In Her Own Words: Tracy’s Journey to Recovery

Tracy graduated from the TURN to Recovery program (formerly the Serial Inebriate Program or SIP) in 2025. TURN to Recovery provides substance use disorder treatment for adults who struggle with alcohol use disorder. In her own words, this is Tracy’s story.

I’m not here for sympathy.

Though frankly, after the years I’ve had, I should be handed a trophy, a tiara, and a fully-funded vacation where no one asks me how I’m doing.

What I am asking for… is your attention.

Because this isn’t just the story of addiction.

It’s the story of becoming.

Of the moment my life could’ve ended but somehow, didn’t.

A semicolon, not a period.

A plot twist… without the fun soundtrack.

Let’s be clear: I didn’t become an addict overnight.

Addiction didn’t knock on my door wearing a hoodie and holding a red Solo cup.

It showed up slowly.

Sneaky.

Polite, even.

It looked like, “Just one drink to take the edge off.”

Which in my case, meant the entire geological formation.

At first, alcohol didn’t seem like a problem. It seemed like a solution.

To feelings I didn’t have the vocabulary for, unless “numb” counts as a feeling.

Here’s the part they leave off the warning label: Addiction is rarely about the substance.

It’s about what the substance quietly replaces.

The story under the silence.

The pain under the polish.

My story? Started long before the bottle.

I was the kid who felt invisible.

Trained to survive chaos, but never taught how to feel safe in calm.

Turns out, when you grow up in fight-or-flight mode, peace feels suspicious.

Eventually, that pain got creative.

It became anxiety disguised as ambition.

Guilt that unpacked and moved in.

Depression that borrowed my face and ruined my schedule.

By adulthood, I wasn’t living … I was functioning.

Barely.

Fast forward:

I lost everything that mattered.

My marriage.

My home.

My twins.

My identity.

My dignity.

And somewhere in there, my will to live packed up and ghosted me too.

I became that person you cross the street to avoid, just in case eye contact might turn into a life story. (Which, fair.)

But I kept running.

Because even the pain you hate feels safer than the healing you don’t think you deserve.

I played the victim… while actively setting fire to every relationship I had.

I was burning bridges with gasoline I personally poured, and then acted shocked when everything caught fire.

An Oscar-worthy performance, truly.

Then came November 2023.

Not a metaphorical low. The real kind—floor, tears, no audience.

And all I said was: “God, please help.”

No deal. No poetic monologue. Just… surrender.

And somehow, God didn’t send me to voicemail.

That night, I didn’t die.

And the next morning… I chose to live.

Not because I felt strong.

But because, for once, I asked the right question: “What if there’s still more?”

Then I walked into the TURN to Recovery program— bruised, bleeding, and mildly skeptical.

And began the hardest, most unglamorous, most necessary season of my life.

Lesson One: Healing begins with humility.

I had to stop trying to be impressive long enough to be honest.

Perfection is a full-time job with zero benefits. Terrible.

Lesson Two: You don’t heal alone.

You heal in messy rooms with messy people, who say things like, “Yeah, me too.” It’s inconvenient, emotional and very not cool, but it works!

Lesson Three: Helping others helps you heal.

Every time I stopped staring at my own mess long enough to help someone else sweep theirs, something in me steadied.

Turns out, compassion is the world’s most underrated rehab program.

Lesson Four: You are not your past.

Not your relapse.

Not your rock bottom.

Not your worst haircut, either.

You’re a semicolon.

It happened; the story’s not over.

Lesson Five: Trust the process. Trust God.

I wanted a miracle. God gave me a calendar.

I asked for an escape hatch— He handed me endurance.

Because sometimes, the delay is the deliverance.

And what feels like rejection… might actually be protection in disguise.

And just in case no one’s told you lately:

You’re worth saving.

You’re worth loving.

You’re worth becoming.

You’re not too late.

You’re not too broken.

You’re not beyond repair.

This?

This is not the end.

It’s the middle of your miracle.

And yes— the pen is still in God’s hand.

Which means this story?

Still being written.

Your support makes stories like Tracy’s possible every single day. Together, we can make sure that compassion, care, and connection are always within reach. Please donate today and help us continue this life‑changing work.