Never in a million years could I have imagined sitting in the office of a recovery center, choosing a date to start rehab for love addiction.
Ironically, I had worked my entire life—thinking I’d finally made it—only to realize I’d never been further from the truth.
And here I was, with another trained professional telling me that daily 12-step meetings weren’t optional—they were mandatory. A prerequisite, she said, for taking back my life. And I believed her.
With only a couple weeks left to pack up my life in Florida and return to Cincinnati, my days were filled with selling belongings, shipping boxes home, and attending 12-step meetings—no matter how far away they were.
Walking into those rooms was never easy. Between meeting strangers and the initial awkwardness—a gravitational force always seemed to pull me back to my car, hoping to win the battle.
But determination would prevail—carrying me across a threshold and to a seat, where the meeting would start—connecting every stranger in the room who’d just walked through the same invisible warfare.
Most meetings had me driving to churches, schools, or rec centers—until one night, I traveled beyond Clearwater, and beyond the safety of my own comfort zone.
The sun started setting on the way to the meeting, and the closer I got, the more I noticed the sidewalks fading away and neon signs closing in. The streets told me to turn around and cut my losses, until the GPS took me right, and then right again.
The deserted parking lot sat behind the old church. An overgrown chain-link fence sagged back and forth, separating the lot from a row of houses behind it. The blacktop was worn, the yellow lines faded—waiting for me to choose a space.
I pulled in slowly, wondering how I could turn back without being seen. But I had just driven 35 minutes, and it was too late to find another meeting. I sat in the car, idling—then finally turned off the engine.
I knew what waited for me: others willing to brave the deep and weather the storms of their own lives to tell the truth—which often left me in awe, witnessing something more profound than anything I ever found in my perfectly curated life.
In some absurd way, I recognized the fact that I had driven across town—from one of the richest to one of the poorest neighborhoods—and away from a life missing the very essence of what waited for me in a 12-step room: truth and connection.
That’s when fear dissipated, and I got out of the car.
Maybe, in fact, I was the lucky one.
Next week: Chapter 12 The Tampa Bridge
Most of my life, I was the rebel. The one who colored outside the lines and found my own way. The one who didn’t follow the rules—because deep down, I never felt like I belonged in the same world that created them.
But when it came to recovery, something shifted. I treated it like a life-or-death situation—because in some ways, it was. I realized I was modeling a life I no longer wanted my daughter to see. And for the first time, I followed every suggestion. No shortcuts. No skipping steps. Just full surrender.
When daily 12-step meetings were prescribed, I didn’t hesitate. I went every single day—for eight straight months. And I loved sitting in those rooms.
Ironically, most people would rather be caught dead than be seen walking into a recovery meeting. Not because the rooms are scary, but because of the shame society has attached to them. We don’t talk about recovery as empowering—we talk about it like defeat.
But here’s the truth most people won’t say out loud: I’ve sat in rooms with people who looked like they had it all—and people who had almost nothing left. And none of that mattered. What did matter was their honesty—a willingness to accept defeat for something greater.
In those circles of plastic chairs, I saw more courage than I’d ever seen in boardrooms or brunches. And somehow, in all that unpolished truth-telling, it felt like family.
That’s what helped me realize I’d been doing life alone—in a relationship that was supposed to be my safe place.
Somewhere along the line, I’d learned to wear resilience like a badge—powering through, pulling myself back up, starting over in silence. But something changed when I stopped making myself wrong for needing help. That’s when I stopped spiraling in isolation. I let myself be seen—and supported. Not fixed. Not rescued. Just witnessed.
That’s what 12-step rooms gave me. A place to practice being human. A place where I saw God—not in a sermon, but in another person’s story.
And as I write this, I realize that’s one of the reasons I host workshops—inviting women into rooms where truth gets to breathe.
Because most of the time, we don’t need advice. We need presence. We need each other. We need to witness—and be witnessed, because we already hold the answers.
That’s when the magic happens—when we remember who we already are.
Eleven years ago this month, she was the one I was fighting for. Because once I saw what was mine to own, I no longer needed someone else to provide for her.
If this speaks to you, reach out—or schedule a clarity call.
And if you’re interested in being part of the fall workshop in Cincinnati, let me know. I’d love to add you to the list.
You can email me directly here, or drop a note through the CONNECT page.
In the meantime, thank you for continuing to walk this journey with me. It means more than you may know.
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