Our Story

My Journey to Sobriety: Finding Hope, Healing, and Community

I grew up with two wonderful parents, a brother, and a loving, stable family. I had a great childhood. I was surrounded by people who loved me, supported me, and wanted the best for me. I wasn’t raised in chaos. I didn’t grow up with abuse or some deep childhood trauma that I could point to and say, That’s why this happened to me.

There wasn’t some obvious wound that led me down this path. And that’s part of what makes my story so difficult to explain.

For a long time, I believed addiction happened to other people. People who had experienced terrible things. People who came from broken homes. People who had a reason to drink. People who had alcoholism in their family. I never imagined that person would be me.

But looking back now, I can see the signs were there long before I was willing to admit them. I didn’t have an off switch when I drank. One drink was rarely just one. And even when I wasn’t drinking, addictive behaviors showed up in other ways. I was constantly trying to fix things, manage people, control situations, and make everything around me okay because somehow I believed that if I could control everything, I could control how I felt.

For years, I was able to keep it together. I raised my children. I worked. I took care of my family. I showed up. From the outside, my life looked normal. And maybe that’s what made it so easy to convince myself that I didn’t have a problem.

I believe God allowed me to keep my drinking at bay for a long time—long enough to raise my kids, build a life, and keep everything together on the surface. But underneath it, addiction was quietly waiting.

Then COVID hit…

In 48 hours, the life I knew began changing. I lost the business I had poured myself into. I didn’t pass my real estate renewal test. Then my mother fell and broke her hip. Suddenly, everything I thought I could count on felt uncertain.

I was locked inside my home, homeschooling three children, caring for my mother, trying to figure out how to make money, and desperately trying to hold my family together. The only places that seemed to be open were grocery stores and liquor stores.

And that’s when alcohol stopped being something I did and became something I needed.

I started drinking earlier and earlier in the day. At first, I told myself I was just trying to cope. I was overwhelmed. I was exhausted. I was scared. I needed something to quiet my mind. Was drinking the answer? No. But at the time, I just wanted to make the noise stop.

I tried taking random jobs to keep food on the table. I tried to create some sense of normalcy, but nothing felt stable anymore. Eventually, I convinced myself that I needed a complete change. I decided that after my son graduated high school, my mom and I would move to Florida.

At the time, it felt like a fresh start.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t running toward something. I was running away.

I bought a house in Florida over FaceTime. Even writing that now sounds crazy. I thought I was solving my problems. Instead, I was creating another one. The house was rented, which I initially thought would be a smart financial decision, but getting the tenant out became a nightmare.

Then, in October 2022, my mom died.

Losing my mom broke something inside me. I told myself that her death was the reason I fell apart. And certainly, losing her was devastating. But if I’m being completely honest with myself now, I know alcohol had already taken hold of my life long before she died. Still, I pushed forward with the move. In 2023, I sold my home in Chicago and moved to Florida—a place I had only visited once, where I knew almost no one. I thought I was starting over.

Instead, I completely unraveled.

The moment I arrived, I had what I can only describe as a full nervous breakdown. I had left behind my children, my family, my friends, my community, and everything that was familiar. I hated it. I sat on the floor of that house and drank from morning until night. I lasted two weeks. Somehow, I met a realtor in Florida who helped sell the house. A friend came down to help me pack, and I drove back to Chicago with my dogs. I had no plan. No home. No idea what I was going to do. My kids didn’t know how to help me. And I didn’t know how to help myself. I was trying to rebuild my life. But I was still drinking. And I was still hiding.

Eventually, I stopped drinking on my own for four months. I found a house. I started putting my life back together. From the outside, things were beginning to look better. But inside, I was miserable.

I was angry. I was empty. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t happy. So I picked up a drink again.

And this time, it got bad quickly. It became bottles of wine every night. I hid it. I lied about it. I convinced myself I was fooling everyone.

But the truth was, I wasn’t fooling anyone. I was barely fooling myself.

Then came Mother’s Day. I wanted my children to leave so I could drink. That moment still hurts to admit. Because I looked at the people I loved most in the world and realized I was choosing alcohol over being present with them. That was the moment something inside me finally broke through the denial. I knew I couldn’t do this anymore.

I called my brother-in-law, who was in AA. And for the first time in my life, I said the words I had been too proud, too scared, and too ashamed to say: “I need help.” That call changed my life.

That’s where my sobriety journey truly began. For once, I stopped trying to figure everything out myself. I jumped in with both feet. I listened. I showed up. I kept coming back. I did service work. I sat in rooms with people I had never met and listened as they told stories that somehow sounded like my own. For the first time, I understood something I had been missing for years. I wasn’t alone. And I didn’t have to figure this out alone.

AA gave me the foundation I needed to stay sober. Therapy helped me become honest about my drinking and understand the behaviors underneath it. I began rebuilding my relationship with God. I started taking care of my body through nutrition. Little by little, I began rebuilding myself—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I was finally learning how to live instead of simply trying to survive.

Sobriety has given me the ability to look back at my life with honesty. And one of the biggest things I’ve learned is that addiction doesn’t discriminate. It is a physical and mental illness that can affect anyone. Sometimes there is a loving family, a good upbringing, children you adore, people who love you—and still, somehow, addiction finds its way into your life. That was me. And realizing that has helped me let go of the shame.

I’ve also realized just how fortunate I was. I had people who cared about me. I had a family and now a community. I had a home to return to. I had people who were willing to answer the phone when I finally admitted I needed help.

Through AA, I’ve met people fighting the same battle I fought, but without the stability I had. People dealing with homelessness. Toxic environments. Families who don’t understand. Isolation. People who desperately want to get sober but don’t have a safe place to land or a sober community waiting for them.

Their stories changed the way I see recovery.  Because sobriety isn’t just about putting down the drink. It’s about having somewhere safe to go and people who understand you, when you put it down. It’s about accountability. It’s about structure. It’s about a community who isn’t judging you for it. They need someone to sit beside them and say, “I understand. I’ve been there. You don’t have to do this alone.” By the grace of God, I am sober today. And today, I don’t take that for granted.

I know what it feels like to be the person sitting on the floor, drinking from morning until night, believing there is no way out. I know what it feels like to look at the people you love and know you’re hurting them. I know what it feels like to be completely lost while everyone around you thinks you’re okay.

And I know what it feels like to finally say, “I need help.” Those four words changed my life. Now I want to help other people find what I found. Hope. Healing. Community. Faith. A safe place to land. A path forward—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I tell my story because someone else may be sitting where I once sat, believing they’re too far gone, too ashamed, too broken, or too different to recover. They’re not.

If my story can reach even one person who thinks there is no way out, then everything I’ve been through has a purpose.

Because there is a way out.

There is a way forward.

And there is a way home.

Stephanie W