Coming out of the rave years in the UK, I didn’t suddenly become a different person. The chaos didn’t switch off just because the music stopped. What followed was a long, uneven stretch of trying to pull myself out of the life that had swallowed me.
I didn’t know where to begin, or even who I was without the drinking, the drugs, the nights that blurred into mornings. But somewhere inside me, there was a small, stubborn part that wanted more — or maybe just wanted peace. Then I met my youngest son’s father and came to New Zealand.
That’s where the next part of my story begins: not with a miracle, but with the slow, painful, hopeful work of trying to get better.
I was still smoking tobacco when I was pregnant with my second beloved son. But I did give it up after a few months. I followed my midwife’s advice of not quitting suddenly. That would have made me too anxious.
Addiction doesn’t arrive all at once. It creeps in quietly, disguised as fun, escape, belonging, or relief. By the time you realise it has its hands around your life, you’re already tangled in it. I didn’t understand that at the time. I thought I was choosing the nights out, the drinks, the pills, the chaos. I didn’t see that they were choosing me.
Getting treatment wasn’t a straight line for me. It wasn’t a single moment of clarity or a dramatic turning point. It was a long, messy journey of trying, failing, trying again, and slowly learning how to live without the things that were destroying me.
What helped me most wasn’t just the treatment itself — it was the people who saw me as a person, not a problem. The ones who didn’t judge. The ones who understood that addiction is tangled up with trauma, loneliness, heartbreak, and the need to feel something other than pain. The ones who knew that recovery isn’t about willpower; it’s about support, compassion, and having someone believe in you when you can’t believe in yourself.
I learned that treatment isn’t just detoxing or going to meetings. It’s learning how to sit with your feelings instead of running from them. It’s understanding why you reached for the bottle or the pills in the first place. It’s forgiving yourself for the things you did when you were trying to survive. It’s rebuilding your life piece by piece, even when you feel like you don’t deserve a second chance.
For me, sobriety didn’t happen overnight. It took years of stumbling, years of grief, years of trying to fill the emptiness with anything that would numb it. But eventually, I found my way into a space where I could breathe again. A space where I could look at myself without shame. A space where I could say, “I’m sober,” and actually feel proud.
Addiction treatment isn’t one-size-fits-all. What works for one person might not work for another. But what I know for sure is this: you don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to pretend you’re strong when you’re breaking inside. You just have to take one small step, and then another, and then another.
Recovery is possible. I’m living proof of that — one year and seven days sober, the longest I’ve ever been. And every day I stay sober, I’m choosing myself. I’m choosing life. I’m choosing the woman I’ve fought so hard to become.
Footer Message for Readers Who May Be Struggling
If you’re reading this because you’re struggling, please know this: you’re not weak, and you’re not broken. You’re human. Whatever you’re facing — addiction, grief, loneliness, or the weight of your own thoughts — you don’t have to carry it alone. Reaching out for help isn’t a failure; it’s the first small act of choosing yourself again. Talk to someone you trust, even if it’s just to say you’re not okay. You deserve support, compassion, and a life that feels like it belongs to you. One step at a time is enough.