Healing has this funny way of making you think you’re climbing, climbing, climbing… and then suddenly you trip and roll right back down a few steps.

And for me? That moment was the night I smoked weed again after telling myself I was done. I wasn’t even planning to do it. I had been so proud of myself. I had been trying so hard to move through my pain without anything extra numbing my heart or my brain. I made promises to myself. I felt solid in them. I really believed this time was different.

And then life pressed its thumb into all the bruises I haven’t fully healed yet. My mind got loud. My emotions got heavy.

My body remembered the way weed used to quiet the storm instantly — the way it wrapped everything in soft edges and made the chaos finally, mercifully tolerable.

And the truth is… weed wasn’t just a “bad habit” I walked away from. It was a part of my healing — a real and meaningful part.

Medical marijuana was one of the few things that helped pull me out of that month-long crash where I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t function, couldn’t feel anything except the weight of my own mind pressing me into darkness. It helped me breathe again. It helped me show up as a mom when my brain was drowning me. It helped me stabilize enough to survive those weeks. It didn’t fix everything, but it kept me afloat long enough to heal other parts of me.

So when I chose to smoke again… it wasn’t just relapse. It was reaching for something that once helped save me. It was muscle memory. It was comfort. It was my body whispering, “This helped you get here. Maybe it can help again.”

But the moment the smoke hit my lungs, the guilt hit just as hard.

“I failed.”

That’s what the shame voice said.

That all the progress I’d made suddenly didn’t matter.

But shame doesn’t know what it’s talking about.

Because here’s the truth I keep coming back to:

I am a recovering addict with a trauma-wired brain and a nervous system that has been stuck in survival mode since childhood. Weed wasn’t my downfall — it was part of what helped me rise. It was part of the medicine cocktail that finally got me functioning again after one of the darkest seasons of my life.

So going back to it doesn’t erase my growth.

It doesn’t undo anything.

It doesn’t mean I’m weak.

It just means I’m still healing.

Still learning.

Still figuring out how to hold myself together without grabbing the things that used to keep me from collapsing.

I don’t want to rely on weed forever.

Not for sleep.

Not for stress.

Not for comfort.

Not for escape.

But I also refuse to shame myself for the ways I survived.

Healing doesn’t clap for perfection.

Healing celebrates honesty.

And this is me being honest:

I smoked. I slipped. And I’m still further than I’ve ever been.

This isn’t a story of failure. It’s a story of a woman who has fought her way out of hell, piece by piece, breath by breath, and is still walking toward freedom even on the days she stumbles.

One day I’ll be free in a way I can’t imagine yet.

One day I’ll breathe without reaching for help.

One day I’ll stand in a place where weed isn’t my comfort, my quiet, or my escape. But today?

Today I’m choosing grace for the girl who lit up…

and even more grace for the woman who’s still trying again tomorrow.

✨ Closing Prayer

God, thank You for every tool You’ve placed in my path — even the ones others don’t understand. Guide me as I navigate the difference between what helps me heal and what holds me back. Give me wisdom, discipline, and gentleness with myself. Lead me toward the freedom You’re building inside me, one small step at a time.

Amen.

🌙 Reflection Prompt

What part of my healing story am I scared to honor — even though it helped save me?

XOXO- THE HEALING WILDFLOWER