doesn’t. Until those few minutes get shorter and shorter, and I’m left chasing something that barely even works anymore. Something that not only doesn’t work, but is intent on destroying my life. 

Even though it doesn’t feel like there’s hope right now, I know – somewhere deeper than my emotions – that there is. Because God has never been dependent on how I feel. He isn’t a God of fleeting comfort or temporary relief; He’s a God of promise. 

And I’ve lived that before. I’ve walked through darker, heavier seasons than this and somehow, every single time, He’s been steady when I wasn’t. Faithful when I drifted. Present even when I couldn’t feel Him at all. So I know He’ll do it again – I just don’t know how to hold on in the meantime, and that’s the part that feels almost unbearable. 

Maybe that’s where surrender comes in. Not the kind that feels peaceful or resolved, but the kind that costs everything. 

Letting go of the person I thought I loved. Letting go of the life I was trying so hard to build and control. Letting go of the version of myself I keep trying to force into existence. And trusting – really trusting – that maybe everything needs to be undone before it can be rebuilt the right way.

That maybe, I need to step back and let Him rearrange what I’ve tangled, rebuild what I’ve broken, and carry what I was never meant to hold on my own…. Even if it means starting all over again.

I don’t write any of this to impress anyone or to turn it into something meaningful for other people. If anything, it’s the opposite. I write because I need somewhere to be brutally honest with myself, somewhere I can come back to years later and see the bigger picture I can’t always see in the moment. 

Because when I look back over the years, over entries written in completely different headspaces, I can’t ignore the pattern – God has been faithful even when I’ve been completely lost and out of my right mind. 

It hasn’t been random.

It hasn’t been pointless.

Even when everything felt chaotic, He was still doing something underneath it all. And if I’m really honest, the times my life has gone the most off track are the times I stepped out of where He had me and decided I knew better. I chased my own way, my own timing, my own desires and my own control- and it’s never once ended well for me. And still, I keep going back to that, like I forget every lesson as soon as things start to feel okay again. 

So I write because this is the only place, outside of numbing out, where things get quiet enough for me to actually think. 

Where I can sit with the confusion instead of running from it. Drinking makes everything go silent for a moment, but this – this is different. This is where I try to make sense of things that don’t make sense to my very human, very limited mind. 

Where I can be messy and unsure and still somehow feel like I’m not completely lost in it. Where I can remember, even faintly, that there’s something bigger happening than what I can see right now. 

Right now I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel redeemed or even remotely put back together. I feel like something in me has been scraped raw – like I can still feel the damage in my chest, in my hands, in the way I keep replaying everything I wish I could undo. Everything I wish I could unsay. 

There’s a heaviness that sits in my body like I can’t outrun it, no matter how much I want to disappear from it for a while. And I hate that I did this again. I hate the version of me that reaches for something that destroys me just to stop feeling things for a few minutes. I hate how quickly it becomes a cycle I recognize and hate, but still step into. 

But if I stay here long enough – past the shame, past the spiral, past the urge to shut it all down – I know the only way forward is through honesty and small, deliberate steps back toward life. Not fixing everything at once. Not becoming someone new overnight. Just stopping the bleeding where it is, one choice at a time. 

Reaching out instead of isolating. Telling the truth instead of hiding it. Letting the discomfort exist without feeding it. And trusting that even now, especially now, I am not beyond repair. I don’t have to feel ready. I just have to not disappear from myself again. 

If this is the version of me the world sees right now – struggling, messy, trying and failing and trying again – I don’t want that to be the whole story to my life. I don’t want to be remembered for the nights I gave up on myself or the ways I numbed out when things got hard. I want to be remembered as someone who kept coming back. 

Someone who fought for her life even when it felt impossible. Someone who loved deeply, who cared, who didn’t stop believing that God could still make something beautiful out of the broken pieces. 

I want to be remembered for choosing to get back up, over and over again, even when no one saw it, even when it felt pointless. Not because I did it perfectly – but because I didn’t stay down. 

So this is where I am. 

No clean ending, no neat redemption arc – just me, sitting in the wreckage of my own choices, telling the truth about it. I don’t have a breakthrough to wrap this up with. I don’t feel fixed. I feel exposed, tired, and painfully aware of how easily I can lose myself. 

But I’m still here. 

And maybe that’s the only honest place to start again – not with confidence or clarity, but with nothing left to hide. If there’s any way forward, it has to begin here, in the mess, with me choosing – however weakly, however imperfectly – not to run from it this time.

To be continued…. 

To Gina and Megan.

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

Days go on. 

Life goes on. 

Yet, I don’t know how to live with the questions. 

They don’t come gently – they rip through me. 

What did I miss? 

What didn’t I say? 

Why didn’t I see it? 

Why didn’t I do more? 

I keep thinking there had to be a moment- just one – where I could’ve reached you. Where I could’ve said the right thing in the right way and it would’ve cut through whatever was hurting you enough to make you put the drugs/needle down. To make you stay. I replay our conversations like if I study them hard enough, I’ll find the exact moment you decided “do it just one more time”. 

And God, that thought is unbearable. 

Because I would have done anything. 

Anything. 

I would have sat with you all night.

I would have answered every call. 

I would have fought for you even when you didn’t have the strength to fight for yourself. 

I would have carried your pain if it meant you didn’t have to feel it anymore. 

You didn’t deserve the kind of pain that made using feel like the only option. That numbing out was the only option – even if it cost you your life. And it kills me that I didn’t understand how deep it went. That maybe you were drowning right in front of me and I didn’t see it for what it was. 

I hate that I couldn’t save you. That no one could have saved you. 

I hate that I’m still here living a life that you should be a part of. That I still reach for my phone to text you. That I still think “she’ll love this” before it hits me all over again that you’re gone. 

You’re just gone. 

And it doesn’t make sense. It never will make sense. 

There is this ache in my chest that doesn’t leave – it just changes shape. Some days it’s quiet, and other days it’s so loud I can’t hear anything else. Because I don’t just miss you – I miss who I was when you were here. 

I miss telling you everything I couldn’t tell anyone else. 

I miss reading vocab words to you straight from the dictionary. 

I miss arguing with you about why I can’t make you homemade granola or croutons. 

I hope wherever you are, the pain stops. I hope you’re not hurting anymore. I hope you know how loved you were, even if it didn’t feel like it. 

And I’m so, so sorry that love wasn’t enough to keep you here.

I would have saved you if I knew how. 

I still wish I could. 

But as much as I want it my way, it’s His not mine. 

I have to believe Jeus was there when it happened – that He saw your pain, held you in it, and carried you somewhere peaceful when it got too heavy. I have to believe you’re resting now. 

Safe. 

Whole. 

And I know that someday, we’ll meet again – painting under the trees, next to the flowers. 

Begin Again.

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

There’s something about spring that feels deeply personal. 

All winter long the world sits quietly – bare branches stretched against grey skies, gardens emptied, the earth cold and still. Everything looks like it’s gone dormant, like life has stepped away for a while. And in many ways, we do the same. 

Winter has a way of stripping things down, it slows us. It quiets us. Sometimes it leaves us feeling just as bare as the trees outside our windows. 

But then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, spring arrives. 

It doesn’t rush in loudly. It comes in small ways – the soft return of birdsong in the morning, the first stubborn shoots of green pushing their way through the soil, the way the air suddenly smells different. Warmer. Brighter. Alive again. 

When you live surrounded by the woods, you feel it even more. 

The forest begins to wake up around you. The birds return first, filling the quiet mornings with a kind of music that winter had taken away. The sunlight starts filtering through the trees in softer, warmer beams, reaching places it hasn’t touched in months. And when you step outside, you can feel it immediately – the gentle warmth of the sun on your face, the crispness of the air that still carries a hint of the nearby ocean. 

There’s something about the mix of pine, damp earth, and salt water that makes you breathe a little deeper. 

And then come the colors. 

After months of muted browns and grays, little bursts of color begin appearing everywhere – tiny wildflowers along the trails, soft green buds on the trees, bright blossoms scattered like confetti across the landscape. It’s hard not to notice how intentional it all feels. 

God could have made the world in simple shades. The trees could have stayed brown, the flowers could have bloomed without color, the skies could have remained a quiet gray. 

But instead, He wove beauty into creation. 

He painted wildflowers in soft purples and yellows, filled the trees with bright new green, and scattered color across the earth in ways that serve no purpose other than to delight us. It’s a quiet but powerful reminder of His kindness – that He didn’t just give us a world to live in, but one meant to be enjoyed. 

Every bloom feels like a small love letter written into nature… It’s why I love it so much. 

A reminder that we are cared for. 

And something inside us responds. 

Spring is more than a season. It’s a reminder that dormancy isn’t the same as ending. That the quiet seasons of our lives are often the ones preparing us for something new. 

After months of feeling still, we begin to reawaken. 

We start rediscovering the little joys we forgot we loved – the warmth of sunlight on our skin, the sound of birds chattering first thing in the morning, long walks where the air smells clean and the world feels awake again. Even familiar things feel new, as if we’re seeing them with fresh eyes after being tucked away for so long. 

These moments seem small, but they carry a kind of magic. 

They remind us that joy was never gone. It was simply waiting. 

Spring also has a way of reconnecting us with old versions of ourselves. 

The part that loved spontaneous plans. 

The part that laughed easily. 

The part that felt hopeful about what was ahead. 

Those pieces were never lost during the quiet months. They were just resting beneath the surface, like seeds waiting patiently under frozen ground. 

And when the season changes, they begin to rise again. 

But spring doesn’t only bring back who we used to be. It introduces someone new, too. 

The person we are after the quiet seasons is never exactly the same as before. We carry the lessons winter gave us – the resilience, the surviving hard or heavy moments. When we step back into the light, we do so as both our past and our future selves at once. 

That’s the beauty of reawakening. 

We don’t have to choose between who we were and who we’re becoming. Spring teaches us that growth is layered. Old roots support new blossoms. What was once bare can bloom again in ways we never expected. 

Maybe that’s why spring feels so emotional sometimes. 

Standing outside, feeling the sunshine warm your face while the birds chatter above you and the ocean air drifts through the trees, you realize the world never truly stopped. It was only resting. 

Waiting for the moment it could begin again. 

And maybe we were too. 

Spring whispers something gentle but powerful to us every year: 

You are allowed to begin again. 

The Places Where Grief Finds Me.

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

Grief has a way of appearing in the smallest moments. 

Not always in the dramatic ones. Not always in the anniversaries or the days we expect to hurt. Instead, it slips quietly into ordinary life – while driving somewhere familiar, hearing a song on the radio, or when something funny happens and your first instinct is to reach for your phone. 

And then you remember. 

Last year, within six months of each other, two of my dear friends left this world. Even now, it still feels surreal to say that out loud. There are moments when my brain simply refuses to accept it, as if at any moment they’ll pop back into the rhythm of everyday life where they’ve always belonged. 

So often something will happen – a piece of news, a ridiculous story, a good book, a beautiful song, a small victory, a bad day – and they are two of the first people I would have called. 

I still feel the impulse sometimes. The automatic reach toward the phone. The thought forming before reality catches up. 

And then, there’s that quiet pause where I remember they’re not here to answer. 

Songs have become time machines. A few notes of the right one can transport me instantly – back to a car ride (specifically the Teen Challenge van), a laugh that went on too long at a completely inappropriate time, a conversation that felt important even though at the time it seemed ordinary. Music has a way of carrying people with it, and sometimes it feels like pieces of them are still moving through the world that way. 

I hear those songs and for a moment it’s like they’re nearby again. 

Losing them has shown me something I never fully understood before, but has been a long lesson in the making – in fact it’s where this blog was born from: grief isn’t just pain. It’s also evidence of love. 

The depth of missing someone is proof of how deeply they were woven into your life. Every moment I wish I could tell them something, every story I wish they could hear, every time I laugh and instinctively think they would love this – those moments are the shape their friendship left behind. 

Grief is the shadow of love that doesn’t have a place to land anymore. 

And strangely, there’s beauty in that. 

There’s beauty in realizing how rare it is to find people who become part of the way you experience the world. The kind of friends who would have been on the other end of every phone call, who would have understood the story before you even finished telling it, who somehow made life feel bigger simply by being in it. 

Life feels even more fleeting than it did before. 

It’s fragile. Temporary. Precious in a way we often don’t realize until we’re forced to I think about all the things I wish I could still tell them – updates about life, small daily observations, things that would only be funny to them. 

Sometimes I still say those things out loud, half joking, half hoping the universe carries the message somewhere. 

Because love doesn’t really disappear. It just changes form. 

It lives in songs. 

It lives in memories. 

In the quiet instinct to share something with someone who shaped your life. 

And maybe that’s one of the strange gifts grief gives us – it keeps the people we love woven into the way we move through the world. 

So when a song plays and I think of them, or when something happens and my first thought is to call them, I try not to push the feeling away. 

Instead, I let it stay for a moment. 

Because missing them means they mattered. 

And what a beautiful thing it is to have had friendships that still echo this loudly, even after they’re gone. 

Carrying Both – Of Motion and Stillness.

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” – Dr. Seuss

Time is funny like that. 

In my twenties it felt like motion- airports, new cities, late nights, early trains, always somewhere else to be. My life could fit in a suitcase. I would leave on a whim and the world felt enormous and wide open. I chased sunsets in unfamiliar places and lived off curiosity, wine and adrenaline. 

Now my thirties look quieter. A cozy apartment tucked into the woods. Mornings that start slow. Familiar trails, familiar mugs, familiar peace. Trying to grasp sobriety.  A life that doesn’t move so fast. 

And if I’m honest, sometimes it’s conflicting. 

Some days I miss that girl who was always on the go, who collected passport stamps, boarding passes, train tickets and stories like they were oxygen. Sometimes I even grieve that life a little. The freedom, the chaos, the constant motion. 

But I’m learning that this is life too. 

I’m learning how adventure doesn’t always look like a boarding pass or running away. Sometimes it looks like building a life that feels safe. Sometimes it’s learning to stay. Sometimes it’s learning how to be still. 

There are moments I feel a little lost between those two worlds – the wanderer I was and the woman learning to put down roots. But slowly, I’m figuring out how they can exist together. 

How to keep the curiosity. 

How to keep the adventure. 

How to carry that girl with me, even here. 

Maybe time doesn’t ask us to choose who we were or who we’re becoming. Maybe it’s just teaching us how to bridge the two. 

The traveler and the homebody. 

The chaos and the calm. 

And somehow… make a life that holds them both. 

Earlier tonight, I was looking through old photos, and my heart ached a little for that rush of adventure again – the unknown streets, the fleeting sunsets, the dizzying freedom of it all. But there was also a quiet excitement, a curiosity about what life is going to look life moving forward.

How will I carry the girl in her twenties who roamed the world into the woman in her thirties who now calls this cute little place in the forest home? 

I suppose only time will tell, and somehow that feels like the adventure I’ve been waiting for all along… 

Isolate.

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

“I just feel so isolated.” 

I’ve said it a million times since moving to Washington State. Living on an actual island can have that effect. Living on an actual island and then moving into a place of your own in the middle of the woods can be almost haunting. The silence can either be peaceful or deafening. The solitude, at times wonderful, can also become overwhelming. 

I live in a little apartment about 20 minutes outside of one part of the island and 30 outside of the next island over. It’s right smack in the middle. I should tell you when I chose this apartment, it was completely blind and mildly out of desperation. I was in the midst of a relationship ending and one bedroom apartments, where I live, are extremely scarce. I called place after place with no luck. Voicemail after voicemail, never to be returned and call after call, only to be told nothing was available. Granted, my turn around time was quick. 

After days of calling, I finally found somewhere that said they had a unit available. They told me it was a little dated and a little out of the way and asked if I wanted to come look at it. By the grace of God I did not, because had I seen it before I moved in, I never would have said yes (It ended up fine, I saw the potential and after some work, it’s adorable). I signed the lease blind. It was down to the wire to get everything signed and in place before my move in day, but it worked out and I moved in. 

I remember driving out to my new home and thinking how I had never been out that way. In fact, I had no idea where I was. I pulled up to my little apartment… surrounded by big, tall trees, this little tiny quadplex sat in the middle of nowhere. It took me a while to get all moved in and I had some help. But I remember my first few nights alone here. At first, I appreciated the silence. No dogs barking, no fighting or bickering, no one else in my space. I was completely alone and I loved it. But as the days went on that appreciation grew to become loneliness and the silence became louder. Louder to the point where I was doing just about anything to lessen it. To feel less alone. To feel less isolated. 

I’ve been in this little apartment for almost exactly 3 months now. It’s cozy. It’s decorated completely to my liking. On paper, it’s perfect for me. But every day I’ve been here, I’ve been reminded of just how isolated I am. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not only am I isolated from where I had just moved from and the people that live there, but I was starting to feel isolated in a grander sense.

My family lives miles away and half way across the country. My closest friend (geographically) lives an hour away, the rest of my friends and support system about 2 to 3 hours away. My relationship was over and that was the reason I was even here in the first place. The heaviness of it all set in and I began to panic. It was a few weeks in and I remember sitting on my living room floor and turning on some worship music, something that I years ago did  often, but now felt foreign. For the first time in years, it was just me and Jesus again. 

Every other time in my life that would have led me to a moment like that, it would have felt natural. Comfortable. But this time, it felt like I was sitting with a stranger. 

Over the past few years, I’ve cried out to him. I’ve asked him for things when I needed him. I’ve occasionally prayed. But overall, my relationship with the Lord was replaced with another and I was planning to build my life on the one I chose. I was willing to sacrifice Him for her. As I sat there, as the heaviness and panic took over, I didn’t even know where to start. I didn’t know what to say. How could I approach Him after everything I walked away from 3 years prior? After everything He gave me? How could I just come back and sit there with Him? How could I sit in His presence knowing full well I had a heart full of sin and expect Him to be there for me when I so easily walked away from Him? 

It didn’t take long for the walls of my heart to come down and for the tears to follow. My heart broke open in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced. In the past, I’ve at least had my family in the general vicinity so I knew that even if things got hard, I could call them and they’d be there. Or I could call a friend, and they’d be there. This time, it was me and the Lord. As my heart broke and I poured out cries of repentance and grief and wrung my heart out before the Lord, I felt Him tell me just to rest.

 It was okay. I was okay to just be. I laid down and embraced the complete silence. No TV. No music. No anything. I heard him beginning to speak to me… This place, as isolating as it may feel, is a place of safety. He hasn’t isolated me, He’s hidden me away for Himself. He gave me a place to heal and cry out to Him, and to break apart and rest. A place to build a new routine and a new life and a place to sit and be with only Him. A place to seek Him. A secret place to be still, to study, to worship, to pray, to find healing. To get to know Him again.

It’s been a couple months since then, and I’m learning the sweetness of being hidden away with Him. Isolate, by actual definition, means to cause to be or remain apart from others. However, it also means to examine something, to deal with it separately. I don’t believe God intends for any of us to be alone. I believe He gives us community for a reason, especially as someone who’s trying to get sober and stay sober. But spiritually speaking, I think there is such beauty in being separated, set apart and hidden away and I realized that I have been so terrified to be alone with Him. 

I asked Him over and over and over again to take my addiction. To take my mental health struggles. To take my suffering and the other demons I wrestle with. I never understood why they remained. But in being alone with Him, through giving him my entire “yes”, by listening to Him and spending time in His presence, I realize it was all of those awful “unhealed” things that led me to repentance. They led me to a place of desperation that I don’t know if I would otherwise have. That maybe He wasn’t punishing me with those things, but maybe He was going to use them to bring me closer to Him. Maybe… He’s safe. 

In being hidden away with Him, He has been able to deal with me separately. He had to get me alone. He had to get me to Himself. To finally stop running, to finally stop all the destructive behaviors that I’ve lived in for years, to finally start to see my worth as a child of God. In studying the Word, I see time after time, where God does this. He draws someone away, even Jesus, and He draws them away from their surroundings, away from what’s comfortable, away from what they know, and He draws them unto Himself. 

He’s shown me that perfection is not what He’s after. A desperate heart that loves only Him and wants to be made more like him every day is what He’s after. It’s not not relapsing. It’s not, not having any mental health episodes. It’s not, not making the same stupid mistakes that I used to make in my twenties. (There is repentance when I have fallen into those things…) He’s teaching me to really walk this life with Him. Not just day by day. Moment by moment. With a breath by breath dependency. 

This time in my life, this place… It feels holy. Sacred. 

It’s been a long, exhausting road to get me right here. (One which I don’t believe He ever intended for me to walk, but in His kindness, He corrected my course.) To a place where my feet are planted and I rest in His presence trusting Him with my life. These nights are often soaked with tears and the cries continue for now. But there is a steadiness in the brokenness that I didn’t have before. Faith. Faith that even if these battles never cease, I know He’s in them with me. Faith that these moments are but a breath compared to what eternity will be with Him. 

I guess I say all this to say that I am so grateful that God has saved my life over and over again. That He’s brought me to a place of safety, redeemed me and is actively restoring my life in the quietness of my home. I’m so grateful to be hidden away with Him and that He’s healing me and mending what’s broken. My prayer is that in all of this, that I would know Him. That I would be desperate for Him in greater measure every day. That these past 10 years of struggle, addiction and brokenness would shout how kind and merciful He is. That the things that have held me captive would be silenced as I get back up and take up the authority that I have in Jesus. 

I didn’t think I would ever say this, but I am starting to love this season of my life. I thought the whole point of all of this was learning to be alone and to be okay with that, and I couldn’t be more grateful to be so wrong. It’s learning to find Him and realize that I’m never alone. Sometimes He just has to slow us down and draw us away, unto Himself, to get ahold of us. Amidst all of the struggle and the heartache, I have Him and nothing compares to that. 

“In winter, are the trees bare? Yes. In winter, are the trees barren? No. Life still is.”

Alicia Britt Chloe, Anonymous

This is my story…

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

“I can trust God with my life. God has a plan for me. I was born with a purpose. I was born with talents. I was born with a mission to set the captive free. I can trust God with my life.

 I try to say these truths to myself, over and over; hoping somehow they sink in. Praying somehow they shout louder than the voices that haunt me. Cuz from day to day they are battling with all the words inside of me; the many wars inside of me. Like what if God fails me? What if I make a mistake and I ruin the lives of the people around me? What if I’m the one person who doesn’t have a purpose? What if my talents are not good enough? What if my decisions are not good enough? What if my life is not up to par of what everyone expects of me and I’m drowning in the sea of what-ifs…” 

These Waters by Hosanna Wong 

I spoke these words 3 years ago at an event. Tears came to my eyes and a lump grew in my throat as I said them because they resonated so deeply with me. I felt them in bones. 

3 years later, I still find myself weeping over these words. 

The doubt that I thought would subside is still here. The voices and the words inside of me that I thought would be silenced are still very much battling. 

As I get ready to go back to the place I ran from, I find myself terrified but finally hopeful. I find myself encouraged. I find myself at peace. All things I’ve desperately longed to feel again but thought were out of reach. 

I will say this. 

God. Is. Good. 

ALL. The. Time. 

In the darkness, He is light. In the chaos, He is peace. In the confusion, He is clarity. In the doubt, He is sure. In faithlessness, He is faithful. In weakness, He is strong. 

I was raised on these words. They were instilled into me as a little girl. Yet somehow, thirty-some years later, I still wrestle with them. I still question Him. 

I’ll say this…. 

Addiction is a monster. A bigger monster than I ever realized. Yet God is greater still. Relapse happens and it’s easy to feel like all hope is lost. Loss happens and it’s easy to feel like all hope is lost. LIFE happens and it’s easy to feel like all hope is lost. 

But God can author a redemption arc like no one else. Hope is not lost. Not with Him, ever. He can fix and resolve what nothing and no one else ever could. 

In the moments I felt like my life was over, like things were too far gone, He always responds. He always steps in. It just takes my willingness. 

This past year I was sober, and yet somehow further away from Him than ever. I relapsed and I found Him again in my brokenness. 

Why? How? 

He is a God that LOVES the broken. He is near to the brokenhearted. He finds us in our weakness and it truly is where He is strong.

I have tried to shoulder everything myself. I failed. 

But Jesus… 

The moment my world fell apart, I found Him again. He was waiting with open arms. And somehow, in all of my doubt, in all of my faithlessness, in all of my brokenness, there He was.  

And the crazy thing about Jesus is that He used the thing I hated more than anything (my addiction) to pull me out. Had my addiction not flared back up and my relationship not fallen apart, I don’t think I ever would have seen that I was spiritually dying. 

He took something horrible and used it for His glory and my good. 

Addiction is overwhelming. But God is bigger. Doubt is overwhelming. But God is bigger. He is there, always. 

He never leaves us and He never forsakes us. 

All this to say, my life that I built for myself on pride and ego, fell apart. Crumbled. I relapsed. My relationship ended. I am moving back to the place I ran away from. 

But God is so good. He is so patient. He is so gentle. 

When I look at the fruit of my life as of recent, I can’t say that any of it is viable. It’s dead and decaying. 

So I’ve decided to make a change and go where He sends me. I cried out to Him and let me tell you, when I say He made things move in 24 hours, He flipped my world upside down and opened every door that needed to be opened. 

He is a good and gracious Savior. 

I just want to love Jesus. 

With all my heart and mind and soul. 

I just want to honor Him with my life. 

I am beginning this journey today. I’m leaving literally everything behind to pursue Jesus. 

And I have decided… 

To follow Jesus. 

A Father’s Love

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

I went home to see my family this past weekend. 

It was only the second year that I’ve been home for Christmas in a somewhat normal way. (I was deep in rehab a few years before that). Not that I don’t love to see my entire family when I come back, but a little over 2 years ago, my nephew was born.

Coming back since getting sober has typically proven to be bittersweet and challenging. I’m constantly reminded of the aftermath that my addiction left in its wake, the brunt remnants of which are held mostly in my family. However, knowing that I get to come home and see the most  handsome, sweet, sassy, little brown haired boy makes it infinitely worthwhile.

 Although he’s far too little to know or understand, for me, he represents the hope of a better life and restoration in my family and my relationships with my family. Being able to be a part of his life is something that would have never happened if I would have continued on the destructive path I was on years ago. Seeing his little face, hearing his sweet little voice and giggle, and even witnessing his adorable temper tantrums that only a two year old can throw (adorable meaning “he’s my nephew and can do no wrong”), makes coming home so much sweeter. 

While our family was all together for Christmas, there was a moment after we had opened all the presents, we had eaten and we were all just lounging and talking. I looked over into the entry way and I saw my nephew and my brother (his dad) sitting in the most random spot… in front of the front door. Apparently that’s where my nephew chose to sit and my brother just decided to spend time with him right there. 

I looked over and I watched as my silly little nephew played with a giant teddy bear as he was in his own little toddler world, having no interest in the rest of the festivities, as my brother just watched on with a smile that could only be described as pure joy. My nephew wasn’t doing anything particularly impressive (although to his aunt, his sheer existence is impressive in itself). He didn’t need anything. He was perfectly content with his teddy bear. He sat and talked and babbled to himself as his dad looked on in adoration. 

I sat there and just watched. One, because there is something so special about your big brother becoming a parent that words can’t begin to describe how precious that is to witness. And two, because I felt tears welling up in my eyes and emotion welling up in my heart. When I finally turned to look away so as to not burst into tears in front of my entire family like an unstable, crazy person, I turned my head and saw my dad, sitting right next to me, surrounded by all of his kids, smiling.

We weren’t doing anything particularly impressive.  We didn’t need anything. But he was just enjoying being in the presence of his children. 

I took a mental snapshot of that whole scene and tucked it away. It was one of those moments that just seemed too special to forget. 

Fast forward to the next day, the present. I’m on my third of 4 flights back home, and I decided to look through the many photos I have from our Christmas weekend and I came across the picture of my brother sitting with my nephew. Father and son. 

I took just a few minutes to remember that moment and remembered the following moment with my own father, and I couldn’t help but start welling up with tears again. 

I sat there thinking about all of the small moments that we never even conceptualize because we’re just in our own world, but even still, our Father sits and just smiles over us. Not because we’re doing anything particularly impressive or because we need anything. But because He truly enjoys being in the presence of his children. 

I wrote this mainly for me. So I won’t forget. Because even as I was writing this, I found myself alone in my seat on the airplane, and I was reminded that I’m never really alone. That I have a Father who is eternally present. That even when I’m babbling to myself and oblivious to the world around me, He watches over me always.

That He meets me where I’m at. No matter how random the place I choose to sit may be. And often, it’s not me going out of my way, but always, Him just choosing to sit beside me. 

This wasn’t a moment of profound wisdom, but it was one of profound comfort and profound joy. 

He’s in everything. 

This blog was started out of the love of my mom, continued by the love of my dad, and inspired by the love of my Father, in and through every word.

Sometimes, the sweetest moments with Him are found in the most peculiar and ordinary places, much like my nephew in front of the front door. And much like my nephew, most times, I’m entirely unaware that they’re happening.

As I leave my former home, my past and my family to head back to my new life hundreds of miles away, I sit by myself in my seat on the airplane with music in my ears and gratitude in my heart for the life and restoration that I never thought would happen. I’m reminded that I have a Father who loves me. That wants good things for children and who will fight for us, even when we can’t fight for ourselves. That everything that seems impossible to us is entirely possible for Him.

Going into this new year, I want to do things differently. I’m not focusing on how I can be better, what I can do differently to seem better to those around me and just in general, being better. 

I’ve decided I’m choosing to turn my head to see my Father sitting, watching and being present with me. To just enjoy His presence. Not to try to impress Him. Not to only ask for things from him. But to just be with Him and to be more aware that He’s never absent.

These are my thoughts tonight. ❤️

A candid letter from someone coming straight out of rehab. Part 1.

~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

Treatment. Recovery Program. IOP. Addiction Center. 

All of these names are just different ways of saying what it really is. 

REHAB. 

In short, rehab is the place you find yourself in (if you’re fortunate enough to survive a raging addiction) when a “life-controlling issue” (usually drugs, alcohol and sex and oftentimes all of the above) becomes unmanageable and you need help to learn how to live a healthy and successful sober life. 

In other words, when your life completely falls apart due to said raging addiction, chances are you’ll wind up in rehab. 

Rehab is weird. 

Everything about it is weird. 

For someone who’s never been, it’s hard to understand what it’s really like being in a treatment center. Typically, the only point of reference is what’s seen in movies and TV shows, and honestly, most don’t give an accurate depiction of what it’s actually like. 

So for anyone who’s never had the privilege of going themselves, I’ll do my best to give you a semi-snarky yet still incredibly accurate depiction of what it’s like…. In rehab.   

 I liken rehab to stay-away summer camp when you were a kid. 

You leave your friends and family for a few months and “camp” now becomes your home, your life and all you talk about for the duration of your time there. (And probably for months after you leave because it’s all you’ve come to know, but more on that later.) You eat, sleep and breathe “camp.” 

You can always tell a first timer from someone who’s been a few times already. There’s a certain fear-ridden look accompanied by awkward body language that screams of discomfort. But much like camp, you eventually find your “tribe” and you might shed some tears, but you’ll definitely share some laughs.

Instead of cool camp counselors with even cooler nicknames, it’s counselors of the therapist variety that just want you to call them by their first names. Everyone is just hoping to get that one chill counselor with a killer personality that all the other “campers” rave about… looking at you “Kyle”.

There aren’t cabins and sleeping bags, however there are still bunk beds and uniform comforters for every “camper.” 

Depending on where you go, you may or may not get to experience a campfire. But instead of eating smores and telling scary stories under the stars, you’re sipping caffeine free hot tea at a twilight trauma process group… (Honestly, there are still scary stories, but it makes you miss the ones about a shape-shifting creature that lives deep in the forest.) 

Instead of fun and games, there’s awkward encounters and “icebreakers.” 

For those of you who never played a game called Medic at summer camp, it’s where a small group of people line up at one end of a field and literally everyone else stands sprawled across the field with pool noodles in both hands. The smaller group then makes a mad dash in hopes of making it to the other side while the larger group with the pool noodles try to smack the runners trying to cross. If you get smacked before you reach the other side, you’re down. This continues back and forth until all the runners are out. Without fail, there’s always one kid who smacks way too aggressively and someone ends up getting hurt. In rehab, this is the equivalent of what happens emotionally during group therapy when the counselor says, “Does anybody have any feedback?” 

Instead of learning skills like how to ride a horse or how to do archery or how to survive in the wilderness, you learn skills like how to cope and how to deal with grief and loss and how to survive social anxiety in the real world. 

Instead of learning to navigate a high ropes course, you learn to navigate your negative emotions. 

Most camps have certain cheers and chants that you’ll know by heart for the rest of your life, but instead of “Peel banana, Peel peel banana”, in rehab it usually goes something like “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference…”

Sometimes there’s arts and crafts, but it’s usually either a way to pass the time or some sort of art therapy. (I can’t knock on this one too much because as a creative, I happen to really enjoy art therapy.) 

You have a completely scheduled day 7 days a week,complete with 3 meals in the “dining hall” with all your fellow campers and a certain allotted amount of freetime. You have a time to wake up and a time for lights out. 

At both camp and rehab, there are many different personalities and you’re in close quarters with the same people all day, everyday, so meltdowns are to be expected. However, few compare to when someone takes the last of the “good cereal.”  (Me not at all speaking as the one who had a meltdown over cereal… this is where the coping skills would have come in clutch.)

At the end of the summer, you find yourself filled with memories and experiences that you’ll never forget. Rehab is very much the same way. Although not always “fun”, it’s definitely an experience you’ll never forget, and HOPEFULLY, you’ll be the better for it. But unlike summer camp, the hope is to never have to come back, although many often do…

You might be the kid who only goes for one summer or you might be the kid who’s far too old to be there, but her parents sign her up anyway. Either way, if you just go and keep your mind and your heart open, chances are you’ll be glad you went. (Or maybe you’ll just goof off all summer and end up there again… but hey, there’s always next year.) 

Obviously, this is a very light-hearted take on a very heavy topic. The process of getting sober and living in recovery can be daunting and often, that process starts with rehab. I will forever be so grateful for all of the amazing therapists, friends, groups and time I spent learning and changing because I made the choice to go to rehab. Some people can absolutely quit cold turkey and that works for them, however I just wasn’t one of them. 

It took me a few times at summer camp to really get it, but now the time has come where I take everything I learned and apply it to life back home. With that has come a lot of different challenges in adjusting to life again.

More on that later…