I guess the wildest part of healing is how it never really happens in a straight line. It loops. It spirals. It throws you into seasons where you don’t even recognize yourself. And last May… that was one of those seasons for me.

I had just come off my psych meds — not because I thought I was “cured,” but because I was tired. Tired in my bones, tired in my spirit. Tired of the side effects, the numbness, the trial-and-error game of finding the right ones. Just tired of feeling tired. And what followed was a month-long crash that didn’t just swallow me whole… it nipped at the edges of my babies’ worlds too.

I slipped into one of the darkest depressions I’ve had in years. The kind where the bed feels like it’s made of magnets. The kind where brushing your teeth feels like summiting Everest. The kind where your kids’ basic needs — food, baths, school drop-offs — become the only thread that keeps you loosely tethered to the living world. Everything else? I slept through it. For four straight weeks.

And in the middle of that thick, suffocating darkness, I reached for something I thought might help me breathe: medical marijuana. Whenever I cracked my eyes open for those tiny slivers of time, I grabbed the weed. It felt like the only thing that could lift the weight for a second — just enough to inhale, exhale, exist.

At first, it felt harmless. Helpful, even. A little medicine. A momentary escape. That thing that helped me do what needed to be done.

Until one day, my step-mom popped in unannounced. My house was a disaster, and of course I was buried under the blankets again. Then I heard it — my sweet little girl whispering through the walls, “Mom’s been sleeping a lot.” Those four words hit like a punch straight to the chest. A sting I still feel. In that moment, I knew something had to change.

So I picked myself up — shaky but determined — and by Monday I was sitting in my doctor’s office starting a new set of psych meds. And for a while… things steadied.

But I kept smoking.

Here and there.

Then once a day.

Then twice a day.

Then all day.

Every. Single. Day.

And somewhere in that slow slide, my little coping mechanism crept its way right back into addiction territory — wrapping itself around my healing like a vine choking a flower trying to bloom.

Until today. Today I woke up and looked at the truth without flinching. Not because weed is evil. Not because I “failed.” Not because I’m drowning in shame.

But because I want me back — the awake version, the present version, the version who doesn’t need to blunt the edges of her own life just to survive it. I want to heal without numbing. I want to grow without crutches. I want to meet myself fully — sober, steady, rooted. And I want a life where the only thing I need to get through a day is the strength God keeps planting inside me, even when I forget to water it.

So today… this is Day One.

The very first, faint sunrise of my sobriety journey — tucked gently inside my bigger healing journey. I don’t know where it’s going yet. But I know where it starts:

With honesty.

With accountability.

With choosing myself on purpose.

With remembering that I deserve a clear mind, a whole heart, and room to rise.

And most of all — my babies deserve a mom who is awake for her own life.

And I’m ready to be her again.

And if you’re reading this and you’re somewhere in that same fog — just know you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re just human. And today can be your Day One too.

XOXO, Healing WildFlower