Rock bottom was the place I called home at the age of 25. I was well loved and well taught as a child. But by 19, I was birthing the beautiful, blonde-headed boy I would come to find as my temporary saving grace. Yet, I couldn’t seem to see past my own insecurities. Instead of celebrating when 21 came around, I was fighting off an abusive husband who’d turn to aggression, force, and violence to control me. I mistook this as love. As I turned 23, I had brought another life into the world with curls that even Shirley Temple would revere. As precious lives hung in the balance to be stewarded as gifts, the lies in my ears whispered, “undeserving.” There I was, in the prime of my twenties, with life pressing in around me as if its walls had a heartbeat and a desire to suffocate me. I chose hopelessness. At 24, I was divorced, estranged from family, and barely getting enough time for goodnight kisses with my kids. I was seeking couches to sleep on, drugs to get high with, and jobs to quit time and time again; I lost the battle on the downswing. I suffocated between the war in my head and the expectations of my circumstances. So, I called my dad. “I need to come home.” Suddenly rock bottom didn’t feel so much like punctures to my rib cage, but more like a chance for fresh air. At 26, I got clean, I got my kids back, and one hot summer day, I sat down in the dirt under a… Read More
