Lighting Up and Letting Go

My dirty little secret made me feel self-righteous, cool and aloof. Emotionally, I was wrecked and seeking relief. I’d found a solution that both soothed and fueled the addiction monster.

You may have read my blog post “Sober Wedding Success”; In a triggered moment I texted a friend: “I need a drink, a cigarette, a man, or a brownie.” A variety of stressors had accumulated, thrusting me into “Fight or Flight” mode. The pressure rising, impulsive thoughts bounced off each other: “You need to feel different and better NOW.” In hindsight, I could have done some stretching, gone for a run or a walk. But the wedding was going to start, I was all dolled up in a dress and heels, and rational thought was hijacked by panic. img_4856

What I didn’t mention in that blog was the part where I gave in to a craving. About an hour before the bride was due to walk down the aisle, I changed into flip-flops and stealthily drove to a store.

(Ok not stealthily. Side Note – The story of my life is that I ALWAYS get caught. Sneaking out in the middle of the night at age 15… My friend’s parent saw me and called my parents. Skipping prom to go to Denny’s and hang out at a hotel… I accidentally recorded myself on the answering machine sharing every detail with a friend. A couple years back, during a sober attempt, I hit “facetime” on my phone at the exact moment I took a drink of a beer. But have I learned? Noooooo. )

Someone, who shall simply be called Aunt D. in order to keep her anonymity, (haha, love you Aunt D.) saw me drive away from the church. On my return, I was met with: “Where’d you go, huh? We know you left. Aunt D. told us.” I mumbled about needing to help the bride and hurried away.

The truth is:

I drove to a gas station and awkwardly bought a pack of Camel cigarettes. On a scale of surrendering to cravings, it’s better than a bottle of vodka, worse than a giant brownie. I found a parking lot near the water and walked around in the rain (still in my dress and flip-flops, holding a sweatshirt over my head to save my wedding- hair) searching for a secluded place to smoke my first cigarette in years. It suddenly seemed crowds of people were milling around, screwing up my plan. And I certainly wasn’t going to smoke inside my own car. I have boundaries, after all.

Settling on a spot, I opened the pack. The cigarette fit neatly between my fingers, muscle memory reminding them exactly what shape to make. I lit it, pressed my lips lightly around the filter, and inhaled. Then I made a face. They were gross. I forgot that I actually like menthols, when I do smoke. Which isn’t often. I’ve done this 3 times in the last few years. Once during a (temporary) breakup, and again when I started treatment for addiction and had quit everything else. People smoke like chimneys at recovery meetings, and for a few months I made friends by blowing smoke outside the treatment center doors alongside them.

I’d like to say the non-menthols were gross enough I threw them away, jolting myself back to more effective coping skills. But I didn’t. I finished the pack, and returned to the store to buy the “tastier” minty selection.

Days turned into weeks, and before I knew it, I’d been smoking steadily for a month. I was disgusted with myself. Smoking made me lazy and nauseated. Addiction is dishonest, isolating, depressing, and anxiety inducing; smoking re-awakened all of that, along with the clinging, craving monster inside. Instead of going to the gym – I smoked. Instead of writing – I smoked. I wasted hours lighting them up and putting them out. And yet, a part of me relished every single drag. My dirty little secret made me feel self-righteous, cool and aloof. Emotionally, I was wrecked and seeking relief. I’d found a solution that both soothed and fueled the addiction monster. Returning to this behavior was like slipping back under the mud after a period of living in the sun. I was sober, but acting very much like my non-sober self. Literally playing with fire.

Participating in addictive habits can give one a case of the “F-it’s” and the “Might as wells”. For example “F it. I’m already smoking, might as well eat what I want too.” The mud got deeper and stickier. I ate fast food, ignored deadlines and neglected obligations. I toyed with ideas of “just one drink”. Thankfully I have accountability to my treatment program. When it’s hard to trust oneself, impending drug tests are a convincing reason to abstain. So I didn’t drink, but I smoked nicotine incessantly. Good thing the tests don’t look for nicotine or caffeine. (Treatment centers everywhere would be out of business.)


When I first smoked at 14 years old (and continued for 8 years, minus 9 months of pregnancy), it was the best kind of dangerous fun. I was rebellious, wise, untouchable. Slinking into a store at age 36, making sure no one recognizes me, and asking for “camel crush – yeah the blue box” without meeting the attendants’ eyes, doesn’t have the same ego-stroking appeal. Honestly I was miserable. I succumbed to an obsessive-compulsive drive to do something I was bizarrely convinced would help me overcome anxiety. It only managed to increase the compulsion, all the while invoking deep shame and disappointment. It was repetitious, unfulfilled desperation, with nausea as a side effect. The empty, achy place inside of me found minor temporary relief, but I was simultaneously cognitively aware that the tobacco/poison filled paper sticks offered nothing but dirty lungs, yellow teeth and nasty headache when I eventually quit. Ruminating over all of this, I lit another smoke.

That, my friends, is addiction.

In the past, these episodes of smoking have been brief, due to two compelling factors: a boyfriend and daughter that despise the habit. Smoking is tough to keep secret for long around others. But I was grateful for their disdain, as it forced me to give it up quickly.

During this recent trip down Tobacco Lane, with no suspicious glares or accusations of “You smell like smoke” pressuring me to surrender, I needed motivation. My own willpower and half-assed “This is your last pack, Tiff” was proving ineffective. I needed a reward, ultimatum, or serious kick in the ass.

The light at the end of the smoky tunnel was a shining She Recovers Retreat. The timing was perfect; divine some may say. At the end of July, one of the more challenging months I’ve survived in a while, I would board a ferry and meet my favorite women on Salt Spring Island for a week of rejuvenation. There was no way I’d smoke while enjoying nature, doing yoga, and working on recovery. There was no way I’d admit this to my friends or smoke in front of them.


On the Ferry To Salt Spring Island

Tricky thing, addiction. Embeds itself deeply, even when one is determined to set themselves free. Not the retreat, my admiration of the women, or my horror at being found out as a smoker was enough for me to quit. When my fancy Camel Crush ran out on day 2, I bought very light, very bad tasting, non-menthol cigarettes in a Canadian store (they don’t sell menthol in the Gulf Islands!!)

While puffing away on these bland, thin smokes I made a promise. By the time I got on the ferry heading back to America, I’d untangle myself from their grasp. I wasn’t sure how, or if I was ready, but I was WILLING to be ready. I was tired of fighting to stay afloat, and afraid of getting pulled further down into addiction’s muddy grasp.

My answer came on the 3rd night of Retreat, in the form of a letting go ceremony (I also strategically ran out of cigarettes on the very last morning in Canada, and swore I wouldn’t touch another pack back in the US.)

The ceremony symbolizes liberation. We are all carrying some unwanted weight…unspeakable trauma, substance abuse, disordered eating, codependency, unhealthy shopping habits or persistent fatigue and apathy. The ceremony is an opportunity to look these hindrances in the eye, and love ourselves enough to begin to let them go.img_7414-1

The ceremony doesn’t require forgetting our past, but gives us permission to stop suffering over it. Permission to accept experiences, mistakes, relationships, and addictions while releasing the shame, self-loathing, and guilt we’ve attached to them.

We were asked to write down our intentions and a list of what we needed to let go. I wasn’t sure if this would work, but it felt like a legitimate start. I put my heart, soul and energy into that pen and paper as I scrawled out the words

“Let go of SMOKING”.

Then, as instructed, I lined up with the others and waited my turn to be “drummed”. A musician beat a rhythm on a percussion instrument while moving it up the front of my body and down the back – close, but not touching my skin. My understanding is this was meant to improve the alignment of my chakras, a component of self I don’t totally grasp, but am more than willing to offer up for re-structuring. The drumming ended, and as I paused before the next step – a meditative walk – I noticed the outer aspect of each of my hips burned, as though a fire spread across them. The fire pulsated, intensified, simmered, then disappeared. Coincidence? Psychosomatic effect? Bug bites? I can’t say for sure, but it felt significant.

One of my favorite resources for cultivating self-love

Two days later, on the final morning of the retreat, my heart was light. I’d experienced the fullness of She Recovers retreat magic, and felt empowered to return home renewed. I smoked 3 final cigarettes before leaving the island, that I had ashamedly bummed off a couple of friends (but obviously not too ashamed, since I asked anyway. Love you ladies.)

I haven’t smoked since that morning. Re-entry into real life post-retreat was pretty rocky, but I still did not pick them back up. The first few nights, my sleep was riddled with drinking nightmares. I also had a cigarette-smoking dream (Amy Dresner was there, also smoking, and super pissed off about having to order pizza for a bunch of hyper women in recovery. Bizarre!)

Thoughts of buying a pack – picturing the inhale, the hot menthol taste, the instant and very temporarily relief – flitter through my mind on occasion. But they’re just thoughts. They come, they go. They pass. As do all thoughts, feelings, emotions, if we let them.

Quitting was hard, but not the hardest thing I’ve ever done. (I remember trying to quit after 8 years hooked on those things- not sure there’s a drum big enough to beat it out of me then. Torture.) Smoking wasn’t the only thing on my “let go list” either – that was a month-long distraction; an outward sign that my insides were sick. I have a multitude of situations and self-limiting beliefs to shed. But the weight of it all is lifting. Did the drum vibrations shake it off my shoulders? I believe so… along with all the other blessed moments that week. (Read my BLOG to learn more about the Magic of She Recovers retreats) I entered the ceremony with a piece of paper, a trembling hope, and a soul full of desire for health and wholeness. I have a deep, intuitive certainty that this will come to fruition. Where I had felt clouded, uncertain and lethargic, I now felt bright, anticipatory and strong.

In the center of the gardens at Stowel Lake Farm where the retreat is held, there’s a big muddy pond. Across the surface of the murky water, giant Lotus blossoms stretch their pink petals eagerly toward the sun. The lush flowers would be nonexistent if it weren’t for the rich, complicated, nourishing mud beneath them.

Like the flowers, we need rich, complicated, often painful experiences to cultivate growth. “No Mud, No Lotus” as Thich Naht Hahn’s book tells us. Smoking wasn’t mandatory for my growth; it was an outward sign that helped me become more aware of my inner strife. For a month, I was slogging through mud; sluggish, sticky, uncomfortable and difficult to see any light through the darkness. During the retreat, I spent a lot of time being honest with myself, uncovering the source of pain and revealing it’s purpose.

I wasn’t overcome by the mud, but transformed by it. Smoking was a brief detour, and a close call. But I saw the light and persisted. I ascended above the surface; back into the fresh air.

Continuing to Recover and Rise,


Do you have habits you’d like to explore letting go? Perhaps you’re sober but still attached to food, smoking, relationships, and want to set yourself free? I’d love to offer you a system, support and accountability as your coach.

Interested in learning more about She Recovers and their retreats and conferences? Go To

Please contact me! You’re beautiful and deserving of health and wholeness.

Please follow me!  @scrubbedcleanrn


Sober Wedding Success

I spent many hours in my head thinking about my lifelong friendship with the bride, transitions, and my own failed marriages and relationships. A lot of emotions bubbled to the surface and not a lot of time to think them through realistically or pause to hold them compassionately.

Unlike an addiction to heroin or amphetamines, alcohol will appear on a weekly, if not daily basis. Grocery store aisles, TV commercials, restaurants…these are basically unavoidable circumstances. Learning to live with the trigger of alcohol is essential in sobriety.

Other well known craving-heavy settings are birthdays, holidays, and weddings.


On Saturday, I attended my first wedding since being in active recovery, and I’ll spoil the ending: I stayed sober.

I won’t lie though. It wasn’t a piece of (wedding) cake.

In everyday life, alcohol doesn’t usually get to me.  The aforementioned grocery aisles don’t make me twitchy like they did in the early days. I’m also not immune. It’s not the appearance of alcohol on it’s own; it’s a combination of factors – emotional stress, nostalgia, feeling left out or wanting to fit in – these culminate to create a “trigger” (the situation) and an urge – an intense physical and/or psychological craving.


This wedding was special to me. My best friend was getting married and I had the joy of helping, including curling the hair of her two beautiful daughters. Arriving early in the morning at her hotel, I stopped to get breakfast and coffee, but realized I hadn’t brought any water for an 8 hour day.

Grabbing a glass off the counter in my friend’s room, I filled from the tap, took a sip, and spit it out making a face. “The water here’s disgusting!” I said. My friend’s eyes went wide. “Yep there was lemonade in there last night.” I clarified…”Not JUST lemonade, was it?” No… It was definitely spiked.

Figures. I’d started my sober wedding by using a glass with remnants of alcohol in it.

The wedding went beautifully, despite a few bumps in the road. One minor cake disaster that happened on my delivery (but not my fault I swear!), and due to rain we had moved the wedding from outside to inside. Otherwise, it went gorgeously smooth, and I was honored to help the bridal party prepare.

Throughout the day though, I spent many hours in my head thinking about my lifelong friendship with the bride, transitions, and my own failed marriages and relationships. A lot of emotions bubbled to the surface and not a lot of time to think them through realistically or pause to hold them compassionately.

Weddings can be hard for this exact reason. Single guests, including myself, may start to think they’ve missed out on something. Jealousy may rise up along with sadness, regret, and worry about the future.

It didn’t help that I scrolled through my emails and staring in my face was a note from someone I haven’t heard from in a long time. Someone who at one point I thought would stand at an altar with me. One made of snow, to be fair, but an altar nonetheless. The timing of the message couldn’t have been more distressing.

Regardless, even if the sober person in question is partnered up perfectly, there are still challenges. Time consuming, or difficult family members/guests to attend to can make one long for escape in a glass. Celebrating can be just as tough to withstand sober. Wine and champagne advertisements exclaiming “Elevate the moment with every drop” perpetuate the idea that a happy moment is made even happier by a poisonous, addictive substance.

Elevate the Moment Commercial – Kim Crawford Wines

The wedding turned into a cocktail hour, then a reunion. Open bar. Flowing pints of beer and glasses of wine. I stood near the door, partly to avoid the bar, although it wasn’t a conscious thought. I didn’t know many people, didn’t have a date, and was there sort of helping, so I didn’t cozy up to a table right away.

“Not the easiest day to be a non-drinker” I said casually, to the person next to me. Turns out it was the exact right person – brother of the bride. He smiled enthusiastically “I’ve got a six pack of La Croix in my car, want one??”


I could have kissed him. Which would be weird because he’s married, and might as well be my brother. He’s the guy I called an “atrocious butthole” when I was 9, trying to get a reaction using big words and ended up grounded for a week.

26 years late, he’s also the guy who was totally there for me in my moment of need. (I hope you read this and feel my gratitude)

La Croix gripped in one hand, I sent out a couple SOS texts. One was to a dear friend who’s not an alcoholic, but is a teetotalling, single, badass woman who somehow sees right to my heart.

“I delivered a smushed wedding cake, drank from a tainted glass, got an email from you-know-who, and am hanging out at an open bar reunion.”

“I need a drink. Or a cigarette. Or a brownie. Any of them will do.”

She’s a genius, and texted back:

“None of it’s going to fix it. No hot guy. Or drink. Or brownie. Or whatever. It’s just heartbreak. It’s awful and ugly and no one is prepared for it. So you just have to feel it. And know that it’ll pass. In a way. Just breathe through it.”

That could have been hard to hear – that NOTHING is going to fix it. But it wasn’t. With all the mindfulness I’ve been reading and practicing it made sense to me; it was reassuring. She was saying: ‘this is suffering. This is part of life. We all experience some of this, and we all survive in our way. You can meet it with compassion and acceptance, or you can continue to feel resistance and aversion and make yourself freaking crazy.’ I chose not to be crazier than I’d already been.

All the tools I’ve learned about surviving events sober were utilized that afternoon:

  1. “Keep a drink in your hand” I had LaCroix, coffee, and water in front of me.
  2. “Reach out to a friend” – Yep. Did it and felt better.
  3. “Eat something sweet” – Wedding Cake. Times two. Check. (I don’t always buy into this one, because I was out of control for a long time with dessert. But it was prudent this time.)
  4. “Breathe”- This is essential. It brought me back in to the present, and allowed me to let go of disturbing thought patterns.

I enjoyed myself, smiled, chatted, had pictures taken, then I hightailed my ass to a meeting.

(It also doesn’t hurt that I remember in the back of my mind the random tests done to ensure my sobriety. Accountability is a crucial part of my success.)

An additional suggestion would be bring a sober buddy. In fact, that could have eradicated most complications.

My friend was right. Nothing would have “fixed” my feelings, and I’m grateful I had the opportunity to realize this. Learning how to be clean and sober has been an education in learning how to tolerate emotional and physical pain.  Running away, numbing with substances, controlling with restrictive eating disorders – none of this has ever solved a problem. Self compassion, gentle awareness, and connection with others goes a long way towards easing them though. And I have an abundance of that these days.

I’m not invited to any upcoming weddings, I don’t think. But I won’t be avoiding them either (Please don’t throw out my RSVP!). My goal is to LIVE, to participate in all aspects of life, and to learn how ride the waves with grace. Weddings are stellar grounds for this lesson.

(P.S. Congratulations to the Bride and Groom. My dear bride friend apologized on my way out for the drinking that was happening around me. I’ll write on this another time, but the bystanders are never at fault. And there was absolutely no drunken debauchery – you would have hardly known anyone was drinking. I’m simply hyper-aware. The reason the wedding was triggering has NOTHING to do with the wedding itself – it’s all about my relationship to my emotions, my current circumstances, and my process. And frankly, it made for a great sober blog subject matter and hopefully will help another who may be heading to a summer wedding themselves. So THANK YOU. And may you live happily ever after. I love you.)

Cheers and Gratitude,


Trigger Warning: Suicide Awareness My Story: A Love Letter to Anyone Who’s Suffered

Alcohol and opiates are strong depressants, and were adding to the problem at the same time they were helping me stay oblivious. I played around with how much I could take and still maintain some function. Slowly, passively, I was still trying to end my life. 

Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in America. It’s #2 for 10-14 year olds and #3 for 15-34 year olds.

90% of people who attempt suicide have depression and/or have substance abuse issues.


Trigger Warning: Suicide and Suicide Attempts discussed in light of bringing an end to the shame and stigma surrounding Mental Health Needs and Substance Abuse. 

If you need help NOW, call 9-1-1.

I was 14 years old when I intentionally overdosed on Tylenol. This was my first and only serious planned attempt at showing the world – my family at least – that I was sad enough to try and end my life.

In the days leading up to it, I pictured how it would happen, and it came to fruition exactly that way. Out of compassion and sensitivity to my family and those that may be grieving losses of their own, I’m going to leave out details.

Despite the amount of pills I took, I was fairly sure I would not actually die. I knew my mom would take me to the hospital and she did. The first nurse in the ER that I encountered (or ER tech? I’m not sure) said “Seems like a pretty stupid choice. You knew what you were doing right kid? Looking for some attention.” He was right – I needed attention and felt there was no other way to show what it felt like inside of myself. A physician assessed me and said “This is really the worst way to try to die. You wouldn’t die right away – but you’ll hurt your liver so bad you’ll die slowly anyway.” He didn’t offer any quicker solutions however.

The next 4 days were very confusing. I was able to rest, which felt like a small break from the unrelenting anguish I’d experienced. The doctor prescribed a tylenol antidote which they mixed in Diet Coke. After drinking it, I’d throw up,  which infuriated a particular elderly night nurse. It was so disgusting that I couldn’t drink, or even smell Diet Coke, for the next 10 years.  (Many nurses I know have a story about themselves or a loved one being cared for by amazing nurses. This hospitalization was my first, and nothing about my caregivers made me want to follow in their footsteps. That career choice came later.)

A psychiatrist or psychologist came in and asked weary, uninterested questions. He sat very far away from my bed. His final statement was “I don’t really see what we are going to do for you.” That was the only conversation anyonehad with me regarding my emotional and mental state. As soon as my liver enzymes came back to normal I was sent home.

I began seeing a counselor (not a psychiatrist or psychologist) and was prescribed an anti-depressive by my family doctor that caused terrible panic attacks, so I quickly went off of it. My diagnosis changed frequently – Bipolar, then not. Bipolar 2. Then not. (It was 1995 and seemed everyone was suddenly Bipolar). “Take a pill, see a counselor once a week, and don’t do anything dangerous.” The one time I told a counselor I was considering going to a party with my friends, she said “That’s against your treatment plan. I’m either telling your mom or I can’t see you anymore.” The choice was obvious to me. It also reinforced that I couldn’t be honest with ANYONE.

My treatment was sporadic for a few reasons. I was resistant. There was chaos and divorce in my family home. Then I had a daughter myself at 16 and for years my emotional turmoil sank far under the surface – deeply ingrained but with no outward warning signs for others.

When depression and anxiety resurfaced as an adult, I didn’t fully recognize it. I’d been a mom and nurse for many years. I believed that extreme stress was normal, and that I “should” be more capable. With a perfectionist, overachieving attitude, I added more stress to my life believing that if I accomplished more, I would feel better. Maybe I felt so nervous and dissatisfied because I wasn’t doing enough to feel happy. I went back to school, I got married again, and I took on a supervisor role at work.

And then I began to crash.

I had suffered migraines for years, and when I was prescribed Vicodin, it took away a lot more than headaches. It removed the constant fear of the future; the regrets and dismay of my past. Add alcohol to it and I had found the magic elixir – for awhile. I didn’t know it, but by numbing out everything “bad” in my life I was also numbing out everything good. Alcohol and opiates are strong depressants, and were adding to the problem at the same time they were helping me stay oblivious. I played around with how much I could take while maintaining daily functions. Slowly, passively, I was still trying to end my life.

Sitting across from my counselor about 6 years ago, I admitted “My thoughts are so dark. I constantly picture putting a knife through my chest. I’ll be walking through a grocery store and picture holding a gun to myself. I don’t really want to do this – and I don’t have a gun. But I also don’t want to go on.”

It didn’t occur to me that even as a strong, capable nurse, it would be OK to walk myself into an ER or call a crisis hotline. I couldn’t imagine that I needed – or deserved – that kind of help. I couldn’t “afford the time off” or “show my weakness”. The years went on and the substance abuse – my own personal treatment plan for the emotional and mental pain I was feeling – increased.

I briefly mentioned the anxiety to my physician, but kept the conversation short and light. I knew from past experience that I “shouldn’t” be completely honest with anyone, so I left out any mention of my drug and alcohol use. She recommended a low dose anti-depressant, but I was doubtful. MY depression and anxiety was “situational” I convinced myself. Life was tough! I was going through a divorce. And my doctor agreed. If I could just get a handle on the stress in my life, I wouldn’t feel so bad.

Nobody suggested that it was the opposite – that if I could find a way to stop feeling so bad – learn to accept and cope with painful experiences with self-compassion, learn to love myself and tolerate discomfort – that I would not only be able to handle the stress in my life, I would stop adding to my suffering.

My happy ending is that I did eventually find that formula. In active recovery for substance abuse I’ve learned to change my relationship to my thoughts. Once I was free from the substances, I could begin accepting myself and my life circumstances with love. I began making small daily choices that set me free from internal and external stress: Mindfulness meditation. Self Affirmations. Noticing my inner “saboteur” and working to not believe that voice. Lots of self care. Reducing my hours at work.

I dove headfirst into trusted self-improvement such as Byron Katie’s “The Work”. I found Brene Brown’s research on shame and vulnerability and began to believe that by saying ‘I need help’, I’m actually being my most brave, strong, courageous self. I took Mindfulness Based Relapse Prevention and learned that my thoughts are NOT me, and that I have a choice to let them go and can work towards choosing joy.

And I never, ever feel too proud or afraid to ask for help anymore. 

When I took 3 months off work to go to outpatient substance treatment, I learned that a mom with a full time job and a mortgage can in fact still find ways and means to pause everything and take care of herself.

I learned that no matter how “shameful” it is to be a nurse in state probation program, I can still show up at my job feeling proud that I’m doing the hard work of healing the wounds in my life, and that I still deserve to be here.

When I read the news this morning about Anthony Bourdain I was sobbing before even leaving my bed. For him and his family. (My father loved him – we watched him together many nights). For Kate Spade. For the desperation and hopelessness they must have felt. I imagine they felt like they couldn’t reach out to anyone. Perhaps they couldn’t admit what felt like weakness; that they didn’t want to be a burden. And no doubt they felt like they couldn’t go one more minute with their anguish filled minds.

I cried for myself, at 14. And at 30, for all the days spent visualizing harming myself. For all of the patients whose bedsides I have sat next to in the dark, knowing that they suffered so deeply and could see no other way out.

There are degrees of mental health/illness, degrees of depression and anxiety, and we should all receive individual based treatment. Mine stemmed from childhood trauma, years of self loathing, and a lack of healthy coping mechanisms, along with a strong lineage of depression and suicide in my immediate family. I feel lucky to have found light through my darkness, and hope that if I enter into darkness again I can speak up early knowing that there is hope.

There’s nothing more important to me right now than ending the shame and stigma of mental health disparities and substance abuse. No one should be afraid to say “I need help.” “I want my life to end.” “I’m angry or sad and afraid all the time.” No one should feel shame for “seeking attention” with this desperate act.

Luckily, healthcare is changing, and so is our culture. But it can do better for all of us. Depression and anxiety need to be treated holistically  – not “just” with a pill. Or “just” talking to a counselor. I don’t know the answer, but I want to be a part of finding it.

If you are feeling scared, depressed, anxious or hopeless, know that you are LOVED right now. I am sending you all the compassion in my heart. I have been there – maybe not exactly where you are. But in a similar place. And I have found a new way to live. There is NOTHING wrong with asking for help. NOTHING wrong with saying you’re spiraling out of control and you need someone to help you take of care of yourself. You deserve help. You deserve to love yourself. You are needed and wanted, and if you’re not finding the answers you need, don’t give up. It might be scary to pick up the phone and call the suicide hotline, or you may feel shame about showing up in your local hospital and saying that you’re considering hurting yourself. I promise you, the scary part is temporary. Life on the other side of real help and healing can be worth every scary minute of that first phone call.

Life is very hard, and very beautiful. It’s always changing. Don’t choose a permanent solution for temporary pain. Give yourself every chance to find the beauty.


Make an appointment with your doctor and a licensed therapist. Talk to a trusted family member or friend. Tell someone. And don’t hold back – tell them everything. You’re worth it.

My favorite resources for learning Self Love: 

Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (find your local classes online)

She Recovers (

The Work of Byron Katie

With all my Love,





4 Lessons I Learned From My Online Dating Relapse

My loneliness isn’t the absence of another person in my presence. It’s the fear that I’m completely unanchored to a consistent, stable support system. Unattached, Uncertain, Unstable. As though life’s waves could sweep me away at any time.

I have a small confession to make. A relapse of sorts.

I signed back in to a dating app and I swiped.

I swear it was only one time!

Ok, I mean it was only for the one weekend and that’s ALL I did! Only swiping. We didn’t meet in person, there were no dates, we didn’t talk on the phone. You have to believe me!

Feels good to admit it actually…..and that IS the first step, ….right???img_1201

Relapse humor aside, swiping is a major RED FLAG for me, something I’ve used to numb myself from real life. So when I realized I was backsliding into this addictive behavior pattern, I knew I couldn’t let it escalate. I had to dig deep to figure out why. Why wasn’t I content with my own company? What was missing? What was I avoiding?

When I got to the core of it, I was surprised to find that I’m actually kind of lonely right now.

I didn’t think this was possible for me – I’ve been a mom since I was 16, so there’s always been at least one other human around me. I tend to keep my days very busy…multiple jobs, volunteer work, and a decently full social roster. Or maybe I’ve just been oblivious. Being an expert at chemically numbing discomfort, I’ve probably been totally unaware.

Now that I’m sober and giving myself permission to feel all the raw feelings. It’s one thing to feel them; harder to accept them.

Like any good relapse, my tinder-lapse started weeks before I participated in the behavior. The environment around me had become particularly stressful. In a short period of time, I bailed someone out of jail, helped another into a detox center, and handled a series of drunk-texts – both from friends and a potential client. 


My phone felt like a ticking time bomb; I was nervous that every call or text was another negative or triggering notification, and I started taking it personally. “Did I cause this? Am I helping too much? Not helping enough? Is my sobriety doomed? Don’t they love me enough to stay sober?”

As my safety net of sober friends dwindled, emotions that I’ve made a lot of progress coping with– like doubt and fear – compounded. Before I knew it I was deep in a pile of self pity.

“My friends are all relapsing. My friends are not OK. Sobriety isn’t guaranteed. My future is unclear. I don’t have any friends. I don’t have any security. I’m not OK.”

The “I’M NOT OK” neighborhood is a scary place to hang out, and seems like it’s never ending. It’s a strong trigger for all kinds of addictions, because it makes us feel lonely. “LONELY” is one of the key 4 emotions that recovery specialists encourage us to avoid or immediately remedy before they spiral out of control.

H.A.L.T. Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. img_1203

Hungry Angry and Tired? Those I can relate to. Anger in particular triggers me. But I’d ignored “lonely” because “it doesn’t pertain to me.” When it snuck up, I was taken by surprise without a plan of action.

My experience of loneliness has little to do with being physically “Alone”. I love time to myself, and boredom is hardly in my vocabulary. I don’t lay in bed at night wishing someone was there with me, it doesn’t depress me to travel with just my dog.

My loneliness isn’t the absence of another person in my presence. It’s the fear that I’m completely unanchored to a consistent, stable support system. Unattached, Uncertain, Unstable. As though life’s waves could sweep me away at any time. I notice it when I fill out a form at the doctor, and there’s no name for me to write in the spot “emergency contact”. My heart sinks. I begin to think that maybe I’ll never have an emergency contact. I picture myself a little old lady, puttering in the house, losing her keys, and having no one there to remind me where I put them. I know… I’m totally aware that I’m ‘catastrophizing’. But these are the kinds of thoughts that convince us to “settle” for a partner that’s totally wrong for us. The kind of thoughts that feel so uncomfortable, we might just do anything to avoid them. Like drink. Or go on an unadvisable date.

Two years ago, I had 3 men in my life/family that I felt I could call on at any time to be there and save the day if I needed. Today, for different reasons, I don’t. One of them is my father, who passed in 2017 – there’s no doubt this is a major factor in why I feel so unhinged.

This isn’t to say I DON’T have a support system. I do! A wonderful tribe of women (and some great guy friends) that love and encourage and empower me. Depressed and anxious thoughts aren’t generally based in reality though. Gone unchecked, they’ll swarm through my psyche and before I know it, they’re in the drivers seat of my behavior.

In the midst of this loneliness tempest, feeling like there was nothing solid to grasp onto, I reached for the next best thing – a virtual connection. Any port in a storm right? Ten swipes later and bingo – a selection of potential  “shelters” displayed in front of me. Substitute sanctuaries for a floundering female.

You know where this is going though….there’s no romantic fairy tale ending. No knight in shining armor arrived on horseback to rescue this princess.

A few vapid conversations and a boatload of disappointment later, I realized I’d made a major detour that wasn’t leading where I wanted.

I LIKE being single. And I LOVE the forward progress my life is taking since become sober and focusing on self love and self actualization. But conditions got rough, and I got scared. I went right back to needing to “get high” off the little ego strokes my phone offered. “You have a match” “Jeff sent you a message!” It increased my dopamine, and soothed my fears –  in a superficial, temporary way. img_1202

So what can I do differently, to prevent going down this rabbit hole of seeking out external validation? Because trust me – it WILL happen again. Triggering events are not going to go away. Life will continue to be difficult sometimes. And online dating apps will always be there, even if I delete them time and time again.

Here are the 4 lessons I learned to prevent future relapse and cope with the loneliness in a healthier way:

1. Make Boundaries 

Relapse happens in the recovery community. I can’t control external events, but I can create safe, compassionate boundaries. Example: I called my friend and told him that I won’t respond to his drunk texts, even if he’s being nice or funny. My boundary: creating space for genuine communication. This was really empowering, and he responded by thanking me for my honesty and willingness to forgive

2. Know the Emotions.

Until now, I didn’t even know I felt lonely. Noticing the triggering emotion and naming it helps us deal with it. “I feel scared.” “I don’t feel safe.” “This feels like loneliness.” Pinpoint where you feel it in your body. My lonely feeling is heaviness in my shoulders and tightness in my chest. Knowing where it is helps me notice it early, so I can tackle it early.

3. Question Your thoughts. 

“I’m not safe” – Is this true? No, I’m perfectly safe. I’m alive, breathing and well. “I don’t have anybody”. I have lots of somebodies! I have friends I can call right now. “Dating will fix everything. I just need someone to like me.” I know this isn’t true. I’m seeking immediate gratification.

4. Increase positive energy.

Where do you spend your time? What’s the usual content of your thoughts? Get involved with a program that has members with long term recovery who offer solid support. Listen to or read solution-based self-improvement materials. Begin a routine of daily meditations and self-affirmations.

Dating apps themselves are not overtly “bad”. My use of them is a behavior that I’ve identified as risky and potentially self-harmful. Dating can easily escalate into a drinking relapse for me, and is a co-dependent behavior that reinforces “I am not good enough alone”. Seeking male attention, and feeling insecure being alone, is generally because I’ve let self care lapse and I’ve not adhered to my boundaries. Someday, this won’t be the case. I’ll have made strides in my health, and will be ready. I trust myself completely to know when I’m there (and I likely won’t be swiping for a significant other.)


Participating in life according to my values means focusing on mindful, honest, compassion towards others and myself. I can do this by setting boundaries, exploring emotions, and responding with care, not out of habit or fear. This season in my life is one of Radical Self Love, and that means some things are going to have to shift. It’s not easy, but that’s ok. And I’m ok. I’m perfectly safe, supported and totally OK.

Have you ever created a destructive distraction in your life out of fear or loneliness?
What would it feel like if you could STOP yourself from making a choice that will haunt you tomorrow?
I would LOVE to support you.  I would love to share all of the valuable tools I have learned that support me in making healthier choices, one day at a time.
Everyone deserves to live a sober life FREE from the fear of relapse – whatever your current vice may be.

If you want to discuss how working together could offer you support and accountability in this area, please schedule a FREE discovery call by emailing me at or go to this link

Why May 17th Is My Golden Anniversay

Kintsukuroi, or kintsugi, is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. The end result is gorgeous; the cracks in the dish glow with precious metal. The “broken” pieces unquestionably make the piece valuable.

I’ve never been one for anniversaries – just ask any of my ex husbands. (audience laughter here, please)

Nor have I been one to observe annual memorials – at least not in the way many people do – visiting a gravesite, or sending a card on a specific day each year. I honor my loved ones and memories in other ways, but annual dates – whether I associate them as “bad” or “good” – don’t necessarily cause me anxiety, grief, suffering, or reason for celebration.

There is one date I’ve become particularly attached to however.

May 17th, 2016.

The day my life as I knew it fell apart. It was the best thing that could have happened to me because my life as I knew it was filled with craving for pills and alcohol, shame, dishonesty, fear and pain. I was given a chance to make myself whole again, and since that day I’ve been gathering the pieces of my life and inspecting them for damage; letting go of what no longer fits and gluing the rest back together.

Have you heard of Kintsukoroi? dreamstime_xxl_111631404

More beautiful having been broken. Glued back together with gold.

Kintsukuroi, or kintsugi, is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. The end result is gorgeous; the cracks in the dish glow with precious metal. The “broken” pieces unquestionably make the piece valuable.

May 17th is not the memorial of a tragedy, a day to mourn or shame myself for my failures.

May 17th is my Golden Anniversary – the day I was given an opportunity to become a Kintsukoroi creation, although I couldn’t have known it at the time.

On the night of May 16th, I’d walked in to work at the hospital, planning to spend a 12 hour shift there, as I had at least 3 nights a week for the last 11 years. Instead, a whirlwind of activity occurred, and after giving a urine sample to the Human Resources director, I was escorted from the property with the advice to basically “not call us, we’ll call you.”

That was a dark night, and I won’t soon forget the fear in my heart, lying awake, and alone, knowing there wasn’t a lie big enough to get me out of that one.

But morning came, and with it – the light. The twisted road of recovery lay before me, along with the hope that I could reconstruct my brokenness into something beautiful.


A year later, on May 17th, 2017 I wrote my first “recovery blog post.” You may remember reading it; likely open mouthed, shocked to learn that your family member/friend/co-worker is a substance abuse statistic.

Perhaps you weren’t shocked at all, but felt disappointed, sad, or empathetic. While I may be the “face” of addiction in this picture, I knw there are many more involved that are hurting, due to my actions. Blogging about my journey has been a significant part of the “golden glue”, working to repair the fractures in my relationships.

And now….May 17th, 2018.

Another year has passed and I have another opportunity to reflect on my transformation. I want to honor the broken pieces while looking forward and shaping myself into what I hope is a more empowered, beneficial family member, friend and citizen of humanity.

On this Golden Anniversary, I get to publicly announce my business:

Recover and Rise, LLC. Life and Recovery Coaching for Your Highest Wellbeing.

A year ago, the idea was born that I’d somehow use my experience to help others. I wasn’t even aware that recovery coaches existed, but came across this type of sobriety support while looking for my own recovery resources.  Life and recovery coaching expressed exactly what I had envisioned, and since making the decision to become a dual certified coach, it’s been a seamless process. Not without challenges, but seamless in the sense I’ve felt in complete alignment with my soul, my vision and my values as I’ve moved forward in the process. I’ve been lit up with creativity, intuition and love in a way I’ve not felt before.

she recovers logo

I’m also unbelievably blessed to be connected with She Recovers as a designated coach. More on my experiences with them in future blogs….These women are truly conquering the world with compassion and changing the face of recovery for the better.

As I’ve planned the upcoming website launch and celebration, I’ve been surprised by even more gifts of recovery…..and I’ll share them with you when I can! Hint: they involve my name and my writing elsewhere on the internet…..

Today also brought one thing that was less of a surprise. A “Random” urine drug test. Thanks for thinking of me guys!!! I’ve got 2 years completed in the nurse monitoring program. As the nurse who watched me pee today said “Another urine test down, another one closer to graduation.” She couldn’t be more right!!!

This is a day of celebration; an anniversary of falling in love with myself again. 


For those of you that have followed me here-


I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and humility. This blog is going to continue in this space, under it’s new name Scrubbed Clean. I hope you’ll continue to read and share to spread the message of love.

Please consider signing up for my newsletter, which will be available soon via my website. You’ll get alerts about new blog posts, special offers and lots of  love and gratitude –  but absolutely no extra B.S.!!! There’s also a “blog section” on the website which will have even more content that I hope is relatable and makes a difference in someone’s life.


Other places to stay current with happenings in my life and business are and @scrubbedcleanrn (ig) for sweet deals the next few days….giveaways and discounts! 

And please, if you or someone you know is suffering with substances, ask for help. Whether it’s from me, another coach, or program of your choice. Everyone deserves sobriety and self love – no one deserves to suffer in shame.

You can now contact me at my new email as well as schedule calls directly through my website!

Stay tuned blog family!!! You’ll be hearing a lot more from me!

Cheer and Gratitude, 



Recover & Rise, LLC

My 3 Worst Moments As A Nurse; And It’s Probably Not What You Think.

Gossip, condescending to, or otherwise being negative toward colleagues remain embarrassing marks on my nursing record – especially considering I view myself an advocate and mentor for new residents and student nurses.

Nurse’s week brings out the best in our profession- not to mention hilarious memes, ice cream floats served by supervisors, and pizza parties paid for by administration.

“Happy Nurse’s Week” on banners in every door way remind us to take pride in our career, and that nurses are made of caring and compassion- essentially “sugar and spice and everything nice”. While our hearts agree, those of us working in the trenches know this isn’t always accurate.

You may be shocked to hear this, but even I’m not always a perfect gem to work with; I too have had moments acting like an utter A$$. In 17 years total working in healthcare there are 3** scenarios that stand out in my memory, where my ego and poor judgment won over my good sense and training. Gossip, condescending to, or otherwise being negative toward colleagues remain embarrassing marks on my nursing record – especially considering I view myself an advocate and mentor for new residents and student nurses.

Who would believe I could be anything other than adorable? 😉

**Caveat: My personal life/substance abuse affecting my workplace is hands down my biggest regret and humiliation- conversely, it’s also evolved into some of my greatest achievements. For once I’m not writing about my addiction/recovery**

**Caveat #2: I know I’ve gossiped more than 3 times in 17 years. You may be someone who has witnessed that, and I offer sincere apologies. There is only much space…So I’ve limited this to the 3 most memorable & interesting situations.

#1 – Twenty years old, wide eyed and naive, I was employed in my first “grown up job” as a dialysis technician. Although already Mom to a 3 year old, I was still growing beyond the emotional maturity of a high schooler. When one coworker confided in me about how difficult it was working with another woman in our department, I viewed the gossip as a conduit to creating an intimate connection. My ego inflated as I was taken into confidence, and I easily agreed with the “poor qualities” and “difficulties” of a woman I hardly knew or worked with. My eager chatter did not go unnoticed, as the subject of our gossip was listening from a nearby hall. Later that day, sitting across from her, tears ran down her cheeks.  Years ahead of me in life and work experience, I had managed to cause her significant pain with my selfish choice of words. She felt worthless, and asked me sincerely if I thought she should leave the job. Tripping over myself verbally, my own tears spilled over. There was nowhere to hide, no way to lie or avoid what I’d done. I simply had to face her and apologize. In reality, there was nothing I didn’t like about her. But my ego had eclipsed my good judgement and I’d traded in my integrity for the instant gratification of gossip. In hindsight, there was a positive outcome. She accepted my apology, the air was cleared between all 3 of us, and I received an education on trust and teamwork. Gossiping was cowardly, and she taught me courage by confronting me herself and asking for clarification. It took a lot of bravery to do that. Ultimately I’m glad she overheard, and I’m grateful she was generous enough to allow me the opportunity to apologize without involving management. The weight of my words and gravity of their consequences was clear. P.S. – gossiping in a hallway when the person is there at work is just dumb. But that’s not the point – at all.


#2 – “Kelly” called “I need Help!” from a patient’s room and I jumped from my chair. Arriving at the edge of the bed, it was clear the patient wasn’t breathing. More nurses rushed in. Terrified but wanting to be useful I said “I’ll page the doctor!” (this was before the days of Rapid Response or Code teams on the floors) “Kelly – what team is your patient under?” I needed to know which doctor- or team- was overseeing this patient’s care so I could call the right one. “I don’t know.” He replied calmly. I stopped in the hall –YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT TEAM YOUR PATIENT’S ON???!!!” By nature, I am not a yeller. In fact, my students have labeled me “the valium in the room” due to my calm demeanor, especially in a crisis. But on that day, in front of everyone, I lost it. Stress and fear caused me to lose my ability to communicate appropriately. How could he NOT KNOW something so VITAL!!!!??? I must be SOOOO much better than him, right???? Obviously, him not having 100% of the details equates to me being the superior nurse!!! In actuality, of course, this DID NOT matter. Kelly had years of nursing experience. He knew exactly where to find this info if and when he needed it – in the chart or on the computer. I, on the other hand, was a new nurse. I spent the first hour of every shift attempting to memorize each detail of my patient’s chart prior to giving care, due to my overwhelming fear of this exact circumstance – being caught by another team member without the right information at a crucial moment. It’s a legitimate fear. We scandalize other nurses ALL THE TIME for this “failure” It’s a behavior I wish I could eliminate from our occupation. Yelling in the workplace is never OK, but often this condescending verbiage is delivered quietly or comes disguised as “being helpful”. This doesn’t make it right. I’ve had to do some serious inquiry around my intentions when I’m showing someone information, or questioning why they don’t have all the facts. Lucky for me, Kelly was a good friend and got over my outburst fairly quickly, even though he was irritated and embarrassed. We’ve had a lot laughter over it. These days, there are more shifts than not where I couldn’t tell you the team or the doctor caring for my patient – but I know exactly where to find it. And I know I’d feel like total Sh!# if someone yelled at me demanding that – or any- information. A decade later, this memory still keeps me humble.

#3 – Turns out I didn’t learn my lesson after all from scenario #1. Just last year, standing at the nurse’s station I let some foul words escape from my mouth. There was a particular nurse that simply rubbed me the wrong way. Doesn’t mean she’s wrong, or bad, or incompetent –  just means we didn’t mesh. But I started taking it personally. I formed the idea that MY time is more valuable than HER time, and became increasingly annoyed during shift report. So annoyed, in fact, that I said to the charge nurse in public “Seriously? 5 days in a row? Do I have to give report to her again? You’ve got to be kidding me.” AND…..You guessed it. She was standing right there. Not realizing it at the time, another nurse let me know that the she had walked away in tears over it. I wasn’t quite ready to be remorseful, “Well, I meant what I said. She’ll get over it.” Even I was surprised at the tone of my words. Not to excuse myself, but I was at my wit’s end with life. Hindsight has enabled me to see exactly what led me to act like such an ogre. Too many shifts in a row, right after the death of my father, had caused fatigue. Caring for a patient who was dying from the same disease as my father led to a total numbing of my emotions. There was simply not one compassionate cell left in my body. I stewed for a shift, not liking myself at all. Once I determined that I needed to atone for my actions, I did what any mature, leadership-inclined nurse versed in crucial conversations would do; I sent an apology via Facebook messenger. I really did. But I also asked if she would meet me in person. Here’s the thing; I did kind of mean what I said: I didn’t enjoy giving or getting report from her. It was longer and more detailed and scattered than I prefer. None of that gives me the right to act that way. Trust me, I learned. I ate serious crow, and still get a little sick thinking about it. While I stand by my opinion, that’s ALL it is. An opinion. I unconditionally concede that the delivery was straight up Mean Girl and the words had no business leaving my mouth.


Slipping into the bad habits of gossip and coworker shaming is easy to do. The high stress, ego-happy environment, variety of personalities working long hours together, and a whole slough of human factors have us searching for scapegoats to as an outlet for our elevated emotions. Gossip is especially seductive, because of it’s instant, cheap way of making us feel intimately connected, or in possession of some type of power.

“Stop the Lateral Violence” sounds like political propaganda. But friends, seriously. Let’s stop the lateral violence. If you’re impatient with newer staff, remember that you WERE the “young” once, and you didn’t want to be “eaten”. If your ego is ruling your behavior, recall a time when you’ve made a mistake, needed help, or didn’t immediately know an answer. It’s not just the new nurses that this happens to.

Compassion for others has boundless scientifically proven benefits. For every thought in our head that becomes a word from our mouths, there’s a moment to consider and decide – will my words be useful and will they be kind? Can I picture a time when I’ve been in this person’s shoes? Every opportunity to communicate is an opportunity to create a wound or create a connection.


If you experience bullying or lateral violence in the workplace, speak up to a safe resource. (Contact me if you need support doing this). And if you notice it happening around you, find a way to effectively intervene, and most importantly, be a positive role model.

For more information on cultivating Compassion, go to, or read Jerome Stone’s book “Minding the Bedside; Nursing from the Heart of the Awakened Mind”.

*Providence Everett*  – An 8 week Compassion Cultivation course is offered FREE of charge a few times a year! Please email me for details

To learn more about working together and my life/recovery coaching programs, email me to schedule a FREE discovery call!

Cheers and Gratitude,


The Saturday Night I Met Myself

In my drinking days, his being a practical stranger would have been the perfect rationale for me to swipe on some lip-gloss, grab my purse and follow him to the bar.

It’s not that long ago I would have said yes.

“I’m headed to the Train Wreck. Come with! You can’t just sit here on a Saturday Night!”

My girlfriend and I were settled on the couch, brownies in the oven. Leaving Utopia wasn’t an option. I could have made the excuse that I don’t drink, but didn’t bother. He was just a guy renting my guest room for the weekend; we’d probably never see each other again.

In my drinking days, his being a practical stranger would have been the perfect rationale for me to swipe on some lip-gloss, grab my purse and follow him to the bar.

There was an awkward pause after he asked…as though he couldn’t believe we would turn down his offer. How could we be satisfied sitting home, when we could be perched on a barstool next to him, indulging in the drink special of the night?

“Oh, you’re serious? Staying home on a weekend? Well, have a good night.”

We nodded and I said “Drive home safe. Call if you need a ride. Don’t drink too much and drive.”

My own response surprised me.

Who was I?

Where was the girl that would do anything to get numb and avoid reality?Even if it meant ditching her friend for an unattractive, unknown guy and a bar literally called the Train Wreck? Where was the girl who would shove the voice of reason so far down it couldn’t be heard, then walk out the door avoiding every flapping red flag?

What about the girl who by 8pm on a Saturday had already consumed a bottle of wine or some ungodly amount of IPA, but would still jump at the offer to drive everyone to the bar?

I was that girl. The girl who would trade a perfectly nice night at home with my dog and my friend, for a night of so-called adventure; even if it meant risking my safety, sobriety, and sanity. The so-called adventure never came to fruition of course. The most exciting thing that would happen was chatting up a greasy stranger and making plans which I had no intention of following up on, but for an hour or two they’d be my best friend and soul mate while we bullshitted at the bartop.

Eventually I’d realize I was the only one left, and after finagling one more drink out of the bartender, the “adventure” would continue: me driving home drunk, followed by a confusing sense of elation having made it home without getting pulled over. The elation would fade away with the drunkenness, leaving only a pathetic, fuzzy memory of secrets shared with my “new best friend”, a mouth resembling a cat’s litter box, and my self worth replaced with soul eating shame.

Ican still touch those memories.

I can reach back into them and experience the sadness and fear. It’s not a stretch to see myself in hindsight and pinpoint the exact minute a bad decision was made. I have a few lingering regrets and a ton of compassion for the hours I spent with my legs wrapped around a barstool.

But I don’t stay there. I don’t go under so far that it takes my breath and is a struggle to come back. Because while I might remember what she looked like and how she acted; I am in no way her any longer.

On this Saturday night, I realized how true this is. I’m the girl that genuinely feels excited for a night of brownies and SNL. Honestly concerned that someone might drink and drive, I’m the girl that offers to be D.D. (kind of halfheartedly, ‘cuz I’m loving my pajamas and no way do I want to leave my house past 9pm; but I do care enough to pick up if he calls).

I’m the girl that laughs louder and bigger and realer than I ever did drunk; that’s impressed by the new flavor of sparkling water in my fridge, that is grateful to be planted in my recliner with my dog. Not as a consolation prize either – thinking I need a break from all the partying I’ve been doing. This is the grand champion of Saturdays. This is the me that experiences zero FOMO when it comes to others’ weekend plans.

I’m the girl that looks forward to hangover- free, early morning runs and pancakes. That loves herself and her friends and shows it by not trading time with them for random male attention. The girl that doesn’t feel provoked, even when the drink invitation comes in the form of a dare. I’m the girl who does not for one second miss the smell of the inside of a bar; and who considers time spent at the Train Wreck a legitimate risk of becoming exactly that.

I didn’t know I was this girl…..and then suddenly, I did. Glowing gently from the inside, I found myself. I had been here all along.

There was nothing more I needed, and nowhere I needed to go. Nothing to numb, avoid or search for.

“You sure you’re staying home? It could be fun….”

And the girl who is ME answered uncompromisingly:

“Of course I’m staying home, everything I want is here.”

I’m the girl that’s recovered. Recovering. Recovered.

If you had any doubts, I’m living proof. We can and DO recover.

Cheers and Gratitude,


Thank you for reading! If you like what you read here, follow me @scrubbedcleanrn (IG and Twitter) and learn more about how to work with me as your personal Life/Recovery Coach at

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Thank you for reading! If you like what you read here, follow me @scrubbedcleanrn (IG and Twitter) and learn more about how to work with me as your personal Life/Recovery Coach at