“Most great people have attained their greatest success just one step beyond their greatest failure.”
– Napoleon Hill
Looking back, miracles were already happening, but I was too clueless to see them. Learning how to take in new information was one gift. Waking up—rather than coming to—and not relying on other people to tell me what happened the night before was another. I had been holding up so many masks and secrets for myself, my family, and the world, all in the name of appearances and acceptance. I needed to learn how to live, how to make hard decisions, and who I was without the identities, jobs, and responsibilities I thought I had to carry.
I was 32 years old on July 13, 1995, when I entered treatment. During long days and nights awake with others—17 days straight—through car rides and conventions, I realized I wanted a different way of life. I wanted to belong. I wanted to be loved, even though my understanding of love was deeply distorted. I wanted to feel safe. My amygdala was exhausted. And most of all, I wanted to go back to that facility one day, stand in front of a group of new women, and show them—show that clinician—that I was still alive and that hope was real.
No matter how you cut it, I wanted to prove every person who had counted me out that they were wrong. I went on to do more in my first year of recovery than I had in the 32 years before it. And in fairness, I now know that clinician couldn’t possibly have known how I would respond. I could have thrown my arms up and checked out. Instead, I went back to that facility every holiday for ten years to share my story and how I used those words to my benefit.
Today, I find purpose in creating TriCircle and working in the field of addiction and mental health recovery—while participating in society and “adulting.” I now know there are far more similarities than differences among us. But back in 1995, I felt different, ostracized, and completely unprepared to live life in recovery.
I had been on my own since my late teens, after finding a note on the kitchen counter telling me I was no longer welcome in the home I grew up in. Leaving treatment felt eerily similar. Trauma responses—fight, flight, freeze—along with undiagnosed learning disabilities and mental health challenges, would eventually begin to be addressed. That kind of healing takes time. It takes more than detox, and even more than what’s often considered “long-term” treatment. There is no cookie-cutter approach. There are many ways forward, and I still learn something new every day. Continued recovery is possible.
When I left treatment, I did have some things in place: a corporate job, a car, a place of my own, and support through an Employee Assistance Program. I also experienced another miracle—I fell into the arms of a recovery family that was perfect for me and continues to grow. I’m still in contact with many of the people from my earliest days of recovery, now more than 30½ years later.
That same clinician once told us we only had one thing to change: everything (not funny).
Leaving a structured environment was terrifying. My entire life had revolved around substances—getting them, using them, and hiding them—while juggling work and family. I hadn’t checked off society’s version of a “normal” life, and I didn’t want to remain a victim. I was a survivor.
They say hindsight is 20/20, and I do look back—not to stare, but to gather strength. Addiction recovery looks different today. Conversations are more open, resources are more visible, and stigma is slowly breaking down. At the same time, many supports remain limited or inaccessible. Some people aren’t ready or able to change, and others have complex needs that narrow their options even further. I don’t want to minimize that reality. Miracles are also happening through harm prevention and harm reduction.
This is just a small glimpse into the early foundation of my recovery—the foundation that still holds me in 2026. This year, TriCircle will solidify its presence in Wallingford, Connecticut, the place where I grew up and always envisioned this mission unfolding.
I won’t quit before the next miracle happens. I intend to leave this world better than I found it. And if I’m honest, the best way to get back at the disease of addiction—even if it started out of spite—is to live well.
Boomshakalaka!