There’s a season in recovery that almost no one talks about. It doesn’t show up in day-one speeches or welcome packets. You probably didn’t hear about it at your first
There’s a kind of pain that rarely makes headlines. It doesn’t land someone in jail or on the streets. It shows up quietly—in wine poured a little too early, in
When your child is in crisis, everything starts to feel like an emergency. But not all emergencies come with flashing lights. Sometimes it’s quiet: missed classes, staying up all night,
I didn’t walk into TruHealing Cincinnati with hope in my pocket. I didn’t even come with expectations. By that point, I’d tried everything—detox, inpatient, therapy, IOP, you name it. I
There’s a fear that lives in the quiet moments before someone reaches out for help: What if I get sober and lose the very thing that makes me feel alive?
There’s a moment—maybe it happened at your doctor’s office, or quietly at home after one too many nights blurred by drinking—when a word lands in your life like a stone.
When you’ve watched your child come back from addiction—or thought they had—it’s a special kind of heartbreak to see them using again. It feels like the ground moves under you.
I didn’t think I’d need detox again. At 90 days sober, I thought I was in the clear. I had friends in recovery. I had routines. I was even sleeping
I didn’t want to die. What I wanted was the pain to stop. Or at least to soften. That distinction matters more than most people realize. Because for many people
If you’ve ever wondered what it actually feels like to stop using — without the fear, shame, and mystery that so often comes with that question — you’re not alone.
I won’t lie to you: getting sober is hard. Stopping is hard. Staying stopped is hard. Trying again — harder still. Maybe you tried a detox once, halfway through, or
I was good at hiding it. Really good. I had a job people admired. A social life that looked polished. I volunteered. I showed up early. I had plans and
