“My attorney looked at me and said the words I had been dreading: I was looking at prison time. There was nothing more he could do.
So, how did a middle-class, church-going woman—someone who had straight A’s and B’s, starred in musicals, led the drill team, and served on student council—end up staring at prison at 34? I didn’t grow up in a chaotic home, I wasn’t surrounded by drugs or alcohol as a child. But when I was 13, a traumatic situation occurred that led to relentless bullying and rumors. That was where my story began.
I didn’t know how to talk about what was happening. I bottled it all up inside. I became a chameleon, constantly reshaping myself to meet others’ expectations. If someone wanted me to be a certain way, I would become that person. I wanted to be liked, to be seen as perfect. On the outside, I appeared flawless, but inside, I was slowly dying. Looking back now at old photos, I can see the hollowness in my eyes—the emptiness I tried to hide.
From my teenage years into my 30s, depression and anxiety shadowed my life. I was prescribed medications, but I self-medicated as well, which often made things worse. I lied to therapists, which didn’t help either. In my teens, I turned to my parents’ wine, beer, and liquor to silence my insecurities and inner pain. When alcohol wasn’t enough or wasn’t available, I would cut myself, using physical pain to distract from emotional suffering.
Then came the parties. I could party all weekend and still excel in school during the week. It seemed manageable—until college. In college, my experimentation escalated. Pills, alcohol, any substance available—I tried it all. Anything to numb my feelings and make socializing easier. Those around me began to notice a problem, but I refused to see it. My first DWI came at 25, my second at 27, yet I still denied having an addiction. Jobs, friendships, relationships—I lost countless ones. I moved from place to place, hoping a change in scenery would help, but it never did.
Then, I reconnected with someone I’d known since we were 13—my future husband. There was no disguising myself with him. He saw me, flaws and all, and still loved me, even if he didn’t like the drinking. But I didn’t love myself. Dark thoughts told me I could never stay sober, that life would never improve, and that ending my life was the only escape. I tried. I held a shotgun in my hands, intending to end it all, but my fingers wouldn’t work. I sat there crying, unable to follow through.
I tried to get sober, but it lasted only days at a time. Then he proposed, and I thought marriage would solve everything. But I still couldn’t stay sober. Three weeks before our wedding, within just three days, I was fired from my job, wrecked my car, and burned my foot with third-degree burns. He couldn’t marry me like that and canceled the wedding. On what should have been our wedding day, I checked into inpatient rehab. I relapsed twice after release and cycled through two sober homes before finally maintaining sobriety for a short period.
Six months later, we found out we were expecting our first child, and we got married. In January 2012, our son was born. But soon after, I became addicted to painkillers postpartum. When I stopped breastfeeding after four weeks, I returned to drinking. Eleven months in, I struggled endlessly, unable to stay sober even for a day. My family feared for my life and my son’s. They even told my husband they would support him and our child if he left me.
The dark thoughts returned with a vengeance. This time, I was determined to go through with it. I wrote a note, took a large number of pills, and laid on the couch after my son went to sleep. My husband found me, and I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance while the police checked on my son. After one night in the mental ward, I was released—still able to hide my pain behind a front. But that wasn’t my bottom. My true bottom came almost exactly a year later, on November 12, 2013.
A Fed-Ex driver reported a drunk driver—me—on the highway. Multiple police cars pursued me, and by the time they pulled me over, I couldn’t even stand. I was taken to the hospital for a blood draw, where a nurse told me I would die if I left. My blood alcohol level was life-threatening. I owe my life to that nurse and the Fed-Ex driver. I don’t even remember the events of that night. I woke the next morning alone in a hospital room—my family had left, tired of my repeated failures.
The next night, at 1 a.m., police arrested me at home. Facing my third DWI at 33, I finally realized the truth: if I didn’t stop drinking and using pills, I would die. For the first time, I genuinely wanted to live. I began attending AA, working with a sponsor, and slowly rebuilding relationships with my family. And on April 4, 2014, I received a divine reprieve.
I had just met with my attorney, expecting six to nine months in prison. With nearly five months sober, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my husband and our 2-year-old son. I prayed and surrendered completely to God’s will—even if it meant prison. Within ten minutes of arriving home, my attorney called: the DA had agreed to the Collin County Drug Court Program, with probation but no prison time. This intensive outpatient program changed everything. I had to face myself honestly, seek help, and confront the demons I had buried for 20 years.
Since getting sober on November 14, 2014 (excluding my two hospital days), my life has transformed. The first year was difficult. Friendships were lost, but new, supportive ones were gained. I joined a mom’s Bible study, met lifelong friends, and slowly learned to trust women again. I rebuilt trust with my family, proving over time that this time was different. Before my second son was born in September 2015, I completed counseling and had him naturally, without medication, ensuring I wouldn’t risk relapse.
I began openly sharing my journey, no longer ashamed of my past. My baking hobby blossomed into a multi-award-winning bakery. I sang in church worship bands, and finally, I could fully embrace motherhood and marriage. Through my blog, Blessed Mess Mama, I share my testimony, helping others break the stigma around moms in recovery. I speak at AA meetings, schools, and other platforms, spreading hope and inspiration.
I love that I am alive to tell this story. I believe God saved me countless times so I could share this message: there is hope, there is change, and grace is real. For someone to rise from addiction, cutting, suicide attempts, and despair to peace, joy, and serenity is a miracle.
Not every day is easy, but I no longer hide my feelings. I take time for myself daily, even if just a few minutes, and start and end each day with gratitude. If you are struggling—whether with mental health, addiction, or loneliness—you are not alone. Take that first, hard step. Ask for help. It gets better. There is always something to be grateful for.”
