I came to my own recovery sideways and unaware. I was simply following my son, as I always had; hovering behind him, ready to catch him when he fell. Toddler or teen, Tristan was pure energy and adrenaline, running full tilt at life. Until he smacked into a wall. As a teen, that wall was addiction and, despite my hovering, Tristan had fallen hard….
Read MoreWay too many moms are grieving the death of their child this year. For the holidays, I decided I’d like to give every grieving mom the gift of compassionate friends and family. I truly believe that most people want to help, but just don’t know how. So I asked grieving moms what they wanted other people to know about them over the holidays. What did they need to feel supported? And I’m sharing their responses, so you can be better prepared to gift them with your understanding this year…
Read MoreI sat at my desk with a mug of steaming chamomile tea, my laptop open. I had an important deadline tomorrow and wanted to double check that everything was ready. I was rereading my report, looking for ways to clarify concepts and add more rationale to my recommendations when a shriek pierced the silence.
“Mom!” Tristan was yelling for me, wailing.
I ran to his room and saw him sitting on his bed, head in his hands, rocking back and forth. At fifteen he was slim and, wearing only his pajama bottoms, he still looked like a boy…
Read MoreThe sheep were a soft silvery blue: cerulean awash in a spray of small silver splatters. They were the exact same colour as the shepherds and the dog and cow and donkey. The same colour as the wise men and their camels and, of course, Joseph and Mary and little baby Jesus. Even the manger was that amazing mix of blue and silver, the same shade of blue as my mother’s eyes…
Read MoreSomeone recently asked me what “recovery” means to me. Meaning my recovery. Not my son’s recovery – though he was the one who brought recovery to our family. Not my daughter’s recovery – though it’s her recovery that’s laying a strong foundation for future generations. But my recovery. I haven’t struggled with addiction, myself, so how does that word apply to me?…
Read MoreTristan and I watched the other students frog-hop up the stairs. Feet together, crouched low on each step, they burst upwards to land on the next. Some swung their arms for momentum, but the more senior students held their hands in prayer position as they jumped. A few students were already on their way down, hands first —right hand on one step, left hand on the next—legs wide, in a bear crawl…
Read MoreTristan loved the alchemy of cooking: broiling chicken bones until lightly charred and simmering them for hours until transformed into a rich aromatic stock that he’d use in sauces or soup or a glaze. But he was equally thrilled by the quick bliss of an Oreo McFlurry. Tristan loved everything about food. …
Read MoreMy daughter, Jenn, recently celebrated two years of sobriety. She worked damned hard for it (still does, every day, one day at a time) and the gifts of recovery are flowing into her life. It’s what I expected, if she walked that road. What I didn’t expect were the mountain of gifts that Jenn’s recovery would bring to my life…
Read MoreWe have a powerful story in my family, passed down through generations. It tells us who we are and comforts us through hardship. Like all the best stories, it’s simple and easy to remember.
Our story is, “I’m fine. I’m not a burden.” Our story is fiction.
My parents are fighting again. I can’t make out the words, but it’s scary. The house might crash down with all the shouting. They might tear each other apart like when our dog got my teddy bear and pulled its legs and arms off and left stuffing everywhere…
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