For years, I let other people’s crisis hijack my own needs—and didn’t even question it.
What had looked like a family emergency revealed what I’d later recognize as the codependency triangle—a dynamic that let me avoid my own pain by rescuing someone else from theirs.
But this time, in trying to do so, I stumbled into a conversation that named the pattern with two words: love addiction—and my body confirmed it before my mind could catch up. It was a form of codependency—a blind spot I could finally see. And instead of fear, I felt relief. Naming it gave me a way forward—and moved me from researching to making appointments, knowing it would cost me comfort and control.
As I drove along the interstate, my thoughts traveled back and forth.
Ironically, a complete stranger had diagnosed a pattern that had wreaked havoc across my personal and professional life, and I was desperate to undo whatever needed to be undone.
Rolling hills pulled me forward, across pastures scattered with hay bales and grazing cows. And, in the middle of nowhere, I was grateful to be with myself.
After a long conversation with a program director in California, I realized flying out west wasn’t the right move. It felt too far, too much, too soon.
Instead, I found three recovery centers in the Midwest, each offering a different level of support—one required a five-day stay, another two weeks, and the third, a full thirty days. It felt like a stretch. Not just in length, but in cost. Still, I wasn’t ruling anything out. I booked a flight to Cincinnati, rented a car, and set out to visit them one by one.
There were so many unanswered questions—answers I couldn’t find from the man I was engaged to, much less my family and lifelong friends.
No one I knew had ever checked themselves into a recovery center—much less battled an invisible addiction. Which left me feeling ill-equipped to enroll the people I needed most.
How could I explain a relationship that had taken me from the heights of Paris—only to turn around and bring me to my knees? I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. But more than anything, I felt powerless to walk away on my own—no matter how many times I’d tried.
My thoughts escaped me as I turned off a country road and onto a gravel drive. I followed the path down and through the trees, passing a weathered gate before arriving at a small clearing.
To the left, a wooden lodge waited patiently. The sound of stones shifted beneath the tires.
Across the lot, voices played across the distance, as the sun streamed down through the tall trees.
The morning buzzed with the song of cicadas and further down the winding hill, a bridge crossed over a small creek to the other side.
The smell in the air reminded me of a place from long ago, where I heard the laughter of my ten-year-old self, as I chased a horse across a summer field.
Taking a deep breath in, she told me what I needed to know.
I stepped out of the car and closed the door behind me.
Next week Chapter 11: The Lucky One.
While most women approached 50 celebrating what they’d built,
I was questioning the foundation of my life—and wondering if I had the courage to rebuild it.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I finally saw the cost of not knowing who I was or what I wanted.
Choosing a 6 a.m. flight from Tampa to Cincinnati gave me the full day to evaluate three recovery centers, and move forward with a clear plan.
And the five-hour drive to the first recovery center was part of the groundwork—starting with the one most highly recommended, with a price tag that forced me to stop thinking in terms of cost—and start thinking like a woman investing in her future.
My expectations were high, so I arrived early—anticipating professionalism, structure, and a high level of care. Instead, I was handed off to someone who’d gone through the program for a casual tour— before ever sitting down with the person I’d scheduled the appointment with. It all felt disorganized, impersonal, and far from what I expected—especially from a place that promised expert care.
The second recovery center was beautiful—big trees, immaculate grounds, everything in its place. It felt more like a corporate retreat: structured, safe, polished. But beneath the surface, the message was clear—we don’t do messy here. And I wasn’t looking for that. I needed something honest enough to hold what I was really carrying.
The third recovery center was different. Driving from Tennessee into Kentucky, I exited the main interstate and followed back roads that took me to a gravel drive and into the heart of a hundred acres stretching toward the sky. I felt the distance I’d been searching for before I even stepped out of the car.
The cicadas hummed overhead. A creek ran beneath a small wooden bridge. And in the clearing beyond, I could almost hear myself exhale.
I didn’t fully understand it yet—but something in me did.
Some of my best memories still take me back to summertime at a horseback camp just outside Cincinnati.
Waking up in the mornings that still don’t feel that far away: bunk beds, cinder block walls, trunks used as makeshift dressers. A buzzing fluorescent light spilling across the room and outlining the beds, keeping us from getting lost in the night.
When the alarm sounded, no one moved—hoping sleep would win out over the rising sun.
But I loved that moment. I loved that no one wanted to get outside as much as I did.
I’d pull on my old boots—no socks—not wanting anything to slow me down.
All I knew was that the pasture outside the door opened up to me like an invitation and I couldn’t wait to run into it.
We were told to go through the old gate to get to the pasture.
But I couldn’t see a reason to wait—so I jumped the fence and headed straight into the fog-covered field.
“Hoooooor-sees!” I’d yell into the vastness of the pasture, still holding the fog, the dew, the rising clouds still clinging to the earth like it wasn’t ready to let go.
And although I couldn’t see them, I could hear them—the soft thump of hooves, the breath of something gentle and majestic, moving toward me.
I didn’t need to see to know which one was mine.
Quietly, we’d come together.
I’d wrap an old rope halter around its head and lead it gently back to the barn—past the rain barrels and the tall daisies—while the others still slept.
It was the best part of my summer. I loved every second of it.
What I didn’t know then was that she was still there—within me.
And she recognized something as I pulled in.
And I recognized her.
And that alone was enough for me.
How long had she been hidden?
Buried beneath the shoulds and striving, the people-pleasing and proving, the learned belief that what I wanted was either too much—or not welcome.
In that moment, I couldn’t have known how something so delicate could hold so much power.
But she did.
The girl who rose early.
Who called out to horses.
Who felt God in the quiet.
She hadn’t disappeared.
She had simply gone quiet—waiting for me to remember.
And as I reconnected with her, I began to understand:
I didn’t need to become more.
I needed to spend time with her.
The part of me that only knew wonder, ease, and belonging.
Who ran barefoot through fields. Who skipped rocks.
Who danced before anyone told her to sit still.
She wasn’t asking me to fix anything.
She just needed space to breathe.
Because what I really longed for wasn’t help.
It was freedom—to want what I wanted, and finally say it out loud.
There’s nothing glamorous about getting help.
No fanfare. No spotlight.
Just a quiet decision that enough is enough.
For me, the real threshold wasn’t walking into the center.
It was letting go of the version of me who always figured it out on her own.
The woman who made life work.
Who led with her accomplishments.
Who could rally at any moment—to fix, to build, to solve.
Until trying so hard took a toll.
And I lost the part of me I loved most.
I no longer wanted the kind of power that comes from hustle or charm.
I wanted the kind that comes from standing in truth, even if your knees shake while you do it.
That weekend, I didn’t just evaluate recovery centers.
I evaluated my future.
And I made a promise:
If there was even a chance I could find her again—
I’d do whatever it took to fight for her.
And maybe that’s why you’re still here, too.
Because there’s a part of you—the one who used to run barefoot through fields, skip rocks, or dance freely—
And maybe you’re wondering if she’s still in there.
Is she worth fighting for?
Thank you for continuing to walk this journey with me.
It means more than you may know.
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