Fueling the Future

There’s a theme in my life that keeps showing up, estrangement, loss, deception. Friends and family who drift away, undermine, or betray in subtle yet cutting ways, loved ones who punish by withholding themselves from me, and sometimes even my own instinct to cut ties when the hurt feels unbearable. It’s a pattern I’ve been trying to make sense of for years. 

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately: What if I stopped writing as though estrangement, loss, and betrayal were the only chapters of my life?

There’s so much more to my story. I want to write about the pain that’s shaped me, from my childhood struggles to the complexities of becoming a middle aged woman in the next few years. But I also want to write about motherhood, the twists and turns, the unique challenges of a blended family, and now, the bittersweet reality of having adult children who are carving their own paths. My life isn’t just about the hard parts; it’s about everything, the love, the learning, and the moments I never expected.

In 2020, I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope. I was stepping onto a new path, one that wasn’t perfect but felt entirely my own. For years, I’d been drawn to practices like meditation, breathwork, and trauma healing, but I never knew how to integrate them into my life. That year, I began to explore them deeply, reading everything I could about rewiring the brain with psilocybin, and learning from experts like Gabor Maté on addiction and trauma.

The truth is, I’d known about these modalities for much of my life. But when you’re stuck in a constant state of trauma—frozen or in flight—it’s hard to see a way out. Growing up surrounded by addiction, abuse, neglect, and pain, I spent years in survival mode, with no tools or bandwidth on how to break free.

In 2020, that started to change, even as the world was on lock down. For the first time, I felt like I could shift from just existing to truly living. I had the time, the tools, and the determination to begin untangling the trauma and finding a way forward.

We moved to a new city right as everything shut down. No restaurants. No school for the kids. But life didn’t stop for everyone, and as an essential worker, I transferred to a new grocery store. It was a lot, but for a while, it flowed.

By 2022, though, many things shifted again. I started my third new job in two years—this time, a completely different career. And right before that, I got married. My husband and I had been together for ten years, and friends for a decade before that. Finally making it official felt grounding, like a bright spot within so much uncertainty.

I thought I was finding my footing. Then my 14-year-old daughter ran away.

She came back, that time, but the experience cracked something open in me, and created a lasting ripple throughout the family. Not long after, my dad was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. He passed away 49 days later, and I was plunged into a whole new type of grief I wasn’t ready for.

My daughter ran away again. And again. By the fourth time, she didn’t come back.

That year, we also lost another family member to addiction—a relentless, protective monstrous thief, leaving behind nothing but emptiness and grief-stricken parents, siblings, cousins, friends, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

Now, just before Thanksgiving, I find myself almost an empty nester. Two of my kids joined the Navy, leaving me with a quiet home and a tender heart.

It feels unreal to write this. I’m not even 40, yet my three children are spread across the country, living their own lives. I have only one parent left, and it’s the one who doesn’t seem to love me, we are not even on speaking terms. Earlier this year, when an ice storm left us without power for nine days, we had no one to call. My husband, the boys, the dogs, and I hunkered down and got through it together, but the lack of a proper support system hit hard.

Through all of this, though, I’ve found something else: fuel.

Over the past few years, I’ve thrown myself into learning. I earned my coaching certification, and I’ve taken countless workshops and classes on trauma-informed modalities. I want to help others, especially mothers who’ve fought so hard to give their kids a better life while carrying the weight of their own pain.

I know I’m not done yet. My current job doesn’t feel like the life I’m meant to live. It’s steady, yes, but it’s not authentic to who I am or the difference I want to make in the world. I’m looking at how I can afford to quit and fully dedicate myself to this work, turning pain into purpose.

I don’t want to keep writing only about heartbreaks. Those stories will always be a part of me, but they’re not the whole picture.

I want to write about finding mindfulness in the chaos. About grief and gratitude existing side by side. About how rebellion, not anger, but the quiet refusal to stay frozen, can lead to an awakening breakthrough.

This isn’t the end of my story. It’s just the beginning of a new chapter.

And if you’re still here, thank you. Writing this, and sharing it with you, is part of my healing. I hope you’ll stick around, not just for the story of how I got here, but for the journey of where I go next.