Have you ever heard the quote about the battle of two wolves?

“There is a battle of two wolves inside us all. One is evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, lies, inferiority, and ego. The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth. The wolf that wins is the one you feed.”

The principles of the good wolf — joy, peace, love, humility, and truth — are also the foundations of recovery. Working the steps gives me the chance to practice these principles daily. Recovery is about maintenance — spiritual and emotional — and the steps provide the opportunity to “take the trash out,” to clean house and build a stronger foundation built on honesty, humility, and love.

But when I was using, I wasn’t living by any of that. Getting loaded turned me into a dishonest, selfish, greedy, and egotistical woman who truly believed the world revolved around her. I was angry, resentful, and constantly breaking my own moral code. I remember sneaking into my parents’ room late at night, searching my dad’s pants for cash. If there wasn’t any, I’d grab his debit card, go to the gas station, pull out money, and sneak it back into his wallet like nothing happened. Then I’d look my parents in the eyes and lie. I had no concern for the damage I was doing — to them, to myself, to my soul.

I grew up believing in family, loyalty, trust, and love — but through years of using, I lost sight of all of it. The shift was slow and subtle, but by the time I was an adult, repairing relationships wasn’t even a priority anymore. Dishonesty and manipulation had become second nature. Even now, with several years of recovery behind me, my family relationships are still complicated. There are moments of honesty, love, and forgiveness — but also tension, distance, and old wounds that still sting. The wolves exist there, too. Both of them. And sometimes, they’re fighting at the same time.

A Story of the Wolves at War

A while back, I got pulled over — the first time since I’ve been clean. Being on probation, my mind immediately jumped to worst-case scenarios. I flashed back to a time a year earlier, when I’d been pulled over in the same area. Even though I had all my paperwork, the officers knew who I was and treated me like I was still that broken, addicted version of myself. I felt small, powerless, and ashamed.

Sitting in the driver’s seat this time, my mind started spinning again.
The bad wolf started whispering: “This is it. They’re going to take you. Who’s going to take Keaton? People never change — you’ll always be that girl they remember.”

But then the good wolf spoke up.
Humility. Stability. Truth.
I reminded myself: I am clean. I am rebuilding my life. I have a valid driver’s license. I’m a productive, self-sufficient member of society — a mother who shows up, sober and steady. The officer was respectful, kind, and professional. He even cut me a break. And in that moment, I felt the shift.
That’s what happens when you keep feeding the good wolf.

Feeding the Right Wolf

So which wolf wins? I don’t think it’s a one-time choice. Some days, I feed the good one. Other days, fear or anger still slip in. None of us live in constant peace and joy — and most of us don’t live fully in resentment or ego either. The truth is somewhere in the middle, in the balance, in the awareness that every moment is a choice.

If you’re reading this and you’re in that battle right now, know this: the wolves are real, and the fight is real. The bad wolf doesn’t disappear — it just gets quieter the more you stop feeding it. The good wolf, the one that carries honesty, humility, gratitude, and love, gets stronger with every act of recovery, no matter how small.

No matter how long we’ve been clean, the battle never really stops — but the peace that comes from choosing the good wolf makes every fight worth it.

Bit by bit, moment by moment, that’s how we rebuild.
That’s how we heal.
That’s how we change.

Feed the right wolf. Keep choosing the small, steady acts of recovery.
They add up. They turn into proof.

This is deep, emotional, and full of pain — but what I’m about to say, you MUST hear.

Addiction is a DEADLY DISEASE.
If it doesn’t kill you outright, it will kill you mentally, emotionally, and spiritually — until you wish you were dead.

Addiction has many faces, and affects everyone differently.
Regardless, it carries familiar traits: selfishness, self-centered, self-seeking motives.

Addiction is progressive.
It is lonely, dark, and empty, filled with stories of horrific and painful things.
It destroys not only the addict but the people who love them. Addiction is a family disease.

As addicts, we didn’t wake up one day and decide, “I’m going to become a junkie.” Somewhere along the way, we found solace in a substance that numbed the pain — and that was the beginning.

In and out of treatments and detoxes, we fight for our lives. People on the outside judge and ask: “Why can’t you just stop?”

That’s a great question…

Why can’t we?

The reality is: it’s called powerlessness.

Have you ever felt like you had absolutely no control over something? No matter what you did or didn’t do, you couldn’t change the outcome?
Even knowing it’s killing you, making the changes necessary feels impossible.
That’s powerlessness.

Some people believe it’s all about choice. And in a way, they’re right. We did make one choice. But that one choice robbed us of the ability to keep choosing.

Addiction is sneaky and powerful. It looks like your friend, your lover, your everything — until you’ve lost it all.

By the time you realize what’s happening, denial has you convinced you need it.
Need it to get out of bed. Need it to go to work. Need it to talk to people. Need it to look in the mirror. Eventually, you need it to do life at all.

You may start to recognize the problem, but guilt and shame keep you from being honest with the people you love most. Fear of life without it keeps you trapped.

Slowly, you isolate. You stop showing up for family. Work suffers. Bills go unpaid. Life slips away, and you use even more to cope.

Now you’ll go to any length for that five minutes of relief — even if it costs you your home, your freedom, or the people you love. And still, you won’t stop.

Why?

Because powerlessness, mixed with guilt, shame, sadness, pain, and fear, makes a paralyzing combination. The road to recovery feels impossible.

This is the reality of addiction, and it cannot be sugar-coated.

For me, my story carries the same devastation. I shattered my family, destroyed relationships, and lost myself completely, more than once.

Recovery has felt beyond impossible at times. Fighting for my life has felt pointless. But even in my darkest days, one thing kept me reaching: there is a little boy who calls me Mom — a boy searching for safety, security, happiness, and love. To turn away from that would have felt like failing at life itself, not just to be swallowed by addiction.

Addicts need a reason to stay clean. At first, mine was my son. Today he gives me the power and strength to stay clean for myself.

Even when the disease tried to swallow me whole one last time, I swallowed my pride and fought for my life so my son wouldn’t have to grow up without his mom.

I have never felt more powerless than when I risked losing my son to this disease. My choices brought me to a new low — my deepest bottom.

But out of that storm came a light and a strength I didn’t know I had: the ability to surrender, to build a new foundation, and to begin a new journey worth fighting for.

I don’t want to bury my past, but I won’t let it strangle me either.

My past has made me stronger, braver. It’s taught me how to recognize the wolves and survive the cocoon.

Becoming a butterfly took time, pain, and transformation.
But today, I fly free.
Today, I have the freedom to choose life.

The day my son was born, my life changed forever. I carried him for nine months, not realizing just how much he would steal my heart, reshape my world, and wrap me around his little fingers. But from the very beginning, motherhood also introduced me to something I never expected—guilt.

When my son was just a few days old, I struggled with feeding. He wouldn’t latch, my body wouldn’t produce enough milk, and no matter how many times I tried—or how many specialists I saw—I couldn’t make it work. I wasn’t just afraid he wasn’t getting enough to eat. I was terrified I’d never have that magical “connection” other moms seemed to talk about. When it didn’t happen, guilt consumed me.

Then came postpartum depression. At first, I didn’t even realize I was suffering. I just knew I was exhausted. My son only slept if I held him, and months of sleepless nights left me feeling numb and detached. I remember handing him to my mom one night and walking away, completely blank. That moment scared me—I could hear his cries but felt nothing. When I was diagnosed with PPD, I thought relief would come, but instead guilt crashed in. How could I not feel anything for my baby? What kind of mother was I?

As the months went on, the guilt just kept showing up in new ways. Going back to work made me feel guilty for leaving him. Staying home made me feel guilty for not providing. When he was hospitalized twice, I felt guilty for not being by his side every second. Motherhood started to feel like a constant cycle of damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

And then came the hardest decision of all. When he was four months old, I placed him with another family because I knew I couldn’t take care of him in my addiction. That choice ripped me apart. The guilt was unbearable—but it was also the choice that saved both of us. Today, I’m grateful to say we’ve rebuilt a bond I once feared was gone forever.

Even the smaller decisions carried guilt. When I sleep-trained him at 18 months, it was a nightmare. He cried, I cried, and I questioned if I was breaking his trust. But I also knew we both needed rest, and giving in wouldn’t help either of us. That’s motherhood—you’re constantly weighing two hard choices, hoping one of them will be “right.”

And the guilt hasn’t stopped as he’s grown. At two, it was missing milestones while I worked. At four, it was not giving him the same experiences other kids had. At six and seven, it became wondering if my struggles—mental health, recovery, single parenting—were too heavy for a child to carry. I’ve questioned myself at every stage: Am I enough? Am I showing up the way he needs? Am I giving him the life he deserves?

Here’s what I’ve learned: guilt is part of parenting. Every mom I’ve ever talked to feels it, though it shows up in different ways. For me, mental illness has amplified it, making even small choices feel like life-or-death decisions. But the truth is, we’ll never get it all right. And that’s okay.

What matters most is love. My love for my son is fierce, unwavering, and greater than any guilt I’ve ever carried. That love is what keeps me moving forward, making mistakes, learning, and trying again.

If you’re a mom carrying guilt, please hear this—you’re not alone. We all question ourselves. We all wonder if we’re doing it right. The very fact that you’re worried about being a good parent is proof that you already are one.

Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s also the most rewarding. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. My son is my reason for everything.

The lies were brutal—things no one should ever tell themselves. Lies like:

• “You’re just a junkie who doesn’t deserve to live.”
• “How could you choose drugs over your son? You’re a terrible mom.”
• “You’ll never make it in life, all you ever do is mess up. You might as well just kill yourself.”

Those words became my truth for so long. My self-esteem was non-existent. I couldn’t look in the mirror without shame. I lived in constant fear—fear of my past, my present, and especially my future. I was terrified I’d never be enough for my son.

After my last brutal relapse, I honestly didn’t know what would be different. My track record was messy—get clean, relapse, repeat. So walking into this attempt, I was apprehensive, unsure, afraid. But there was one thing I did know: if I ever wanted my son back, if I wanted to be in his life long-term, I had to do something different. That realization hit my brain and my heart in a way nothing else had before.

So, I went to treatment. Again.

And here’s the truth: there wasn’t anything brand new about the treatment itself. I didn’t learn some magical new skill I’d never heard of before. What changed was me. My heart and my head were finally in the same place. I was ready to not just hear the lessons, but to take them home and live them out.

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Small Habits, Big Shifts

One of the most surprising lessons that stuck with me was this: make your bed every morning.

It sounds silly, right? But starting my day with that simple, mundane act gave me a foundation. It was a productive step forward before anything else could derail me. On hard days, it meant I still had something clean and peaceful to come back to. Over time, making my bed became more than a chore—it became a symbol of my recovery.

And from that one habit, other positive choices grew.

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Rebuilding as a Mother

The relationship I have with my son today is something I once thought I’d never have. For a long time, I wasn’t sure he would ever know me as his mom. But today he does. We are closer than I ever imagined. His hugs, his kisses, his little arms wrapped around me—those are my reasons for living.

Letting him live with another family while I went to treatment was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, but it was also the most loving. His safety and happiness had to come before my pride. And that choice—choosing to love him well, even from a distance—set the stage for us to rebuild.

Motherhood has been the anchor that kept me steady when everything else could have pulled me under.

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Accountability and Stability

Another huge change? Work. For the first time in my life, I’ve held a job for almost a year. In the past, I couldn’t last more than a couple of months. Today I’m accountable, reliable, and self-supporting. I show up. I work hard. I’m just another worker among workers—and honestly, that feels amazing.

I’ve also been able to step into another role I never thought I’d be capable of: caregiver to my mom. She has loved me unconditionally through my darkest days, and being able to care for her during her illness has been one of the greatest gifts recovery has given me. Service isn’t just a concept we talk about in recovery—it’s something I get to live out with the people I love.

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Growing Up at Last

Let’s be real: I’ll always need my parents. But today, I don’t depend on them in the way I used to. I’ve grown into adulthood, something I avoided for a long time. It’s scary, but it’s also empowering.

Because I can finally be a friend, I now have true friends in my life. Because I can finally be present, I get to experience the blessings of real relationships. Recovery has given me the life I thought I’d never deserve.

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Gratitude

The gifts of recovery are too many to count: my son’s love, my parents’ support, my job, my friendships, my ability to serve others. I am beyond blessed.

So here I am, celebrating this milestone—not as the end, but as a new beginning. Thank you to everyone who has cheered me on, believed in me, and had faith in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.

This is just the beginning.

 

I suffer from this thing called Obsession and Compulsion.

How do I find a solution to the problem? How do I get it to stop? What do I do to change the behavior?  It can be such a detrimental pattern of behavior, and it has caused me so much unnecessary hurt and pain.

It started at a young age. I can remember having the craziest fears. I was so afraid of fire. Every night I would look out the window and up at the moon and pray to God that Lake Tahoe wouldn’t erupt because I was convinced it was a volcano. That was a crazy thought and idea I had gotten from watching danteas peak with my dad and uncle one night when I was like 7 or 8.  I ran with this fear for many years. I was also so paranoid that the house was going to catch on fire, so I would walk around the house, before bed, making sure that everything was unplugged, and turned off. Stove burners, curling irons, anything that was plugged in, was not any longer, until the next day. This is the first time I can identify any form of obsession or even paranoia.

As I got older, I began to realize that any time I was under high stress, I would become “spunout” by situations that were high tense emotionally or mentally, and that I felt I had no control over. It became a pattern of mine. It would be things like: Work Stress or situations, Family, Feeling Judged by people, or going through a custody battle. There have been times that I would just sit and ‘spin’ over and over, about what I could have done different, and I have learned that it is one of my most damaging, unhealthy behaviors. Bottom line is: I feel out of control, and I dont like it.

What I’ve learned walking through this custody battle is that I dont like feeling out of control. I have a hard time trusting the process, and trusting that what is happening, and what is being said, and knowing that everything is actually the way it is. Part of the problem is, my son is involved, and he is sacred to me. So, I am easily tipped off when it comes to him. My parents often try and give me advice on the situation, and I even struggle when it comes from them at times.  Its the most difficult situation for me to see clearly, and sanely.

Is this something that is normal? Do other people struggle with over barring thoughts that make them crazy too? Or am I just alone in this?