You can make it through the workday without slurring your words. You still pick up your kids on time. You’re never the drunkest person at
You didn’t expect to be here again. Not after the outpatient program. Not after the last “clean stretch.” Not after the family therapy, the boundaries,
You’re Polished. You’re Smart. You’re Suffering. You close deals on Zoom with a hangover. You finish quarterly reports with shaking hands. You run board meetings
When someone you love is using, it doesn’t feel like their problem. It feels like a wildfire that’s jumped the fence and set your whole
When you’re in love with someone who’s actively using opiates, your heart is often pulled in two directions: one side says, “Stay, support, hold on,”
You might not say it out loud, but it’s there—that quiet, lingering fear: “If I stop using… will I still be me?” For people who
You’ve done the work. You’ve built a life. You’ve stayed sober through weddings and funerals, through holidays and hard days. You’ve found rhythm, routine, maybe
There wasn’t some dramatic last straw. No overdose. No ambulance. No rock bottom that would’ve made a good movie ending. Just silence. And me—sitting alone
You’re not imagining it—something’s not right. Maybe it’s the way your hands shake in the morning. Maybe you’ve been waking up anxious or exhausted, not
Your stomach drops. You think about reaching back out… and then don’t. The guilt, the awkwardness, the not knowing what to say—it all piles up
