The Song That Shook Me

There’s this Miranda Lambert song called Vice.
If you’ve heard it, you already know.
If you haven’t—well, maybe you’ll hear it different after reading this.

Music’s always been that thing for me.
The one that reaches places nothing else can.
Beats vibrating against skin, words slicing straight through to soul.
The right song at the right moment will gut me—in the best way.
Like someone wrote it for me, for this, for right now.

And Vice? That one took me out.

The Cycles I Almost Repeated

I hear that lyric—
“Standing at the sink, not looking in the mirror / Don’t know where I am or how I got here…”
—and suddenly I’m 15 again.

Fifteen and already drunk.
Fifteen and already running.
Fifteen and already drowning in everything no one wanted to talk about.

I didn’t break the cycle easy. I damn near didn’t break it at all.
In fact, I just about reinvented it. Wrapped it in prettier clothes and smiled for the camera.

My small town didn’t teach me how to heal.
It taught me how to hide.
How to party.
How to pretend.
How to pass a bottle instead of a truth.

The Things I Tried to Escape

The first drink was freedom.
The second was power.
By the third, I was gone.

Gone from the girl who sang at birthday parties.
Gone from the trumpet player who followed her Paw Paw’s footsteps.
Gone from the honor student with the 3.8 GPA.

Drugs. Alcohol. Chaos.
I did them all like they were homework. Like they were survival.
Because they were.

The Years I Don’t Remember Clearly

There’s fog around my memories, and I’ve come to accept that.
But sometimes it still hits me—
The things I did,
The people I hurt,
The girl who just needed a fucking hug and a safe place to land.

I’ve cried for her. Screamed at her.
And finally—I forgave her.

Because surviving isn’t always pretty.
But it’s still survival.

The Motherhood That Saved Me

I got pregnant at 19.
Met Kevin at 21.
Blended families in 2010.
And for the first time, something like stability started to stick.

But healing? That came later.
Because pain has a way of circling back when you least expect it.

And when our older kids hit their teens, all the cracks started showing.
In me. In our marriage. In everything we hadn’t fully faced.

So, I drank again.
Hard. Often. Quietly.
Until it wasn’t quiet anymore.

The Marriage That Took the Hits

Kevin shouldered more than anyone should ever have to.
I was the hurricane, and he was the one boarding up the windows.

I fought with my words when I should’ve spoken with softness.
I drank through weekends I should’ve been building memories.

And still…
He stayed.
He loved me through it.
He helped me love myself again.

The Quiet Era That Changed Everything

About a year ago, something shifted.

Big career changes.
Kids getting older, needing me less.
A slower rhythm in the house.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had entered what I now call my quiet era.

I stopped running.
I chose home.
I chose healing.

No dramatic kumbaya moment (and I know that’s not how you spell it, but that’s how it sounds).
Just quiet effort.
Small shifts.
Real growth.

We started communicating in ways we never had—
With love.
With patience.
With actual fucking honesty.

And in healing the relationships around me, I healed the one within me.

I quit vaping.
Cut way back on drinking—weeks sober, one drink every now and then.
Started walking again.
Spent more time outdoors.
Started giving a damn about what I put in my body.

I looked hard at who I was pleasing, what I was prioritizing, and what I was letting slide.

And I chose different.
I chose better.
Not just for them—but for me.

The Life I’m In Love With Now

Is it perfect? Hell no.
But is it beautiful?
In every way.

I’m obsessed with this chapter.
Not because it’s shiny, but because it’s true.

I’m not hiding.
I’m not numbing.
I’m not running.

I’m rooted.
Present.
Awake.

And I know now—this story?
It’s meant to be shared.
Because someone out there is still standing at that same sink,
not looking in the mirror.

And maybe they just need someone to say:

It’s not too late.
You can choose different.
You can forgive yourself.
You can write a better story.

I did.

And I’m still writing.