When people ask me what it means to stay in the moment today, my answer is completely different than it would have been a year ago.

In my addiction, staying in the moment meant trying to survive. It meant trying to stay high, stay drunk, and stay disconnected from reality. I didn't want to know what was happening around me. I didn't want to feel what was happening inside me. My goal was to be so checked out that I didn't have to deal with any of it.

Today, staying in the moment means something entirely different. It means appreciating what's in front of me. It means being grateful for the life I have today, even when things aren't perfect. When I focus on what's happening right now, I realize that I have so much more than I thought I did.

That perspective took a long time to earn.


Before recovery, my life had become smaller and smaller. My boyfriend had passed away from drugs and alcohol. I was being evicted from my apartment. I had isolated myself from nearly everyone in my life. By the end of my addiction, I wasn't surrounded by people, I was completely alone.

I remember running into an old friend who offered me a place to stay. Looking back, I put unrealistic expectations on that relationship because I was desperate for someone to fill every role in my life: friend, support system, and emotional lifeline. When that didn't happen, things became even more chaotic.

Eventually, I found myself arrested after an incident that occurred during one of the most difficult periods of my life. When I got out of jail, I had nowhere to go, no real plan, and no idea what came next. I spent my days trying to survive, drinking throughout the day, sleeping wherever I could, and searching for anything that would make me feel better.

Then I found Van Ness Recovery House.

The truth is, I didn't walk into treatment because I was ready. I walked into treatment because I didn't know what else to do.

I remember standing near Van Ness and thinking, "I have no idea what's next. Maybe this can be my backup plan."

What I didn't know at the time was that recovery was about to become my life.

The first four months were brutal.

Every single day I wanted to leave. Every day I thought about drinking. Every day I questioned whether any of this would actually work for me.

People would tell me, "It gets easier," but I couldn't believe them because I hadn't experienced that yet. The obsession was still there. The desire to drink was still there. I couldn't imagine a future where I genuinely wanted to be sober.
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So I did the only thing I could do: I stayed.

Every time I wanted to leave, I talked about it. Every time I wanted to drink, I told somebody. I kept showing up, even when I didn't believe recovery would work for me.
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Eventually, I realized something important: I had never truly surrendered.

I had always been trying to do recovery my way. I would pick and choose which suggestions I liked and which ones I didn't. I wanted the benefits of recovery without fully letting go of control.

Around four months in, I finally became honest about that.

I remember telling the group that I had never really surrendered before. For the first time, I made the decision to stop fighting, stop negotiating, and simply follow the suggestions that were being given to me.

That was the turning point.

Once I stopped trying to control everything, I felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time, relief.

Month by month, things started changing. I became happier. I became more open. I became more willing. By seven months, I was genuinely enjoying my life. By nine months, I was excited about sobriety. Today, I can honestly say that I don't want to go back to the person I used to be.

One of the biggest changes has been my relationship with myself.

For most of my life, I felt uncomfortable being me. Alcohol gave me confidence. It made me feel outgoing. It made me feel like I could finally be the version of myself that I wanted people to see.

Today, I don't need alcohol to do that.

For the first time, I actually like who I am. I care about myself. I trust myself. I can walk into a room and be comfortable without needing to numb myself first.

Recovery has also taught me something I never knew how to do before: sit with uncomfortable emotions.

There have been moments over the past year when I've felt lonely, sad, restless, or uncertain. In the past, I would have immediately tried to escape those feelings. Recovery taught me that I don't have to fix every emotion.

Sometimes I just have to feel it.

One of the hardest lessons I've learned is that not every uncomfortable feeling is a crisis. Sometimes life just feels uncomfortable. Sometimes what feels like boredom is actually peace.

For someone who spent years living in constant chaos, peace can feel unfamiliar.

Recently, I found myself struggling emotionally despite doing everything "right." I was going to work, attending meetings, talking to my sponsor, staying connected, and doing all the things recovery teaches us to do. Yet I still found myself feeling unhappy.

When I talked to my sponsor about it, I realized something important: this was the first time in my life I had experienced these feelings without immediately turning to drugs or alcohol.

I wasn't having a bad recovery.

I was having a normal life.

And that realization changed everything.

Another thing recovery has given me is a sense of purpose. I've discovered that one of my greatest strengths is compassion. Today, I genuinely enjoy helping others. I love being able to return to Van Ness, volunteer, support residents, answer questions, and share my experience with people who are just beginning their recovery journey.

The people who helped me most in treatment weren't necessarily staff members—they were my peers. They were the people I lived with. They were the people who listened to my fears, challenged my thinking, and walked through recovery alongside me.

Now I get the opportunity to be that person for someone else.

That's one of the reasons I continue to stay involved with both Van Ness and Grandview Foundation.

Grandview has helped me continue growing by giving me another perspective on recovery. Through counseling, outpatient groups, and conversations with staff, I've been able to expand the tools I use in my daily life. Recovery isn't something I completed when residential treatment ended. Recovery is something I continue building every day.

My definition of success has changed dramatically over the past year.

Before recovery, success meant figuring out how to continue drinking and using while keeping my life together.

Today, success looks much simpler.

Success is waking up at four in the morning and walking to work feeling healthy.

Success is being dependable.

Success is showing up.

Success is being trusted.

Success is making mistakes and not using them as an excuse to relapse.

Most importantly, success is knowing that as long as I stay sober, I have options.

No matter what challenge shows up in my life, recovery gives me the ability to do something about it. Addiction took that ability away. Recovery gave it back.

Today, I stay connected by calling people in recovery every day, talking with my sponsor, attending meetings, living with other sober people, and continuing to immerse myself in a recovery community. Recovery isn't something I visit occasionally, it's become the foundation of my life.

If there's one thing I would tell someone who is just beginning their journey, it's this: Stay.

You don't have to believe everything people tell you right away. You don't have to feel hopeful. You don't have to be convinced that recovery will work.

Just stay.

I didn't believe any of it at first either.

But I stayed long enough to find out that the people who told me life would get better were right.

Today, I have over a year of sobriety. I have people who care about me. I have purpose. I have peace. I have hope. Most importantly, I have a life that I never thought was possible. And all of it started when I stopped trying to do things my way and finally surrendered to the process.