the shadow that changed me

“between the ache and the addiction,
between the bitter and the broken,
i am learning that even in ruins,
a wildflower can bloom.”

“as i sit here…”

it was just shy of 12:30 this morning when i started writing that line, restless and aching. four hours later, i finally closed my eyes after talking with my best friend and my wife. we covered everything and nothing—life, love, all the little pieces in between—but as always, my pain pulled itself into the center of the conversation.

they listened. they always listen. with compassion. with patience. with the kind of presence that feels rare in this world. even when i know it must sound like the hundredth time this week, they never make me feel like too much. they just let me be. my wife especially—she hears me even when the words come out ragged, even when i repeat myself, even when it feels like i am circling the same ache over and over.

this morning, i found myself in that familiar battle again. i whispered that i needed my pain meds, but i kept delaying. putting it off. waiting. because this time of year drags with it a shadow. this time last year, i was sliding into addiction.

it wasn’t glamorous. it wasn’t loud. it was quiet, creeping. it started as relief, but quickly became survival. i told myself i was in control, but the truth is, i wasn’t. i counted hours, measured minutes, lived between doses. my whole life reduced to waiting for the next pill, chasing that fragile, temporary quiet it gave me. it wasn’t all-consuming, not in the way people often picture addiction—but it was real. it was heavy. it was mine.

and breaking it… breaking it was one of the hardest things i have ever done. it took my chosen family stepping in. it took my wife and my girlfriend standing by me. it even took my ex-wife, who was part of my life in that chapter. it was messy, complicated, raw—but it was love. it was accountability. it was the kind of help that saves you when you can’t save yourself.

now, every dose feels different. it isn’t just medicine—it’s a choice laced with memory. a reminder of what i survived. every pill feels like a question: can i take this without slipping back? can i handle this? do i trust myself? i live inside that cycle of bargaining—waiting, delaying, hoping the pain will pass, but knowing eventually it won’t.

and the truth is, the pain is relentless. the relief is fleeting. i’ve tried to grin and bear it, to be “strong,” but there’s a breaking point. there’s always a breaking point.

so i lay awake again this morning. not because i wanted to, but because pain doesn’t care if i am exhausted. i tried to fight it, to quiet it, but nothing worked until i smoked enough to finally feel light, finally slip into sleep.

this isn’t just about one morning. this is about the way my life has shifted over time. 527 days. that’s what i keep coming back to. in 527 days, everything has altered—my body, my marriage, my family, my sense of self, even my relationship with pain. i am not the same woman i was when this began. i am not the same woman who first leaned on those pills like they were the only thing keeping me alive.

i will talk more about that soon. about how 527 days carved me open, forced me to confront parts of myself i never wanted to look at. about how it broke me, how it made me bitter, how it made me angry. and yet—how it is still shaping me into someone better. someone blooming.

because somewhere inside the bitterness, something extraordinary has grown. i am not who i was before the pain. i am not who i was before the addiction. i am becoming something else entirely.

that bitter is becoming better.
and that better is still blooming.

stay with me, darlings. see you soon.

with ink + bloom, 🌻