Be Your Own Damn Valentine

Valentine’s Day used to make me uncomfortable.

Not because I didn’t have someone — but because I had to live with myself, and for a long time… that felt like a raw deal.

When I first got sober, I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.

Actually, let’s tell the truth — I avoided her.

There was a solid stretch of time where I brushed my teeth with the bathroom light off because seeing my reflection before caffeine felt unnecessarily aggressive.

Some people practice self-love.
I practiced strategic darkness.

Early recovery is wild like that. Suddenly you have feelings again. Awareness. Memories that show up uninvited like emotional spam.

And underneath all of it?

Shame.

So much shame.

But healing rarely arrives in grand, cinematic moments. It shows up quietly.

One morning you flip the bathroom light on.
One day you hold eye contact with yourself a second longer.
One day you stop speaking to yourself like you’re the villain in your own story.

And without even realizing it… you begin staying on your own side.

Somewhere around years two through four, I entered what I now call my “visually convincing stability” era.

Makeup done.
Outfit intentional.
Hair handled.

I didn’t run into people — I arrived.

Looking back, it wasn’t vanity.

It was armor.

If I looked okay… maybe I was okay.

Spoiler alert: winged eyeliner is not a coping skill.

These days, I show up to house meetings in yoga pants. Hair in a clip. Zero performance.

Because I am no longer trying to prove I deserve to be in the room.

I know I do.

Evolution, bitches.

And here is something I never expected…

Now I quietly watch the women in my house wrestle with this same thing.

Some won’t come downstairs without full makeup — armor on, ready for inspection.

Others struggle just to shower because facing themselves feels overwhelming.

And listen… it is the same fight.

One hides behind perfection.
One hides through avoidance.

But both are asking the same quiet question:

Am I okay as I am?

Recovery teaches you something no one really says out loud:

The moment you stop abandoning yourself is the moment your life begins to change.

Not when you lose the weight.
Not when your past suddenly makes sense.
Not when everyone forgives you.

When you stop walking out on yourself.

When you sit with the messy parts instead of outrunning them.
When you offer yourself the same compassion you give everyone else.
When you realize you were never too much — you were just carrying too much alone.

That is the real glow-up.

Not perfection.

Loyalty to yourself.

Loving myself didn’t happen overnight. Love honestly felt like too big of a leap at first.

First came tolerance.
Then acceptance.
Then respect.

Now there are days I catch myself thinking,
She’s actually kind of a badass.

Growth is shocking like that.

Do not misunderstand — I am still deeply human. I still have days where I am overstimulated, under-caffeinated, and one minor inconvenience away from needing everyone to stop talking immediately.

But the difference now?

I don’t abandon myself anymore.

And that might be the greatest thing recovery ever gave me.

So this Valentine’s Day, here is what I want to say — especially if loving yourself still feels a little out of reach:

Turn the bathroom light on.

Look at her.

Stay.

You don’t have to love her yet.

Just don’t leave.

Because one day you will look up and realize you are falling in like with the woman staring back at you…

and that is where everything begins.

Watching Them Walk Away: The Grief No One Talks About in Recovery Work

There is a particular kind of heartbreak that comes with this work that no one warns you about.

It’s not the loud kind. It doesn’t always come with screaming or chaos or slammed doors. Most of the time, it begins quietly. With a text.

“Hey, I think I’m going to try something else.”
“I need to go stay with a friend for a bit.”
“I’ve got a plan.”

They almost always say it like they’ve already convinced themselves. Like this time is different. Like this exit is strategic. Empowered. Thought-through.

And I read it knowing what usually comes next.

I know the pattern now. I can feel it in my body before my brain even catches up. The tone shifts. The sentences get shorter. The certainty gets louder. There’s a rush in their words—an urgency that feels like confidence but is actually panic in disguise. It’s impulsivity dressed up as clarity.

It’s like watching a car wreck in slow motion.

I can see the skid marks before they do.
I can feel the impact coming.

And the worst part is that I can’t grab the wheel.

I can respond. I can remind them of their goals. I can gently reflect the version of themselves they were two weeks ago when they were crying on my couch saying, “I don’t want to live like this anymore.” I can offer a pause. I can offer support. I can say, You don’t have to do this alone.

But I cannot override the pull.

Because drugs and alcohol are not just habits. They are not just bad choices. They are not just “using again.”

They are powerful. They are seductive. They are neurological. They rewrite the brain’s math. They make relief feel like survival. They make chaos feel like control. They convince people that burning everything down is actually freedom.

So when someone leaves, it’s rarely because they’re healed.

It’s because something inside them whispers, You don’t deserve this yet.
Or, This is too hard.
Or, You’re fine now. You’ve got it.

And sometimes they go.

Sometimes they vanish.

Sometimes they resurface months later, thinner, exhausted, ashamed, asking if I still have a bed. Sometimes I get to say yes. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I get to watch them fight their way back.

And sometimes… I see their name in an obituary.

That is the part people don’t see when they talk about “helping people” like it’s inspirational wallpaper. They don’t see the nights I replay conversations in my head, wondering if one different sentence could have slowed the spiral. They don’t feel the weight of knowing exactly what trajectory someone is on and being powerless to stop it.

It is a strange grief—mourning people who are still alive. Holding space for someone who has already walked away. Carrying hope in one hand and realism in the other.

I have learned not to romanticize recovery.

It is not a straight line. It is not a montage. It is not a redemption arc that hits on cue. It is messy and nonlinear and full of exits and re-entries. It is full of half-formed plans and confident lies people tell themselves because facing the truth hurts too much.

And still, I stay.

I stay because sometimes they do come back.
I stay because sometimes that pause I offer lands.
I stay because sometimes the text is followed by, “Can you help me?”
I stay because sometimes I get to witness a woman choose herself for the first time in her life.

But I also stay knowing that I will lose some of them.

That is the cost of loving people in this space.

This work is not about saving everyone. It is about standing in the in-between. It is about holding the door open even when you know they might not walk back through it. It is about refusing to reduce human beings to their worst moment while also refusing to pretend the danger isn’t real.

Every goodbye carries a shadow.

Every “I’ve got a plan” echoes with a question mark.

And every time I hit send on a response that says, I’m here if you need me, I know I might be writing to someone I will never hear from again.

That is the heartache.

That is the reality.

And still…...I choose to keep the light on.

Promises….The Accidental Sitcom Episode 1

A sober living comedy based on very real events.

People picture sober living as peaceful. Calm. Structured. Maybe some soft music playing while women journal and sip herbal tea.

Not here.

Running Promises Sober Living is a mix of:

• recovery work

• emotional growth

• spiritual healing

• federal-grade chaos

• and moments where I look into an imaginary camera like I’m on The Office.

Let me walk you through a single week — a very real, very Promises week.

ACT I — “Fix Your Fucking Face”

One of the women is about to hop onto an important Zoom meeting with professionals.
She’s dressed fine.
She’s on time.
Her paperwork is together.

But her face?

Her face is giving:

• “I am not emotionally available.”

• “Try me and see what happens.”

• “I woke up in fight-or-flight and stayed there.”

I could feel the caseworker on the other end preparing for battle, and the meeting hadn’t even started yet.

So, in a moment of pure instinct and spiritual intervention, I said:

“Fix your fucking face.”

She froze.
Then burst out laughing.
Then actually softened.

She entered the Zoom as a functioning human instead of an unpaid MMA fighter.

Therapeutic? Maybe not.
Effective? Absolutely.

ACT II — The Thanksgiving Turkey Crisis: A Midnight Special

It’s the night before Thanksgiving.
Someone — with zero irony — asks:

“Should we take the turkey out of the freezer?”

I turned around slowly like a horror movie character who just heard footsteps.

The turkey.
Is.
A.
FROZEN.
BOULDER.

If you dropped it on the floor, it would fall through all levels of the home like a cartoon safe.

The whole house goes into meltdown mode:

“Put it in the sink!”
“No, the bathtub!”
“Microwave it?”
“I’m going to cry.”
“Should we just… cancel Thanksgiving?”

Meanwhile someone is whispering positive affirmations to the turkey like it’s going to thaw out of gratitude.

AND THEN — the plot twist of the century:

Two of the women panic, run to the store, buy a fresh turkey, and stay up ALL NIGHT cooking.

I’m talking:

• seasoning

• basting

• arguing

• bonding

• trauma-processing

• checking it every 7 minutes like exhausted culinary soldiers

They cooked that turkey like the fate of the free world depended on it.

By morning?

It was PERFECT.
Golden.
Gorgeous.
A Thanksgiving miracle created by caffeine and panic.

ACT III — The Door That No One Locks

We do not have a bathroom key.

We do, however, have a universal challenge:

No one locks the damn bathroom door.

Daily:
Someone forgets.
Daily:
Someone else walks in and screams like they just witnessed a crime.

Then begins the debate:

“I DID lock it!”
“The lock is broken!”
“You don’t know how to knock!”
“Why would you open it that hard?!”
“I swear I thought you were downstairs!”

At this point the lock itself needs trauma therapy.

ACT IV — The Spoon That Will Outlive Us All

Every house has a mystery.

Ours?

THE SPOON.

Every. Single. Day.
The same spoon appears in the sink.
Covered in a new mystery substance.

No one used it.
No one knows where it came from.
No one understands why it’s always THERE.

The spoon is basically a spiritual entity now.
It has rights.
It has opinions.
It has a storyline.

I fear it more than DHS.

ACT V — Why I Stay, Why I Laugh, Why It Matters

Here’s the truth beneath the comedy:

These women are healing in real time.

They’re learning emotional sobriety.
They’re parenting.
They’re confronting trauma.
They’re figuring out how to show up to life — even when their face needs adjusting first.

The laughter?
It’s part of the medicine.
Part of the bonding.
Part of the recovery.

Promises is messy.
It’s loud.
It’s chaotic.
It’s beautiful.

And it absolutely deserves to be told like the sitcom it is.

Roll credits.
Cue soft emotional outro music.
Fade out as someone in the kitchen yells:

“WHO USED THIS SPOON AGAIN?!”

✨ Want more episodes?

Because oh… there will be more.
The material writes itself.

When you’re ready, we’ll drop Episode 2.

The Caseworker, the Coffee, and the Chaos: A Day in the Life of an Advocate

There’s a moment, every single day, when I think: “Surely this is the weirdest thing that will happen today.”
And then—without fail—the universe laughs.

Advocating for women in recovery means juggling about seventeen roles before lunch: therapist (unlicensed but emotionally taxed), chauffeur, emotional-support barista, life coach, housing coordinator, and occasionally, a human shield during toddler meltdowns.

Some days I’m explaining to a client why her lease is still legally binding (even if Mercury is in retrograde). Other days I’m negotiating with a caseworker who somehow didn’t get the fax that was definitely emailed, printed, scanned, and hand-delivered by a small army of exhausted moms.

But here’s the truth: these “barriers” aren’t just system glitches or paperwork purgatories—they’re reminders of how hard women fight for stability in a world that rarely makes room for them. The barriers look like endless forms, waiting lists, and that one government portal that only works on Internet Explorer circa 2009. The women, though—they look like resilience in motion.

They show up. Even when the world tells them they shouldn’t.

At Promises Sober Living, we walk this path with them. Sometimes that means decoding Medicaid mysteries or calling ten therapists before one answers. Sometimes it’s helping a mom hold onto hope long enough to see her child again. And sometimes it’s just sitting quietly with someone who’s tired of being strong all the time.

When you support Promises—whether it’s through a donation, sharing our mission, or just remembering us when you see a mom juggling recovery and motherhood—you’re helping break these barriers brick by brick.

Because the truth is, the system wasn’t built for them. But we are rebuilding it—one “you’ve got this” and one housing application at a time.

So, if you’ve ever wondered what advocacy looks like in real life: it’s coffee-stained, heart-heavy, occasionally hilarious, and absolutely worth it.

Because every woman deserves a place where the promises she makes to herself can finally come true.

When Politics Walk Into the Rooms

There used to be a saying in recovery circles: “Politics doesn’t belong in recovery.” It sounded good, simple, and maybe even true — back when people could leave their opinions at the door and just focus on staying clean, one day at a time.

But that’s not where we live anymore.
These days, politics has marched right into the room and sat down in the front row with a clipboard and a judgmental look. The political climate has crept into everything — from how we fund treatment programs to how we define “family,” “freedom,” and even “recovery” itself.

For a lot of people trying to rebuild their lives, politics isn’t some abstract debate on TV — it’s whether or not their food stamps arrive. It’s the difference between having child care for a court-mandated job or losing their kids because CCAP froze until 2027. It’s whether a DHS worker sees them as a mother trying her best or another “case number.”

When policy becomes personal, recovery stops being neutral.
We can’t tell a woman who just lost access to SNAP benefits that “politics doesn’t belong here.” It does — because it shapes every part of her reality. Her grocery list. Her gas tank. Her hope.

And yet, recovery spaces are supposed to be safe — not battlegrounds.
That’s the tightrope we walk every day. We hold space for people whose beliefs may clash, but whose pain often looks the same. We learn that compassion doesn’t require agreement, and that advocacy isn’t politics — it’s love with a clipboard and a to-do list.

If recovery is about healing what’s been broken, then we can’t ignore what’s breaking people right now.
Politics might not belong in recovery meetings — but humanity does. And if the system won’t bend toward healing, then recovery folks like us will have to start bending it ourselves.

Parenting Beyond the Pain: Healing Generational Trauma One Bedtime at a Time

There’s a saying I love: “We’re not just raising kids — we’re raising the adults who will raise our grandkids.” Which sounds beautiful, until you’re the one in the kitchen, staring at a sink full of dishes, wondering if generational healing can wait until morning.

Our parents and grandparents didn’t have trauma-informed anything. They had stress, cigarettes, and the phrase “because I said so.” Most of them weren’t trying to hurt us — they were just trying to keep the lights on. But now we know too much to keep pretending that yelling, shaming, or silence builds strong kids.

The hard part? Knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better — especially when your nervous system is doing cartwheels. Some days, I sound like a parenting podcast. Other days, I’m halfway through a lecture before realizing I’ve turned into my mother — just with better vocabulary and worse posture.

Parenting through generational trauma means constantly catching yourself mid-pattern. It’s apologizing to your child for snapping and realizing that no one ever modeled that for you. It’s pausing before reacting, even when everything in you wants to control, fix, or flee.

We are the first generation learning to raise emotionally intelligent kids while still healing the parts of ourselves that never felt safe. It’s exhausting work — but it’s holy work too.

The long game? Society wins. When we raise children who know how to name their feelings, they grow into adults who don’t project them onto others. When we teach accountability through love instead of fear, we raise future leaders who can apologize and mean it. When we normalize rest, empathy, and boundaries, we create a world where people don’t mistake chaos for connection.

So no, we’re not perfect parents. But we are the most self-aware generation of parents in history — and that counts for something. Every deep breath instead of a yell, every repair after a rupture, every moment we choose connection over control — that’s how cycles end.

And maybe someday, when our kids are the ones standing in their kitchens, overwhelmed and human, they’ll take that same deep breath — and start again with grace.

When Love Isn’t Enough: Parenting Through the Gaps of the System

There’s nothing harder to watch than a mother trying to rebuild her life — doing everything asked of her — and still feeling like the rules change every week. At Promises, we see that heartbreak up close.

We used to think recovery was the hard part. Turns out, it’s parenting in recovery that breaks you open. Especially when you’re trying to do it inside a system that doesn’t play by its own rules.

No two caseworkers follow the same plan. One tells a mom she’s ready for overnights; another says she’s not “stable enough.” One wants her in therapy, another wants her working full-time, and another wants proof of parenting classes — all while she’s still learning to breathe again.

We walk our women through the impossible — and we do it with grace, grit, and sometimes a dark joke or two just to keep from crying.

When the kids are here, the house changes. It’s louder, messier, but it’s alive. There’s laughter in the halls, cereal on the floor, and mothers getting to tuck their kids in sober for the first time in years. It’s holy chaos.

And then — sometimes — they leave again.
Not because anyone did something wrong, but because paperwork lagged or a visit got reclassified. You hear the crying through closed doors — the kind that only happens when a piece of your heart drives away in the backseat of a caseworker’s car.

That’s the part no one talks about. The grief inside reunification. The way we as staff have to stay strong in front of them but cry later, too.

But here’s what gives me hope: we keep showing up. Every woman who walks through these doors is trying to rewrite what love looks like in her family — and even when the system bends her, she doesn’t break.

Maybe someday the “system” will catch up to what we already know — that mothers in recovery don’t need perfection. They need consistency, compassion, and a fair chance to raise the children they fought so hard to come home to.

Until then, we’ll keep doing what we do best: holding space, speaking truth, and loving these families through the red tape. Because at Promises, we don’t just build recovery — we rebuild homes.