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.