Tag: truth

  • Unheard, But Healing: Learning to Be Seen in Sobriety

    For so many years, I felt unseen and unheard.

    My talents went unnoticed, my passions unappreciated, and slowly, that dimmed the light inside me.

    I used to pour my heart into things I loved, creative projects, ideas, words that mattered to me, only to be met with silence or surface-level support. The hardest part wasn’t the lack of applause, it was hearing people praise others for the same things I’d been doing all along. It left me wondering, Why not me? Why am I invisible in the eyes of the people I love most?

    That quiet kind of pain is heavy. It makes you want to retreat, to stop sharing, to stop caring. And for a long time, I did, or at least I tried to numb the ache of it.

    Before I got sober, those moments of being overlooked were my biggest triggers. I’d reach for a glass of wine to dull the sting or pour vodka just to escape the sadness of feeling like a shadow in my own life. I thought alcohol made me stronger, more confident, less affected. But the truth is, it only made me smaller. It silenced me even more.

    Now, almost three years into sobriety, I notice everything more clearly, the subtle hurts, the dismissive words, the moments of being left out or unheard. It’s almost as if clarity is both a blessing and a burden. Sobriety has stripped away the fog, and with it, all the excuses I used to make for people who couldn’t or wouldn’t see me.

    One of my biggest struggles lately has been feeling unheard.

    I share my heart, sometimes vulnerably, sometimes boldly, and it’s often met with a polite nod, a quick hug, or silence. That silence used to send me spiraling. It still stings sometimes.

    But instead of drinking, I write.

    Instead of hiding, I share my story.

    And instead of numbing, I sit with it, all of it.

    Because when I share here, whether it’s on my blog or social media, I am heard. Maybe not by the people I hoped would listen, but by strangers who have become kindred spirits. People who are walking through the same pain, fighting the same battles, and craving the same healing.

    That’s the beauty of sobriety, it reconnects you to your truth. It helps you realize that you don’t need validation to be valuable, and you don’t need applause to have purpose.

    Drinking won’t make them hear you.

    It won’t make them understand your heart.

    It won’t turn the silence into support.

    It will only deepen the sadness you’re trying so hard to escape.

    Sobriety isn’t just about removing alcohol.. it’s about reclaiming yourself. It’s about facing the hard things instead of drowning them. It’s about learning to stand tall in your truth, even when no one claps, and realizing that being seen by yourself is the most powerful recognition of all.

    If you’re in that place, where you feel unseen, unheard, or unappreciated, please know this: you’re not alone. So many of us in recovery have walked that same road. We’ve learned that the silence of others doesn’t define our worth, and it doesn’t get to dim our light anymore.

    Keep shining, even when no one notices.

    Keep showing up, even when no one claps.

    You’re building a life where you finally see and hear yourself, and that’s the most beautiful sound of all.

  • The Things I Once Prayed For (And Sometimes Forget to See)

    There’s something sacred about looking around your life and realizing you’re living inside answered prayers.

    The home.

    The kids.

    The health.

    The steady love.

    The moments of peace you once thought you’d never feel.

    And yet… lately, I’ve been struggling. Not in a way that screams for help, but in that quiet, heavy way that makes you forget how far you’ve come.

    It’s not that I’m ungrateful — I am. I know how hard my husband has worked for this life. I know how much has changed. But mentally and emotionally, I’ve been going through a storm. There are days I feel lost in my own head, like I’m constantly searching for where I belong and if what I bring to the table is even seen.

    Motherhood is hard.

    Marriage is hard.

    Being a working mom is hard.

    Being a stay-at-home mom is hard.

    Trying to show up for everyone while figuring out who you are is hard.

    Lately, I’ve been diving deep into the Let Them theory by Mel Robbins — the idea that when you finally get through something big, your mind and body kind of crash. You let your guard down. You fall apart after the breakthrough.

    That hit me. Because that’s exactly where I’ve been.

    After years of pushing through survival mode, after getting sober, after building this beautiful life — I’m now sitting in the emotional release. And it’s confusing. Because why would I feel down when everything looks so good?

    But I get it now.

    It’s a letdown. A pause. A chance to process.

    Sobriety, too, has stripped away all the numbing I used to rely on. No more hiding behind a glass of wine. No more muting the shame or the self-doubt. I’m feeling everything now — and that’s powerful, but it’s also hard.

    The tears I used to cry.

    The prayers I used to whisper.

    They built the foundation of this life I’m standing in.

    I’m still healing.

    I’m still learning to love myself — especially the parts of me that I used to hide.

    And I’m still figuring out how to be proud of where I’ve been because it’s what made me the wife, mother, and hard-working woman I am today.

    Today I was listening to a podcast with Mel Robbins and Jay Shetty, and one thing really stood out:

    It’s okay to notice things in others — even to feel judgment or jealousy — but don’t let it harden you. Let it inspire you.

    That’s been a huge shift for me.

    Instead of letting someone else’s success make me feel “less than,” I’m learning to say: “If it’s possible for them, maybe it’s possible for me, too.”

    So here’s your reminder — and mine:

    You are allowed to be overwhelmed and still be grateful.

    You are allowed to grieve your past while celebrating your growth.

    You are allowed to feel it all.

    And you are never alone in that.

    The life you’re living now?

    You once prayed for it.

    Don’t forget to see it.

  • Still Saying No: Why It Hurts When They Still Ask

    It’s been over two years since I chose sobriety. Two years of clarity, growth, and learning how to truly show up in my life. But even now, there are moments that sting—more than I expect them to. One of those moments is when friends or family still ask me, “Would you like a drink?” Or they offer me a glass of wine or a cocktail like nothing ever changed.

    And I get it. On the surface, it seems innocent. Maybe it’s just a habit. Maybe they forgot. Maybe they think I’m strong enough now that it doesn’t matter. But here’s the truth: every time I’m asked, it hits me in the chest like a quiet reminder—they don’t always understand what this journey has taken.

    Choosing sobriety wasn’t a casual lifestyle shift. It was a life-saving decision. I didn’t quit drinking because I “just wanted to be healthier.” I quit because alcohol was breaking me down—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I was losing parts of myself I didn’t even know I had, and I had to make a choice between temporary numbness or long-term healing.

    So when someone offers me a drink now—after all this time—it can feel like they don’t see the work I’ve done. Like my sobriety is invisible. And that hurts. Not because I need applause or validation, but because this version of me has been hard-fought. And sometimes, it feels like people forget that.

    But here’s what I’m learning: not everyone will understand. Not everyone has seen what I’ve battled. And not everyone has stood in the dark the way I have. They might see the healed version of me and assume I was never broken. They might think I’m “fine now.” But just because I look whole doesn’t mean the cracks aren’t still healing.

    So I take a breath. I say “No, thank you” again. And I remind myself that their misunderstanding doesn’t erase my strength.

    I’m not here to be angry with them. I’m here to keep showing up for myself. To honor my boundaries. To keep choosing the life I’ve built over the life I left behind.

    And maybe—just maybe—every “no” is another quiet act of teaching. Of healing. Of loving myself louder than their questions.

    Because this journey? It’s still sacred. Even when they don’t get it.

  • The Most Gangster Thing I’ve Ever Done

    If you had asked me years ago what it meant to be “gangster,” I probably would have said something about being tough, fearless, and unshaken by the world. I thought strength was about never backing down, never showing weakness, never letting anyone see the cracks in my armor.

    But now? Now I know the real truth.

    The most gangster thing I’ve ever done wasn’t reckless or wild. It wasn’t about proving anything to anyone else.

    It was getting sober.

    It was taking accountability for my actions.

    It was being willing to change my life.

    Facing Myself Was the Hardest Part

    For a long time, I ran. I ran from pain, from responsibility, from the truth I didn’t want to admit—that the life I was living wasn’t sustainable. That I was hurting myself. That I was hurting the people who loved me.

    Sobriety wasn’t just about quitting alcohol. It was about looking in the mirror and seeing every part of myself—the good, the bad, the broken, the beautiful. It was about acknowledging the ways I had let myself down, the choices I had made that weren’t aligned with who I wanted to be.

    It was about no longer blaming the world for my pain and finally realizing that I held the power to heal.

    Accountability Is Not for the Weak

    Taking accountability was like standing in front of a storm with no shelter, no armor, no escape. It meant saying, “I did this. I made these choices. And now, I choose differently.”

    That’s the part people don’t talk about. The raw, gut-wrenching realization that no one is coming to save you. That if you want change, you have to be the one to create it.

    There’s no shortcut, no way to bypass the hard work of healing. And that’s what makes it so powerful.

    The Power of Willingness

    I used to think change was impossible—that I was too far gone, too set in my ways, too broken to ever live differently. But the truth is, all it takes is willingness.

    Willingness to try.

    Willingness to show up, even when it’s uncomfortable.

    Willingness to rewrite the narrative I once believed about myself.

    Every day, I wake up and choose this path. Some days are easier than others. Some days, the old habits whisper to me, the old doubts creep in. But I keep choosing. Because I know what’s on the other side of this fight: freedom, clarity, and a peace I never thought I’d find.

    The Real Definition of Strength

    You want to know what real strength looks like?

    It’s not pretending you have it all together. It’s admitting when you don’t.

    It’s not about avoiding pain. It’s about walking through it, even when it feels impossible.

    It’s not about being unbreakable. It’s about breaking open and allowing yourself to become something new.

    Getting sober. Taking responsibility. Choosing to heal. That’s the most gangster thing I’ve ever done.

    And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

    If you’re on this journey, keep going. You are stronger than you know.