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Chapter 9: Divine Intervention
From this vantage point, I saw what the climb had cost me.
Eight years of striving—chasing the summit at all costs—
only to realize his betrayal had left me standing at the edge of a mountain that was no longer mine.
Suspended in stillness, I steadied myself. And as I did, a vastness opened before me—so clear, so pure, it lifted the sting. And in that single moment, I knew everything I needed to know.
I didn’t have a plan. But I had a center.
And just as quickly as that knowing came—and flickered—it passed. In its place, a new kind of urgency took over—an urgency that mattered more than any summit.
For years, I’d suspected my goddaughter was battling an addiction. But when I confronted her, she met me with stone-cold denial, and I promised to let it go.
Until a weekend visit revealed that things had gotten worse—and this time, I was different. The center I’d found rose up—stronger than my silence, stronger than my fear.
For the first time, I could be the woman she needed.
Within a week, I was deep in research—learning that interventions required meticulous planning—which led me to endless calls to recovery centers, counselors, therapists, and interventionists across the country.
Until one call with a director in California started like the others—listing the addictions her facility treated—then shifted suddenly when two words triggered a visceral reaction I didn’t expect.
“Wait,” I said, interrupting her mid-sentence. “What did you just say? What does that mean?” “Love addiction?”
That’s all it took.
And as she spoke, something in me unlocked. The floodgates opened.
I had made myself wrong on so many different levels—
For divorcing my daughter’s father,
for choosing the wrong partners,
for calling off a wedding, and now, for staying in an eight-year relationship with someone who wasn’t who he said he was.
Those two words gave me back what I’d been searching for all along:
A gift.The truth that finally made sense of it all.
Love addiction, she explained, was a form of codependency—a term I thought I understood, without realizing it was an addiction of its own. Just as destructive. Just as cunning. But possibly quieter.
The family emergency wasn’t what I thought it was.
My instinct to help my goddaughter had led me straight to the answer I didn’t even know I was looking for:
She didn’t need another woman willing to sacrifice herself.
She needed to witness a woman finally standing in her God-given worth—without flinching.
Looking back on that day now—and everything that’s unfolded since—I’m in awe.
At the time, I wasn’t just trying to help.
I was trying to right so many wrongs—without even realizing it.
Proving my worth had become my modus operandi—never realizing pride was an unquenchable fix that kept me from valuing my own.
That’s why addictions are so cunning—we feel like we’re doing everything right, without realizing we’ve rewired our brains to chase relief instead of truth.
It took a day like that—standing on the edge.
Where the air got thin.
Where silence outweighed everything I’d built.
For the truth to meet me—and block the path behind.
Codependency doesn’t always look like dysfunction.
Sometimes, it disguises itself as strength.
As capability.
As the one who holds it all together—at the cost of herself.
The world talks about narcissists, addicts, and abusers—
but not the ones who lead with charm and appear generous.
The ones who make promises they can’t keep.
Who take while appearing to give.
And there’s almost no language for the woman trying to survive them—
the one who gives her best, doubts her gut, and rationalizes someone else’s needs or behavior at the expense of her own becoming.
Here’s what I hadn’t seen until that day:
I wasn’t just deceived. I let it happen. I let someone else take charge of my life—because, for a while, it felt easier.
Codependency is a dance—and I kept showing up for the music. I thought I was being loyal. Patient. Devoted.
But really, I was avoiding the one thing I hadn’t yet dared to become:
The woman who valued herself the way she was designed to.
I always knew she was in there—
but it took losing myself to finally fight for her.
Maybe that’s why I started therapy at 25 after divorcing my daughter’s father.
And never stopped.
My siblings were overseas. My parents divorced.
There wasn’t a built-in support system that could see what I sensed—
so I built one that could.
Therapists. Coaches. Bible Studies.
Flying across the country for retreats and Tony Robbins events.
I sat in rooms with the biggest names in the business—
and deep down, I knew I had power.
But then I’d come home, and the old patterns would take over.
Because if you don’t consciously choose your spirit first,
your survival strategies will always win.
Eventually, I became a certified coach—three years of school—
because I believed in this work and the brilliance of the human spirit.
But I couldn’t fight what I couldn’t name.
So when the truth finally landed—after decades of devotion—my body knew.
And I was all in.
I was 49—and this milestone told me I had no time to waste.
This wasn’t about fixing my relationship with my fiancé.
Or anyone else, for that matter.
It was about fixing the relationship with myself.
That’s how codependency worked for me—
it was a blind spot, hardwired to protect the part of me that never felt safe being myself.
What happened next wasn’t just a plot twist.
It was a spiritual awakening.
And as the Twelfth Step of recovery teaches:
“Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps,
we tried to carry this message to others,
and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”
That’s what this story has become:
A practice.
A message.
A hand reaching back—so no one has to wait as long as I did.
Thank you for walking this road with me. It means more than you may know.
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