Hot Mess, High hope: Rock Bottom to the Top.

 I’ve tried so many times to figure out how to put her into words—my mom. But parts of her live in me in ways words can’t always reach. Not all memories come clearly. Trauma fogs things. But love? That breaks through. Hers for me. Mine for her. She had a huge heart—always helping people. Legal forms, hospital rides, late-night talks—she showed up. Even if I didn’t understand why. Heck, I often didn’t. I even resented it, wondering why others got her support before I did. Selfish? Probably. Human? Definitely. Now, I get it. And while I can’t tell her that—I can live it. Every day, I try to do what she did. And do the parts she never got the chance to. Funny how I catch myself repeating her old favorite: “Do as I say, not as I do.” I use it with my kids now. Legacy’s strange like that. One thing she never did? She never called me a failure. Not even when I was drowning in addiction. She just quietly stood by, praying I’d surface. She was diagnosed with cancer during my rock bottom. S...

There are moments in life when you don’t just want support—you need it. Not the kind that shows up for a photo op or checks a box, but the kind that stays. That holds your hand through the fear, the pain, the unknown. I had one of those moments—a hospital stay that left me physically fragile and emotionally raw. And while I was surrounded by machines and medical staff, the person I thought would be my anchor was already drifting. He was there to drop me off. He sat for a few hours. And then he left—waiting for me to be well enough to come home, not because he missed me, but because he needed to get back to work.  December 23rd. I remember the cold air on my face as I wheeled myself through our front door, still weak, still healing, still unsure how I’d make it through the next hour—let alone the next chapter. I had just spent two months in the hospital, recovering from the consequences of self-medicating through drinking. I was wheelchair-bound, using a slide board to move from b...