The first time I got drunk, I was 15. I drank Smirnoff vodka—I can’t even remember the flavor—threw up, and passed out. The next day, I felt awful, but I remembered the night as thrilling and fun. That same year, I got a Minor in Possession ticket and spent a couple of months grounded because of it. But it didn’t stop me. Like many teenagers, I craved late nights with friends and drank to fit in. Surprisingly, my academics didn’t suffer. I even graduated high school a year early.
After graduation, I moved in with some girlfriends, and alcohol became a regular part of our lives. I began noticing how drinking could strain jobs and friendships, but I chalked it up to youth. After a year of trying to figure out what I wanted from life, I decided to join the military for a six-year stint. Three months before leaving for basic military training (BMT), I visited a friend in college and was assaulted at a party by a university football player. At the time, I confided in a distant relative—but when they called me a liar, I chose not to report it and tried to move on.
Training changed my life in unexpected ways. I met my now ex-husband during BMT; we were both from Montana, and fifteen months later, we were married. We went out and drank together, but alcohol never dominated our lives—at least, not until children came along. When I was pregnant with our first, I noticed a constant state of hyper-alertness. I couldn’t explain why I always looked over my shoulder or felt unsafe alone. Then, around seven months pregnant, news broke that the football player who assaulted me had been arrested for rape. I finally told my husband and my family. Soon, I was contacted by an investigator, and everything I had buried came rushing back. I chose to testify, and though he was sentenced to 30 years with 20 suspended, I was left frustrated and anxious, realizing the justice system had failed me while he served the minimum.
During this time, I didn’t drink much. My focus was surviving postpartum life, parenting, and the severe anxiety that plagued me. When our son was born, though, my drinking began to increase. Postpartum struggles, marital strain, and sleepless nights from anxiety and a newborn became overwhelming. Prescribed Ambien, I drank more than ever. By the time my son turned one, my marriage had fallen apart due to my own mistakes, and I divorced at 24, with two children and a failed marriage. Instead of pausing to find myself, I jumped into a new relationship.
The next few years were a cycle of highs and lows. I would binge drink, creating chaos in my relationships and work, then stop for weeks or months, only to repeat the pattern. I felt the only happiness came from alcohol. Mornings would bring empty wine bottles beside me and no memory of how they got there. I pushed people away, lost friendships, and disappointed loved ones. In 2017, life took another painful turn. At a house gathering, I was assaulted by a coworker. The harassment that followed forced me to quit my job, transfer to a new base, and start over. I tried to rebuild, but fell back into partying, drinking, and poor choices. Depression consumed me, and each night, I prayed I wouldn’t wake up. Outwardly, I appeared carefree, but inside, I was drowning.
Everything came crashing down in March 2019. My anxiety and depression reached a peak I didn’t think I could escape. I planned to end my life to spare my children further pain. On March 20, I dropped them off at school, went to work, and then visited my sister unexpectedly. Breaking down in her office, I told her I needed help. That afternoon, I searched for an inpatient treatment center and discovered The Meadows in Wickenburg, Arizona. I reached out online and connected with a compassionate staff member, Taylor, who guided me through the process.
On March 28, I boarded a plane to Phoenix. By March 31, I was admitted to The Meadows, and my expectations were shattered. That first night, I laughed harder than I had in years. Surrounded by people with their own struggles, I finally connected in a way I never had before. At my first AA meeting, a guest speaker spoke about alcohol’s destruction on his life, family, and career. Tears streamed down my face as I whispered to a friend, “I want to be sober.” That Monday, I told my therapist the same thing, and I could see the relief in her eyes. Over the next three weeks, I dug deep into my anxiety, depression, and alcoholism through intense trauma therapy. I learned to love and care for myself again while forming authentic connections for the first time in my life.
Leaving The Meadows was terrifying. I worried about my identity outside its walls. Returning to Great Falls, life was harder than expected. Simple tasks—paying bills, cooking, managing work and children—felt monumental. I cried in private spaces, struggled with friendships, and grappled with co-parenting. I spent mornings at the gym at 4 a.m., worked hard, and tried to rebuild stability. At five months sober, I turned 30, reflecting on my journey with tears but also hope.
Then, COVID hit. Quarantine ended an on-again, off-again relationship, leaving me feeling lost. But that ending sparked something in me. I bought a second home in my dream location, received a promotion, and saw the rewards of sobriety. I had energy, patience, and presence for my children. Anxiety and depression became manageable. I reconnected with old friends, built new friendships, and embraced being “the sober girl.” I experienced my first sober wedding and bachelorette party, learning I could enjoy life fully without alcohol.
Unexpectedly, I reconnected with a man I had worked with years before. Our relationship is slow, intentional, and loving. He supports my sobriety unconditionally, encourages our adventures, and has built a bond with my children that feels natural and joyful. For the first time, a relationship feels effortless, balanced, and nurturing.
Looking back, I could never have imagined life today. My best days drinking can’t touch my worst days sober. I am surrounded by the greatest humans, raising amazing children, and thriving. As I approach my two-year sobriety anniversary on March 30, 2021, I reflect on the journey with gratitude. Sobriety saved my life, taught me resilience, and allowed me to reclaim my happiness. Though the path was brutal, the reward is beyond anything I could have imagined.
