February 2020 — that’s when everything changed. I checked into Crossroads for a 90-day rehab program with nothing left but pain, shame, and a flicker of hope. My addiction wasn’t about getting high for fun — it was about survival. I was self-medicating undiagnosed bipolar disorder, the trauma of being molested by a family member, the unbearable grief of losing my brother, and the heartbreak of losing the only woman who ever made me feel unconditionally loved — my grandmother, Myrna.
Both my brother and Grandma Myrna died in July 2010. That month shattered my world. I lost two of the only people who truly saw me. After that, I didn’t care if I lived or died. I just wanted the pain to stop. Drugs became the way I stayed numb, the way I stayed silent, the way I survived.
Rehab Was Just the First Step
Crossroads gave me the space to breathe, to stop running, to face what I’d buried for so long. But getting clean didn’t magically fix everything. That was just the beginning. Staying clean meant learning to live with pain — raw, uncovered, and constant. It meant showing up for myself day after day, even when I wanted to disappear.
The Ongoing Fight
Addiction isn’t just a chapter I closed — it’s something I battle every single day. Recovery is a choice I make every morning, sometimes every hour. There are days when the triggers are loud, the silence is suffocating, and the grief feels brand new again.
And just when I thought I was getting stronger, life threw something else at me.
When my husband was sentenced to 20 years in prison, people expected me to crumble. They thought I’d relapse for sure. They said things like: “She won’t make it without him.” “This will send her straight back.”
But they were wrong. So wrong.
If anything, it made me want my sobriety even more. It made me hold onto my recovery with everything I have — because I refuse to let this system or anyone else’s judgment take me down.
Still Defending Myself
Even now, years into recovery, I constantly feel like I’m defending my progress. If I cry, I must be unstable. If I’m tired or quiet, I must be using. If I protect my peace, I must be hiding something.
People are quick to remember who I used to be — but slow to recognize who I’ve worked so hard to become.
Family Distance Hurts the Most
Some of my family still doesn’t talk to me. They assume I’m still using, or maybe they just find it easier to keep me boxed in as “the addict.” But that silence is its own kind of pain. I’ve changed, I’ve grown, I’ve done the work — but for some people, it’s never going to be enough.
And that’s something I’ve had to learn to live with.
But I’m Still Here
I’m still sober. Still healing. Still walking through the fire and refusing to give up. Recovery isn’t always beautiful — sometimes it’s ugly and isolating. But it’s real. It’s mine. And it’s worth it.
To anyone out there struggling — with addiction, mental illness, trauma, grief, or just the weight of feeling alone — please know:
You are not broken. You are not beyond saving. And you are not alone. Even when no one believes in you.
Even when your past follows you. Even when nothing feels good enough —
You are enough. You are still here. And that means everything.
Tanya meeting you, I would of never guessed in a million years you are an addict. This may mean nothing coming from me but your parents and children should be proud of the woman you are. You are giving, loving, don’t judge or put conditions on others. I pray that one day your family will see what a difference you have made in the world and apologize. Keep being the inspiration, the positive, loving, caring person you are.