Chosen.

July 12, 2026 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

(When I started writing this I thought this was going to be a post processing being left. I didn’t realize it was actually about being found. Bear with me.)

I have spent so many mornings…

So many sleepless nights asking God the same question.

Why can’t I let her go?

I’ve prayed until there were no words left. I’ve cried until my chest ached and the sound escaped me entirely. I’ve begged Him to take this pain away because it feels like something inside me is still bleeding. Not the kind of wound anyone else can see. The kind that reopens before my feet ever touch the floor and stays even after my head hits my pillow.

I’ve spent nearly a year now trying to understand why this breakup has devastated me so completely.

I’ve wondered if there’s something wrong with me because I’m so stuck in the feelings of missing her.

At first, I thought the pain was simply about love.

Or maybe the lack of it.

I thought I was grieving because I couldn’t tell what had been real and what hadn’t. I replayed conversations. I questioned memories. I wondered if the woman I fell in love with had ever truly existed, or if I had simply fallen in love with the version of her I hoped was real.

I questioned who I was in our relationship and I questioned my own judgement.

Was I really that naive?

Did I completely misread the person I gave my heart to?

Did I uproot my entire life for someone who was never going to stay and had no real intention of spending their life with me even though they swore up and down that they would?

Those questions have haunted me. Day in and day out.

But the longer I’ve sat with the Lord, the more I’ve realized they aren’t the deepest wound.

Because even if every “I love you” was genuine…

Even if every promise was sincere the moment it was spoken…

Even if she loved me the best she knew how…

She still didn’t choose me.

And that’s the ache that has brought me to my knees.

Not simply wondering whether I was loved.

But realizing I wasn’t chosen.

Somehow, that cuts even deeper.

Love can exist for a season.

Feelings can change.

People can mean every word they say in one moment and still be unable to live it out the next.

But there is something uniquely devastating about pouring everything you have into someone-your love, your encouragement, your sacrifices, your future-and discovering that when the moment came to choose… it wasn’t you.

That is the wound I’ve been carrying.

The wound of not being chosen.

I sacrificed so much.

I uprooted my whole life.

I walked away from my purpose and laid down my own dreams.

I poured encouragement into someone else’s weary soul while quietly ignoring how empty my own had become. I celebrated her victories. I carried her burdens. I believed in her when she couldn’t believe in herself. I helped her build a life that ultimately, I’m no longer a part of. I gave pieces of myself away because I thought love was proven by sacrifice.

And somehow, despite loving with everything I had, I was still left behind.

(None of this is at all to say that I wasn’t at fault, because I definitely was in so many ways. But I’m speaking to all the feelings in the present.)

There’s something devastating about realizing your “everything” wasn’t enough to make someone stay.

That realization has echoed through every corner of my heart.

It whispers that maybe I wasn’t enough.

Maybe I wasn’t worth choosing.

Maybe if I had loved harder…

Maybe if I had been easier…

Maybe if I had been more patient, more beautiful, less addicted and complicated, more successful, less emotional…

Maybe she would have stayed.

That ache doesn’t stay politely tucked away. It follows me into grocery stores, into coffee shops, onto beaches, into some of my favorite songs, into ordinary afternoons when something reminds me of her and suddenly my stomach feels like it’s been ripped in two.

I’ve pleaded with God to remove it.

I’ve wanted Him to perform some miraculous surgery on my heart while I slept so I’d wake up finally free.

Instead…

He met me there.

This morning, I went to to turn on my T.V. and make my coffee, but something stopped me. In the quiet of my home, that bears the many items that she and I once shared in our home together, I sat down on my couch and began to cry.

Frustrated with feeling the hurt and even more frustrated that I can’t seem to move on, I once again asked the Lord to take it all away and questioned Him as to why He hadn’t yet.

Through tears I could barely see through, something shifted.

Not because the pain disappeared.

But because He spoke through it.

And I was finally willing enough to actually listen.

As I sat there crying over the unbearable weight of not being chosen…

I realized….

Jesus knows this pain.

Not metaphorically.

Personally.

Every single day He stretches out nail-scarred hands toward hearts He created.

Every day He loves people who walk away.

Every day he pursues people who choose lesser loves.

Every day He watches people promise Him forever only to slowly drift toward everything else.

Every day He offers Himself completely…

… and so often, He isn’t chosen.

He’s treated as if He’s an option.

He isn’t first.

He isn’t wanted.

He isn’t enough for the people He loves.

Suddenly my heartbreak wasn’t isolated anymore.

The Son of God has lived inside this ache far longer than I have.

He knows what it feels like to love without reservation and be answered with rejection.

He knows.

Not because He studied suffering.

Because He lived it.

And then another realization settled over me.

This wasn’t the first time my heart had broken this way.

Years before her…

There was him.

My finance.

Different faces.

Yes, Lord?

July 8, 2026 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

I found this letter in a journal from several years back. It was candid, honest and as I read it back now, years later, it still strangely resonated with parts of me. But I believe wholeheartedly that it’s in these candid moments, when we don’t sanitize our prayers and we choose to wring out our hearts before the Lord, that He can do some of His deepest work in us…

Jesus,

I wish I could tell You faith comes naturally to me.

It doesn’t.

Most days, unbelief feels easier.

I don’t understand You. If I’m honest, I rarely do.

I don’t understand how You can be good while the world is so relentlessly broken. I don’t understand why one life can carry mental illness, addiction, being gay, suicidal thoughts, grief that won’t loosen its grip-as though suffering somehow forgot when enough was enough.

Sometimes my own mind doesn’t make sense to me. I wake up inside a brain that feels unfamiliar. Some days I can’t trust my own thoughts. Some days I can’t tell what is illness, what is fear, what is temptation, what is trauma, and what is simply being human. It all blurs together until I don’t know where I end and the darkness begins.

If we are made in Your image, why is there so much heartbreak inside us?

Why does the soul You created ache this deeply?

Why does it feel every time I catch my breath another wave knocks me under?

I don’t understand why You’ve saved my life so many times.

I don’t understand why I’m still here.

For what?

There have been moments when death felt kinder than living, and yet somehow You kept pulling me back. Sometimes I wanted You to. Most times, I didn’t.

Why?

What am I still doing here?

People say You have a purpose for my life.

Sometimes that feels comforting.

Sometimes it feels impossible to believe.

I question Your goodness.

I questions Your motives.

I question Your silence.

I question every “why” that has ever crossed a human mind.

Why do You feel closest after the storm instead of before it?

Why does obedience sometimes feel less like peace and more like walking blindfolded toward a cliff, hoping Your voice catches me before I fall?

I want to love You.

I just don’t always know how.

I want to obey You.

I just don’t know how to carry things that feel so much bigger than I am.

Sometimes I wonder if You’ve asked something of me that I’m simply too weak to live out?

I don’t understand Your character nearly as much as people say I should.

I don’t understand this world.

I don’t understand where You are in so much of it.

I don’t understand why you go silent.

I don’t understand why You seem content to leave so many questions unanswered.

And maybe the hardest confession of all…

Sometimes I don’t even know how to trust You.

Not because I don’t want to.

Because I don’t know how.

Trust sounds beautiful until it costs everything… which you say to consider… and yet…

It sounds beautiful until it asks you to keep walking when there is no light.

Until it asks you to believe Someone you cannot see over the evidence you can.

I don’t know how to sustain a faith that often feels impossible.

I don’t know how to keep saying yes when I don’t know where yes is leading me.

Sometimes I envy people whose certainty comes easily.

Mine doesn’t.

Mine limps.

Mine argues.

Mine cries.

Mine has to be dragged back to You over and over.

And yet…

Every road I’ve taken away from You has only made one thing painfully clear.

There is no peace anywhere else.

I’ve looked.

I’ve tried to outrun You.

I’ve tried to numb myself.

I’ve tried to explain You away.

I’ve tried to fill the ache with things that promised relief and only left my emptier.

Nothing has ever quieted my soul except You.

Even when I’m angry with You.

Even when I don’t understand You.

Even when I question everything about You.

My spirit still turns toward You.

I can’t explain that either.

Somehow, beneath all the confusion, beneath all the doubt, beneath every unanswered question…

My soul still loves you.

Not because You’ve answered everything.

Not because You’ve made life easy.

Not because You’ve explained Yourself.

Just because somewhere deeper than my understanding, I know You.

Or maybe…

You know me.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

Sometimes, all I have left are two words.

Yes, Lord.

Not because I’m confident.

Not because I understand.

Not because I’m fearless.

But because those two words are the only worship I can still offer.

They are whispered through tears.

They are spoken with trembling hands.

They are screamed to what feels like an empty sky.

They are carried by a faith that often feels even smaller than a mustard seed.

But they’re Yours.

So if You’re asking me to keep walking…

Yes, Lord.

If You’re asking me to trust before I understand…

Yes, Lord.

If you’re asking me to let go of something I can’t imagine my life without…

Yes, Lord.

If You’re asking me to believe that one day every question will finally find its answer…

Yes, Lord.

I don’t understand You.

Maybe I never will on this side of heaven.

But somehow…

Against my own logic, against my own questions, against every reason I have to walk away-

My spirit still loves You.

And today, that love is enough to keep saying yes.

Amen.

Still Becoming…

April 16, 2026 ~ 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.

This is my story…

April 11, 2025April 11, 2025 ~ 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 candid letter from someone coming straight out of rehab. Part 1.

November 24, 2022November 24, 2022 ~ 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.

A Morning In Recovery.

November 20, 2022 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ 1 Comment

It’s a chilly, sunny morning in November. It’s that perfect cold right before the temperature really drops to freezing. I have the morning to myself. I decide to go to my favorite little coffee shop in my very favorite part of town. I order my usual black and white mocha, extra hot, with oat milk and a banana chocolate chip muffin. I find the perfect table right in the back where there’s the perfect balance of sunlight shining in and cozy lamp lighting above my tiny table perfect for just me. The place is buzzing with people but not overwhelmingly so. The sound of milk steaming, laughs and conversation between friends and jazz surround me. I put my phone away and only have a book, my coffee and my laptop to write.

It’s the perfect morning.

I sit and think to myself that in this moment, I am truly happy. I am truly content. It’s the most present I’ve felt in about the last month or so.

As I sit and just soak in the moment, there it is. A voice that although silent to everyone around me, might as well be yelling in my ear. A loud and intrusive guest who sat down at my table without being invited and whose only intention is to ruin my morning. Maybe even my whole day. Maybe even my life.

“A cocktail sounds really good right about now. I really want to drink.” I think to myself.

It’s 10 a.m.

Where did that even come from?! Here I am, minding my own business, enjoying a beautiful morning and having a completely blissful moment to myself and I want to drink?! Why?!

I’m not upset. I’m not grieving. I’m not in a triggering location. I’m not around alcohol. I’m not feeling sad, angry or depressed. I’m not nervous or socially anxious (which is usually, without fail, my greatest trigger to drink).

I sit and so begins the overanalyzing and I find myself drifting to the past and to the future. I find the present moment slipping away. My head starts spinning and the thoughts start flooding my mind. Suddenly, I’m not alone at this table. Soon enough, anxiety, frustration, shame and discouragement sit down and join me, just as unwelcome as the urge to drink.

Now in the past, honestly, I probably would have just agreed with the voice tempting me to drink and walked myself to the bar next door and called it “bruch”. I mean it is Sunday after all, therefore it’s totally acceptable to be wasted by 1 pm. And I’ll have the rest of the day to just sleep it off and still make it to work at 7 am tomorrow morning.

Or, I would have just packed up my stuff, morning ruined, spiraling in shame and discouragement and finding myself fighting the urge to drink the rest of the day. Chances are, eventually I would have given up and given in.

But today is different.

Addiction is a bully. One who’s bark, unfortunately, can be just as brutal as its bite. At times, unceasing and relentless.

I really shouldn’t be surprised by moments like this. When thoughts come unannounced and seem unwarranted. But still, I am.

That’s the thing about addiction. It’s not logical. Its nature is confusion, chaos and destruction. It doesn’t wait for life to fall apart or disappointment or anxiety to hit you AND THEN presents itself. It comes whenever and however it pleases. It will make itself known on the bad days and the best days.

As I sit here this morning, I decided I could either let the shame of struggling with thoughts of drinking consume me like a sickness, OR, I could simply put pen to paper, so to speak, and take the road of vulnerability and shed a little light on what it’s like for someone who’s just trying to better their life and choose recovery.

So today, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

It’s amazing the power that’s lost when we’re just honest. Shame has kept me silent so many times before, because even admitting that I was struggling with wanting to drink seemed like a failure. I felt like I had failed even before I picked up a drink.

Sitting in this little coffee shop, I made the decision to just say NO and with it, anxiety, shame, frustration and discouragement all got up and left my table. I can’t help but feel like those rude and intrusive thoughts are just lurking, waiting for a moment to sit down with me again. But for the moment, at least they’re quiet.

I wish I could say it was that easy all the time and that I won’t be tempted again 5 seconds after typing these words, but the truth is that’s just not always the case. But for this moment, I’m saying NO.

I turn my attention back to my book, and continue to slowly sip on my latte, thankful that I’m still sitting in this coffee shop and not at the bar next door.

Today was a win and as much as addiction tried to steal my joy this morning, it didn’t succeed.

It’s still a beautiful morning and I am still sober.

For that, I’m grateful.

Potential.

November 4, 2022 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

By definition, potential means existing in possibility; capable of development into actuality.

I’ve really grown to hate that word. I’ve lived my life under the weight of my potential. It seems to me like it’s been a lifelong competition between what I am and what I could. As much as I can appreciate every time someone would say that I “have so much potential”, or if I could “just see my potential” all I could hear was, “you’re not enough as you are right now and you could be better.” And to be honest, to this day, that’s still what I hear.

The concept of someone’s potential is such an interesting thing to me. I know we’re all striving to be better… to grow, to learn and to change. However, I feel like sometimes I lose myself in the potential of who I could be. It’s hard to find your identity when everyone keeps reminding you that you could be so much more…

The idea of potential can be particularly difficult for someone trying to navigate life in recovery. In one sense, you have to know that there is so much more to who you are and so much more to life than just your addiction, otherwise, why even bother spending the energy trying to better yourself? On the flipside, it’s easy to get crushed underneath the idea of who you could be, and in turn, you’re left feeling like the person you are today, falls short of that idea of who you could potentially be in the future.

Potential is tricky. I find myself dwelling on this today. Over the last few years of recovery, I’ve heard mentions of my potential over and over and OVER again. Who I am and who I could be are two very different ideas in my mind. As someone who lives with a chronic fear of inadequacy, nothing is scarier than the idea of my own potential.

It was said once…

“The graveyard is the richest place on earth, because it is here that you will find all the hopes and dreams that were never fulfilled, the books that were never written, the songs that were never sung, the inventions that were never shared, the cures that were never discovered, all because someone was too afraid to take that first step, keep with the problem, or determined to carry out their dream.”

I think this scares me more than almost anything else. I don’t know that it’s that I truly believe I’m inadequate or that I’m not enough, I think it’s that I know that I am, in some way, however I constantly feel like I’m falling short of everything I could be. That I will never live up to the person that I’m capable of developing into or possibly becoming.

Keyword… Possibly.

I’ve had so many questions that were tied directly to my identity. Who am I and who am I becoming? What do I believe about myself and what others have said to and about me? What hopes and dreams do I have? What are my books that need to be written and my songs that need to be sung? (I’m going to leave the cures to be discovered to those brilliant, researcher types…) And what are my fears that get in the way of that first step of actually carrying out those dreams?

I sit here writing this in the place I grew up. Although it’s familiar, it’s no longer home. It’s the strangest feeling being back here. The person I was when I left is in so many ways, is not the person who sits here writing today. When I left, I was so broken that life didn’t matter anymore. I had let go of the hopes and dreams of my life years before I left here and I was simply existing rather than living. That girl was so terrified of any sort of potential that she rejected it all together and chose the path of destruction because it was so much easier that way.

After a few years of some serious healing and searching, I’ve found that I care far less about my potential and far more about my purpose. I’ve heard it said that “your potential is everything you could be and your purpose is everything you’re called to be.”

I like that.

So I guess my question now is what is my purpose in this life? What is my purpose even just today? I blame it on being a HARD enneagram # 4, but this question alone motivates so much of what I do and don’t do in my life.

I’ve lived my ENTIRE life feeling like a failure because I felt like I wasn’t living up to my potential. The potential of who I wanted to be and who everyone said I could be. And I fell short every single time.

What I’ve learned in all of this…

God calls us according to HIS purpose, not OUR potential.

He doesn’t call us to our purpose. He doesn’t call us to anyone else’s idea of our potential. He calls us unto himself, for himself. I’ve learned you can’t run from that. As much as you try. He always runs faster. His purposes ALWAYS prevail. His words never return void. His word is ALWAYS final. In a lot of ways, I used to see this as control and I didn’t understand it. However, over the years, I’ve started to see that his purposes are for his glory and our good. And he is ALWAYS good.

I’ve recently started to understand this more, and I’ve realized that in the searching, that there really is nothing that can separate us from his love. His promises are true… ALWAYS. Under the authority of his purpose, my potential crumbles. And I’m grateful for that. And the more I understand that it’s his purpose and not mine, the more I realize that I don’t really have to worry about trying to figure it all out anyway. That’s HIS business, not mine. It’s only for me to trust him in this very imperfect process.

Those dreams I have? He placed in me. Those books I want to write? Those are his words. Those songs still to be sung? Those melodies belong to him. Without him, I would have NOTHING.

What I know is this. No matter where you live, what you do, what you’re struggles are, how you feel or think or where you try to run to, he never changes. He is always the same. Clinging to Him has been the saving grace of my life and I wouldn’t be here to even write this if it weren’t for him and I never want to lose sight of that. I didn’t save myself, he saved me, despite the fact that I was hellbent on destroying my life… because his purposes always prevail. His ways are always higher.

And for today, I’m grateful.

Thoughts for Wednesday.

August 31, 2022 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ Leave a comment

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories… water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.” Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Stories. One of my very favorite things in this life. I love true stories. Listening to the experiences of others. I firmly believe stories train our empathy. I’ve always tried to listen from the inside, if that makes sense. To hear from within the story. To hear, smell, taste, see and feel everything as if I were there.

Some of my favorite stories are that of my Grammy, Mary Louise. She is a beautiful, independent, authentic, creative and deeply insightful woman. A poet, artist and brilliant writer. And her gracious but blatant honesty precedes her. I love that about her. Her experiences are rich and full and she has the wisdom of a life well lived to prove it. Her stories are hers to tell, however I was recalling a conversation I had with her about a year ago and I was reminded of just how valuable experience is. Her past experience speaks to my present; a conversation that went something like this…

“Sometimes I feel like ‘did I ever do anything right?’ Because the bad stuff is always ready to stand up and take credit. But once you realize the bad stuff is just standing in front of the stuff that you did well, you just have to tell your naysayer where to go sometimes … even when that voice is strong. It’s persuasive and loud. Sometimes it’s hard to know. Is it friend or foe? When it’s trying to silence you, it’s not on your side.”

These are my naysayers… fear, shame, regret, doubt, insecurity. It’s crazy the way we allow our regrets to speak to us. How loud we allow fear to be in our ears. How much we believe our own insecurities and allow them to tell us who we are. And shame… wants nothing more than to keep us quiet.

I sit here this morning, so grateful for the wisdom of my Grammy. Whose courage to live in vulnerability has helped me to find my own. To ask every intrusive thought that tells me I did nothing right… “is it friend or foe?” To live with a wild heart wide open and vulnerable. To value the times of struggle and chaos, because there has been unspeakable beauty that came from those ashes. To step on the head of shame with a vulnerable heart and cherish every experience because it all shaped me into who I am today.

So my thoughts for today…. Tell your story. Say no to fear. Reject regret. Cry it out. Be present. Fall in love. Live authentically. Let your stories, which is life, happen to you. Water them with your blood, tears and laughter until they bloom.

And tell the naysayers in your life where to go...

Collecting Lessons.

August 9, 2022 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ 1 Comment

“You’re not a failure… you’re collecting lessons.” – A ghost of my former life (aka my ex fiancé)

As much as I really hate to admit it, He was right.

I had a conversation recently with a dear friend who is walking with her child through a difficult time. It’s a road that I myself have walked. She asked me if there were any verses, sayings or anything that helped me.

This got me thinking.

If I could go back and talk to a much younger me, knowing what I know now, what would I say?

Emilee,

Hi sweet girl. This isn’t going to make much sense to you now, but as life unfolds before you, I hope you remember these words.

Life is never certain. You can’t control it… no matter how hard you try.

There will be moments of great joy. There will be moments of great pain. Cling to the moments of joy. Even if they are momentary.

Loss is inevitable. And you are going to experience some significant losses. As much as I want to warn you so that you can prepare yourself, no amount of warning can prepare you to lose someone you love.

So cherish those you love. Be kind with your words, because the people you speak to may not remember them, but you will.

Be a good friend. There will come a time when you truly believe that life is all about you. That you can do it on your own. But it’s not and you can’t. This is a tough lesson you’ll have to learn. And you’ll lose some friends along the way. But humility and honesty will bring you through. Admit when you’re wrong and don’t stop there. Take ownership of your actions and learn from your mistakes. Admission without change really means nothing.

Never stop dreaming. Don’t be afraid of failure. Keep taking chances.

You are going to embark on a journey to “find yourself.” I hate to break it to you, but you don’t find yourself in one attempt. Although this would be easier, it’s a lifelong process. You’re going to make mistakes along the way. Many, many mistakes. (Unfortunately, bangs will not be the worst of them. Not even close.) And that’s okay. You’ll learn.

Don’t try to grow up too fast. Enjoy being a kid. Enjoy the simple things in life that you love. Sunsets. Fireflies. Staying outside in the summer until the streetlights come on. The smell of chocolate chip cookies in the oven. Laughing with your family in the backyard. Playing catch with your dad. Hiding in the neighbors yard with your brothers. Reading to your sister on the couch. Snuggling your mom. Savor those moments.

Pay attention to the good. Because eventually, moments just become memories.

“Cool” is underrated. Lead with your weirdness. There’s no use in trying to change that. It’s who you are. Eventually, you’ll see it as a good thing.

Cherish your purity. Know that your value and your worth do not come from what anybody tells you or what you can give them. Also, you’re not going to find your husband in a bar… No matter how charming he is…

You can’t hide from your life. You can’t hide from your mistakes. You’ll have to face them eventually. This will be really hard, but you’ll get through it.

Vulnerability isn’t weakness. In fact, it’s one of the greatest strengths someone can possess. Write everything down. Share your experiences and give them a voice. This will be crucial for you when you walk through some really hard things.

Don’t let anyone tell you that because you are emotional, you’re crazy. Your emotions are actually going to be one of your greatest strengths. They will fuel your empathy and your compassion for others. Cherish these too and don’t try to shut them out. Learn from them. (And remember that emotions are in fact real, but they may not always be reality.)

Mental health is really important… Especially for you. Depression is a real thing but there’s no shame in that. Find a good counselor. Talk about your pain. Talk about your goals and your dreams. BE HONEST.

I would say don’t drink… but I already know this is a lesson you’re going to have to learn the hard way. You won’t listen to anyone else, so I know you won’t listen to me either. However, know that when it gets really ugly, and unfortunately it will, it will get better.

Family is everything. When your family seems mad at you because of the choices you’re making, it’s not because they hate you, it’s because it scares them. They just don’t know how to say that. They actually love you very much and want the very best for you. Destructive choices hurt people. Losing you scares them just as much as it scares you. Remember that.

Freedom isn’t what the world tells you it is. Booze, boys (and girls… you’ll face that someday too) and bars are going to seem like a lot of fun. They might be for a moment, but it doesn’t last. And getting drunk and sleeping around will leave you emptier than you can imagine. And the older you get, the less cute it is. “Hot mess” is not a good look.

Protect your heart. This doesn’t mean never being in a relationship or never letting people get close to you. Just be careful with who you give your heart to. Watch how they live their lives and listen to how they speak to and about people. It will be an indicator of how they will treat you when the guards come down. Maya Angelou said it best… “When somebody shows you who they are, believe them.”

Find things that you love to do and don’t ever push them aside for someone else. If someone asks you to give up your passions for them, DONT.

Lastly, but certainly not least. In fact it’s the most important thing. God is good… ALWAYS. He is faithful. ALWAYS. He will save your life, quite literally. So listen to Him. Spend time with Him. Tell him when you’re mad at him, because he already knows. But whatever you do, don’t turn your back on Him. He is the only one, who won’t fail you. Who won’t disappoint you. And he is the only one who will get you through those moments when life hits you so hard that you can’t breathe.

Nothing worth having comes easily. You are going to have to fight for the good things in your life. But your life is worth fighting for.

Because someday around 30, you’ll wake up one day a little older, a little wiser, a little chubbier and a whole lot happier than you’ve ever been and you’ll realize that God has given you an AMAZING life.

So ask for help when you need it. Tell someone when you’re hurting. Pray ALWAYS. And remember that this life is precious. That your life is precious. Everyday that you’re alive is a gift. So take a breath, sit back and enjoy the crazy ride. It won’t look anything like you’re imagining now, but if you stick it out, it will be better than you can even believe.

Dear Idols

July 19, 2022July 26, 2022 ~ The Fragrance of my Mother ~ 4 Comments

It’s been 2 years since I began my path of recovery. Incredibly difficult. Immensely rewarding. Mistakes have been made… Many mistakes. Questions have been asked. Words have been said… and unfortunately at times, screamed. Flaws have been seen. Tears have been shed. Anger surfaced. Doubts, insecurities and lies exposed. But in all of the mess and ugliness of countless meltdowns, temper tantrums and a significant crisis of my faith and identity, there has been far more beauty than ashes.

Laughs have been shared… Many laughs. Passions have been discovered. Lessons have been learned. Friendships have been formed. Changes have been made. Healing has begun. Fears have been conquered. Confidence has been built. Joy has been found. What would have been a tragic story of addiction, loneliness and depression ending in suicide was rewritten to one of hope, restoration and abundant life.

A life saved and forever changed. My life.

In honor of these 2 years, I wanted to share the moment that changed everything for me.

I was reading through the tear soaked, barely legible pages of an old journal when I found it. The letter. I remember the moment vividly. My 29 year old self, sitting in a bunk bed in the tiny room I shared with 4 other grown women trying to piece their lives together just like I was. Earplugs in (because the aforementioned roommates were theorizing about who was stealing everyone’s coffee creamer and arguing about “how early is too early to set an alarm in the morning?”… Community living.)

I cracked open my journal, as I did most nights, and I began to write a semi-satirical letter to “all the drinks that did me wrong” hoping that there would be some sort of cathartic release or at the very least, maybe a laugh. As I began to write, a bible verse from Isaiah 44 came to mind that had been given to me months prior. The verse didn’t make much sense to me at the time I received it, so I didn’t really think about it again until that night when it crossed my mind.

As I started that ridiculous letter, I couldn’t get that verse off of my mind. I stopped writing and was just still for quite some time. Thinking. As I did, I began to realize it wasn’t just the alcohol that I was addicted to. It was so much more than that. It was approval. Validation. Acceptance. Vanity. Money. Sex. Men. Women. The idea of success. And so much more. I lived for myself and no one else. I constantly and compulsively lied and manipulated to get what I wanted and I didn’t care who it hurt or affected. I was a borderline narcissist who was incapable of seeing outside of herself or taking ownership for any of her actions.

I began writing again, but this time it was an entirely different letter. My hand was cramping from trying to keep up with how fast my thoughts were firing and tears were running down my face and soaking the pages of my journal from the overwhelming emotion of it all. Finally I had come to terms with everything that had happened over the past 10 years. The person I had become. All of the trauma, grief, disappointment, failures, mistakes, doubts and horrible decisions that I had made and as a result, the consequences that I faced because of them.

I was 20 months into a 12 month treatment program (yes, you did read that correctly…) and I had had enough. Enough of myself. Enough of the constant voices that told me I wasn’t good enough. That I was never going to be able to change. Enough of the alcohol. Enough of the relapses. Enough of the shallow and sinful relationships. Enough of the lying. Enough of the selfishness. Enough of making stupid decisions. Enough of feeling like a failure. Enough of fighting and rebelling against the One who saved my life. Enough of all of the BS I had put up with and put myself through for my entire adult life.

What started off as a humorous coping mechanism quickly turned into the most important decision I’ve ever made, and it was anything but funny. Since that night, I’ve never looked back. Recovery is so much more than sobriety. It’s finding the courage and humility every single day to say yes to God and no to myself, no matter what the cost. (Which is so much easier said than done.)

Today, I’m sober, healthy (mentally, spiritually and physically), full time interning in ministry, living in a city I love surrounded by people I love. My life is incredibly imperfect yet I am incredibly happy. I never could have imagined that my life would look the way it does now and I couldn’t be more grateful for that because I honestly don’t think I would have done it had I known what all this was going to entail.

This letter was not just about alcohol and addiction but to everything that I put before God in my life and it is a declaration of who I am now and more importantly, who I belong to. This is where it all changed for me….

“The poor, deluded fool feeds on ashes. He trusts something that can’t help him at all. Yet he cannot bring himself to ask, ‘Is this idol I hold in my hand a lie?’” Isaiah 44:20

Dear Idols,

I don’t know how to say goodbye to you. Most of you have walked alongside me for years now. My most consistent companions. I’ve cherished you, served you, listened to you and indulged you in every fantasy. I’ve played your games and worshiped you. I gave you a sacred place in my heart that truthfully, you neither earned nor deserved. I allowed you for far too long to lie to me and make promises to my heart that you could never fulfill. You promised comfort and gave me chaos. You promised love and broke my heart. You promised confidence and you made a fool of me. You promised satisfaction and I was always left empty. I want you to know that I see you now for what you are. A lie. A fantasy. A romanticized illusion of fulfillment – overpromising and under delivering every time. I exalted you to a position in my life that you were never worthy of holding. I thought that you were good, but I know now that you were nothing more than comfort. I thought what we had was intimacy, but I now know that it was just familiar. You were convenient. Easy. Shallow. I want you to know that you can no longer have this place or any place in my heart again. That place is meant for the only one who can rightfully rule my life. He doesn’t bring chaos or confusion. He doesn’t put me down or tell me lies. He doesn’t deceive, manipulate or control me. I’m not a slave to Him, but his lover and his friend. Although I believed that there was room in my life for Him and all of you, I was gravely mistaken. So as of this moment, our relationship is over. The longing for you and the idealized perspective and rose colored lenses are shattered. I see you for exactly what you really are. And now, I see Him for exactly who He really is. The position of Lord belongs to Him and I am going to let him do the honors of dethroning each and every one of you Himself. So this is in no way an amicable and mutually respectful parting or goodbye. This is me declaring war back on you for all of the hell, confusion and destruction you’ve caused me. I want you to know that I DO NOT AND WILL NOT choose you. Your reign of death and terror in my life is over and you now are subject to the anger and vengeance of the One who conquered you once and for all, long ago on that third day; when he rose up and walked out of the grave he left and buried you in. I am done with you, in every way and you CANNOT have my attention, my affection or my imagination any more. We are done. For good. I am choosing life. I am choosing to walk on the side of truth and fight for all of those who are deceived and broken just like I was. I will not aid you in fanning the flames of lust, addiction, greed and impurity, but I will snatch those deceived and broken ones from the flames and show them The Way to life. I want to make myself explicitly clear. I no longer answer to my flesh. I only answer to the spirit of the living God and I will no longer be engaging your advances in any way. This is the end for us and I am never looking back. This abusive relationship is now over. I will no longer be answering when you call, responding to your invitations or entertaining any sort of engagement with you any longer. You no longer have a place in my life – you’ve taken far too much for far too long and honestly, you can keep it all because The One I belong to now is a giver of life and all things new. You will never be anything more than a cheap knock-off, fraudulently parading around as freedom and love, and you can no longer have any part of me or my life. This is it for us. Just know that from now on, if you try to reach me, you’ll have to go through my Father, my Husband and the Spirit of the Living God Himself.

-E

	Maggie Moran on Healing in Two Directions…
	stacie Shaffer on A Father’s Love
	Nancy Greenberg on A Morning In Recovery.
	Drew Becvar on Dear Idols
	Shannon on Today.