Step Two: Believe.

Step two: Came to believe that a power greater than us could restore us to sanity. 

When I started writing about Step Two, I noticed I included a lot of how I interpret this step in my piece about Step One. Damnit. Did I get it wrong? I don’t think so. I think the the first three steps are very connected, woven throughout each tool of the program. So there will be some overlap. And if I haven’t mentioned it before, I’ll say it now: This is my interpretation of the steps. I take readings from approved and non-approved Al-Anon literature, as well as my own personal experience, to make my own sense of the steps. Take what serves you and leave the rest. 

“The second step is about possibility, about hope … A little willingness can go a long way toward making hope and faith an ongoing part of our lives.” // Courage to Change p. 156

Came to believe…

When I was younger, I’d have a recurring vision of myself as an adult. I would see myself slowly closing the door of a child’s room as I peeked inside. I was a mother. And now I cannot help but see that vision as I close the door of my child’s room, peeking inside as I do. I saw it exactly as it came to be. 

I was raised to believe there is a God. I went to church, I learned how to recite prayers, I learned stories about Jesus. But none of it meant anything to me. I never felt any of it connected to me. I didn’t see how I fit in, how any kind of God could find me relevant enough to pay attention to. I never rejected the idea of a higher power. I just didn’t feel it. So I lived my life without faith, separate from the world around me. I didn’t think I needed it until I realized how alone I felt in the chaos of M’s active addiction. 

M showed me a note I wrote to him three years ago while he was in rehab. I wrote about all the things I still saw in our future – playing board games with our little one, waking up together, falling in love again – despite all the unknowns. And it happened. I saw it all. Even in the depths of the terrifying unknown, I still held onto hope for a better life to come. “Your faith made all the difference,” he said. Believe it, and it will be. 

To believe is to let go of the idea that we are separate from the world around us. To accept that we don’t know everything and we can’t fix everything. To believe is to have hope in something greater. To not know what comes next, and to know that everything will be okay, anyway. But it doesn’t just happen. It takes action, practice, willingness. We don’t just believe out of nowhere. We “came to.” We have to get ourselves there, first.

Let go. Open. 

“The journey of enlightenment is a journey of the mind from a focus on the body to a focus on spirit, from a limited sense of self to an unlimited sense of self, from a sense of separateness to a sense of unity with all things, from blame to blessing, and from fear to love.” // Marianne Williamson,  A Year of Miracles

“Belonging is the innate human desire to be part of something larger than us… We seem to have forgotten that even when we’re utterly alone, we’re connected to one another by something greater than group membership, politics and ideology — we’re connected by love and the human spirit. No matter how separated we are by what we think and believe, we are part of the same spiritual story.” // Brené Brown,  Braving the Wilderness

…. that a power greater than ourselves….

I always liked the idea that everything is made out of the same stuff – energy. And when we die, our energy moves out of our bodies and back into the world, perhaps in another form of living thing. When I started to open up to spirituality, I realized that my idea is a commonly held belief. I would read books that explained the loving energy of the world, how we are all connected, and I’d nod in agreement – as if I already knew it, as if all this knowledge was already within me, and the writer was just awakening it. Slowly, a sense of belonging began to emerge. I wasn’t alone in my thoughts.

My Higher Power is the energy of the universe, what I believe to be love. I feel closer to that energy whenever I look at the sky. It’s so big. It’s always there. And beyond – stars and planets and solar systems and galaxies and comets and black holes and the unknown. It took 4.5 billion years for Earth to form. There are patterns and cycles everywhere. There is a process and rhythm to this universe that is so much older and bigger than any human. Our time here as humans is miniscule. But instead of this making me feel unimportant, I actually feel incredibly amazed that I am a part of something so much larger than myself. The energy that makes the stars is the same energy inside of me. We’re all connected. And there’s a bigger process happening that I cannot control. I see the beauty in this world, in small everyday moments, and I trust the universe knows what it’s doing. 

“We rush through our days in such stress and intensity, as if we were here to stay and the serious project of the world depended on us. We worry and grow anxious; we magnify trivia until they become important enough to control our lives. Yet all the time, we have forgotten that we are but temporary sojourners on the surface of a strange planet spinning slowly in the infinite night of the cosmos.” // John O’Donohue, Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong

“There has been no burst of light, no burning bush – just a gradual clearing of fog … eventually I came to believe that I wasn’t alone in the universe. There was and is a Force, a drive, an energy that can give me the means to make my life joyous and productive.” // Courage to Change p. 307

… could restore us to sanity.

“This is driving me insane.” I’ve thought these exact words as I search frantically for answers, wondering if he’s lying to me, if he’s using again. I keep thinking that knowing if he’s using or not will give me some control over the situation, like I’ll be able to get him to stop, or I’ll know what to do next. So with any trigger or suspicion, I go into questioning mode. I start looking closely at certain behaviors. I start worrying more about what I’ll do if I find something. I grasp for “truth” wherever I can find it. In the meantime, he’s clean. And instead of enjoying my time with him, I’m preparing myself for the worst. 

The word “sanity” comes from the Latin word sanitas, or health. The word has evolved over time so that today, we equate it with mental health. To be insane is to be crazy. To live in some kind of delusional world. 

In Buddhism, the Second Characteristic of Existence is Impermanence – the idea that nothing is permanent, nothing lasts, nothing is forever. 

“This insight shows us quite clearly that there’s nothing to hold on to, because, quite simply, nothing is standing still.” // Kevin Griffin, One Breath at a Time: Buddhism and the 12 Steps

And yet. I’d keep trying to hold on to these visions of what I thought my life and my loved ones were supposed to look like,  and to a truth that fit into my own narrative. This grasp is my attempt at control. And it’s insanity. Life happens the way it happens. It flows with a force that I can’t explain, but that I’ve just come to believe. So I practice, over and over, in letting go. 

Sanity is staying grounded in the present moment and being okay with not knowing the outcome. It’s taking time to breathe and read and say the Serenity Prayer instead of getting stuck in negative thinking. It’s focusing on progress, being grateful for what I have right now, finding peace and joy in the chaos of the everyday. Sanity is when I find out he slips and I am still able to feel calm, peace, joy. What once felt like my entire world crashing down, I now see exactly as it is – a slip. He, we, are capable of getting back up. Sanity is the ability to find peace and joy in any situation. 

Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. I think at the very core of step two is simply the belief that we are not alone. We are not separate. We belong here, in this moment, exactly as it is.

Step One: Open.

A new month, a new year, a new decade. Twelve months, twelve steps. First up:

Step one. We admitted we were powerless over addiction – that our lives had become unmanageable. 

When I learned about Al-Anon, I was turned off. I was sitting in a circle of mostly mothers of addicts – a non 12-step support group for families affected by addiction. In the circle, we told our stories, swapped opinions about different treatments and rehabs, asked questions. “In Al-Anon,” one woman told me, “you can’t just discuss stuff like this. There’s no cross-talk or conversation. You’re expected to work the twelve steps of AA and get a sponsor.”

I had heard about Al-Anon before, but I didn’t realize it involved any work on my part besides telling my story. The twelve steps are for people with a problem. I didn’t have the problem – I was just trying to get my husband to stop using drugs so we could get our life back. So we could get back on track to having a happy family. What did I possibly have to work on?

What does Step One mean?

If I had to sum up the first step in one word: Open. 

I closed off to the option of Al-Anon simply because I didn’t want or think I needed to do any self work. I didn’t want to admit that I may have played a role in this mess. I was already going to therapy, anyway, to learn how to cope with how his behaviors were screwing me up – wasn’t that enough? Getting my own sponsor would require going way out of my comfort zone, and the steps included things like moral inventories and making amends and I really didn’t need to do that. 

I can’t remember what it was that got me to open back up – to let go of the idea that the darkness and loneliness and fear and sadness and confusion, the feelings of being completely stuck and lost – that all of that would go away if only he could stop using. Complete desperation, I think. When I realized I had no idea what the fuck I was doing and what to do next. When I couldn’t find help anywhere else, and no one could tell me the right answer. 

I think I took that first step before I even attended an Al-Anon meeting. I didn’t know where my husband was or what he was doing, I couldn’t stop him, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what would come next. I was so afraid of losing everything. Sobbing, I fell to my knees on the bathroom floor and asked a Higher Power for help. A Higher Power that I had rejected for so long because the idea of a male, white-haired, white-bearded, white-skinned God looking down from above and making everything all better just because I asked was pathetic to me. I had control over my own life by making choices, acting, working hard, doing all the things I was supposed to do. Right? Maybe not. I didn’t know what else to do. So I prayed. I became the stereotype that I used to roll my eyes at when they appeared in movies or TV shows – the person who “found God” after experiencing trauma. But I don’t think I found God. I found myself – connected to the universe around me. 

I didn’t actually use the exact words “I admit I am powerless over addiction and my life is unmanageable.” My prayer was more like repeating “Please help me” and “I don’t know what to do” between sobs. But the act of prayer opened my heart and my mind a bit to the idea that you know what? Maybe there is another way beyond my own way of thinking, and maybe I can go that way, instead. Maybe that path will open to me even though I’ve been ignoring it for so long. Maybe it will help even though I feel like I don’t deserve it or don’t fully believe in it. Maybe all I have to do is take that first step.

Again and again, I take that first step. 

The world is not black and white. It’s not divided into right and wrong, good and bad, strong and weak. I’ve had to loosen my grip and let go of what I thought I knew – what most people think about recovery, marriage, and family, and open up to new ways of thinking:

There is not one right way to recover. The story that we’re told about recovery in mainstream media involves rehab, twelve steps, meetings, and then, a happy ending with x days sober and counting. My husband doesn’t go to AA, and he takes medication to help him stay clean from heroin. What works for one person may not work for another, but there is a common thread – recovery is not linear. There will be slips and falls because change is hard for everyone. In Al-Anon, we have the slogan, “Progress, not perfection.” It’s what happens after we fall that matters. Keep going. 

Trust is about more than “I trust you” and “You trust me.” It’s not about someone else doing the work so he can earn my trust. Trust takes work from everyone. Even when my husband is clean, when I know how much work he has done and how far we have come, when I let go of perfection and see the progress, I still find myself in the “what-if’s.” The suspicions, the doubt, the fear creeps in, and I search frantically for answers. The searching drives me nuts, and there is nothing he can do to change my thoughts. That’s on me. 

The serenity prayer brings me back, replacing fear with love, reminding me of what I can and cannot change.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. 

In my own words: I can’t control this. I can’t control him. I can only control myself – my reactions, my attitudes, my way of thinking. Dear universe, please help me look inward to find my strength. Help me trust myself. 

Let go of my own denial. We often hear about addicts being in denial – they can’t accept their addiction for whatever reason – they don’t want to stop or they’re afraid of what will happen if they do. I’ve had to let go of denial, as well. Denial is refusing to open up to different ways of thinking. Denial of my own problems leads to blame in others, and the idea that other people have to change in order for me to be happy. If only he would stop using… This attaches my well being to someone else’s behaviors instead of my own. Step one helps me to own my feelings, my reactions, my path, my happiness, my serenity. 

Knowledge is not always power. 

“Does analyzing my situation provide any useful insights, or is it an attempt to control the uncontrollable? I have heard that knowledge is power. But sometimes my thirst can be an attempt to exercise power where I am powerless.” Courage to Change p. 285

Knowledge is certainly necessary, and can empower me to make better choices. I’ve read so much about addiction, how addiction affects the brain, different treatment methods. Educating myself has helped me understand what my husband is going through and the options available to him. We’ve analyzed our past in therapy to help understand the why’s, the triggers, how we can support each other moving forward. I’ve analyzed my own past as I create a moral inventory in step four, digging around to uncover ways of thinking that I learned from my family or past events. 

But of course, nothing is black and white. Knowledge is power… to an extent. When I find myself doubting him, wondering if he’s using or lying or hiding something, I’m taken back to the days of active addiction, when tangible truths found by searching his phone were the only truths I could hold on to, the only evidence I could throw in his face to “make” him admit his use. But they offer only temporary relief. The negative thinking still shows up even after uncovering the truth, and that’s what I have to let go in order to trust. 

By practicing step one, I can let go of the belief that having all the answers (knowing where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s clean or not) gives me some control over the situation, as if that knowledge will grant me peace and sanity. 

Powerless, not helpless. 

“Step one calls for acceptance, specifically accepting or admitting powerlessness over compulsions to use substances. This step is meant to be empowering, and for many people it is. Others find the concepts of ‘self-empowerment’ and ‘willpower’ the real driving force of change. The reality is that both are true: a person can be both powerful and powerless at the same time. Similarly, a person can accept what is and want things to change at the same time.

You have the power to help someone change, and the power to make changes yourself that will improve your situation, yet you are powerless to make another person change or do the changing for him… in any given interaction, you will not be able to control the outcome.” Beyond Addiction: How Science and Kindness Help People Change p. 97

Admitting I’m powerless over addiction doesn’t mean I can’t help motivate change. I can’t control his behavior, but I don’t have to stand by and watch him destroy himself, either. Just as his negative behaviors can have an effect on me and change the relationship, so can my positive behaviors. When one of us changes, the relationship changes. 

I made my husband go to rehab. He admits now that he went not because he was ready, but because he thought he didn’t have a choice. I admit that I had given him an ultimatum. “Go to rehab, or this isn’t going to work,” I told him. I don’t regret this. The ultimatum didn’t have the power to make him stop – he relapsed shortly after, and then again months later. He had every intention of using again once he got out. He knew he wasn’t done. The “happily ever after” outcome that I was expecting did not happen, and in that way, I was powerless. But going to rehab still helped him move in the direction toward recovery. 

When he relapsed less than a year later, I left. Not as an ultimatum, not to make him get clean, but because it was what I wanted and needed for myself. I took some time away from the situation to be with my family out of state, and he took that time to detox on his own. I wanted him to go back to rehab – I thought it was the only way he would be able to get clean again. But only he could decide what was right for him. I let go of ownership of his recovery, I let go of any outcome, not knowing what I would come home to – a failed marriage? Or another chance? It was an act of true surrender, of opening up to an outcome that I didn’t think was possible, and trusting that it would be okay, anyway. Meanwhile, my husband detoxed at home with the help of his parents, and that was the last time he was in full-blown active addiction. He took the first step on his own, and this time, it was his choice. 

What benefits have I experienced in applying Step One?

I am open. I look inward to see what I can release, what may be holding me back, instead of trying to fix him or any situation out of my control. I have learned to accept suffering as a part of the process, a part of life. It doesn’t have to take over my life. I keep letting go and opening. I pray. 

Let go of old ways of thinking. Open up and look inward. Surrender the outcome and trust that no matter what happens, it will all be okay. 

“You don’t have to transform anything. Simply letting go of the story line is what it takes, which is not that easy. That light touch of acknowledging what we’re thinking and letting it go is the key to connecting with this wealth that we have. With all the messy stuff, no matter how messy it is, just start where you are – not tomorrow, not later, not yesterday when you were feeling better – but now. Start now, just as you are.” – Pema Chodron, Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living p. 35

 

Open

Loosen your grip. 

Relax your eyes.
See the colors
beyond black and white. 

Be fluid.
Ride the waves.
Know they will pass. 

Make space for growth.

Surrender.

 

I believe in a thing called love.

Do you trust him? she asked.

We were at the lake house, sitting around the fire, and M had been gone for a short time. His cousin asked where he was and then, the trust question. I smiled and nodded, “Yes. Oh yeah. He’s doing good.”

That what I said aloud. In my head, a million thoughts. The answer is so much more than yes or no. It’s so much more than trust in one person. What does that even mean? Do I trust that he won’t use again? Do I trust that he’ll never hurt me again? Do I trust the person he is when he’s in recovery? Do I trust the addiction? Do I trust his love for me and my love for him? The answer, then, is not just yes. It’s no, no, yes, no, yes. If a good marriage is built on trust, then what the fuck am I doing?

I used to think that building a marriage on trust meant handing over my whole heart to my husband and knowing that it would be safe from harm, betrayal, judgment, lies. There is a part of me still hanging on to this way of thinking. The part that wants to answer her question confidently: “Yes, of course!” Proving that our marriage is normal, that I’m not weak for staying with a husband who lies, that we’re doing great, just like everyone else.

But… it’s complicated. I’m learning that trust in a marriage, in any relationship, is more about trust in myself and something greater. Trusting that my heart will be okay when I open it up to someone else because I take care of it myself – not simply handing it over and relying on another person to make it whole and happy. We are all human. Most of us don’t even know how to take care of our own hearts, so how can we promise not to hurt another’s, even if our intentions are good?

This doesn’t mean that I just take the hurt, tend to my wounds, and get ready for more. This does not give him an excuse to lie to me because it’s human nature to make mistakes, to get distracted by dark tunnels, to hurt other people without intending to. Honestly, this is where I’m stuck right now. I’ve learned to separate my husband from his addiction. I trust my husband, I don’t trust his addiction. But his addiction is a disease from which he will always suffer. It’s a part of our marriage, our family. A family disease. Sometimes the separation is not so clear.

“I cannot know what the future will bring. My best hope is every bit as likely to occur as my worst fear, so I have no reason to give more weight to my negative assumption. All I can do is make the most of this day. Today I choose to trust my recovery, the tools of the program, and my Higher Power, and to recognize how very far I have come.” // Al-Anon’s Courage to Change p. 169

I have to trust the process. The recovery. The work we are both doing. I have to trust that my Higher Power will reveal the truth to me when the time is right. Above all, I trust in love. The love in me and the love in him. I’ve seen that love in action and I see it every day. I’ve seen him work so hard to make changes in his life. And I’ve seen the progress.

I’ve made a habit of reflecting back each month, each year, in my journal. I write it out with colorful pens and doodles and lines and shapes, all the things that went right, the books I read, the crystals I carried, the places we went, the things little m said, the things I struggled with, my fears. 2019 was a two page spread, each item bordered by a different- colored box, and when I looked at it, the joy could not be ignored. Two boxes in the corner, one containing “two known slips” and the other read “at-home drug tests.” The rest of the pages were filled with so much good. It’s hard not to be grateful, to not see the progress, when it’s staring me in the face like that. The good outweighs the bad. Light washes away the dark.

So what do I trust? I trust that my husband is human. I trust that as a human, he will lie again. He will do things that hurt me. He will do things that hurt himself. Just as I do things to hurt him and myself. I trust that we are not perfect, and we will have challenges and fears and struggles. And I trust that he loves his family. I trust love – the love within me and within him and within the universe. Love will heal us, no matter what happens.

To the wife of a heroin addict.

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To the wife of an heroin addict: You are not alone.

I know you may feel alone in many, many ways. Like when you’re alone with your child on a weeknight, and your husband is supposed to be home but he’s not. He’s at work late, but by now you know that he’s driving into the city for heroin, and you’ve been trying to get a hold of him for hours, and his responses are misspelled texts filled with excuses and lies, if there is any response at all. You feed and bathe your little one, and your husband arrives just as you’re putting him down to bed.

He’s there, but not really there.

You eat dinner with him in front of the TV, and you watch as his head nods off into his plate. “Are you okay?” you ask him. “Yeah,” he says, “Just tired.” But you know it’s more than that. The way his knees bend slightly when he’s standing, his body swaying up and down, side to side, and you’ve even seen the entire upper half of his body droop in front of him, so he’s nearly at a right angle, his fingers practically touch his toes, and he just sways there for several minutes. He’s there, but not really there.

It’s especially lonely when you can’t tell anyone about it. What are you supposed to say? “My husband is addicted to heroin, he chooses to head out to the west side after work for drugs instead of spend time with his family, he’s draining our bank account and lying to me every day and I don’t even know who he is anymore?” Maybe you have a close childhood friend or a sister who won’t judge you, who will listen to you and be a shoulder to cry on, except maybe her shoulder is on the other side of the country, and all you can do is cry into the phone while you sit in your car in a random parking lot, alone.

And you don’t want to tell your parents, because they live out of state also, and what will they think? What will they say? They’ll hate him, tell you to leave him, never look at him the same way again. They’ll see his addiction as a choice, not a disease. And even though he’s there, but not there, he’s still there. In there, somewhere, the man you married. There is just a demon taking hold of him, and he’s struggling. And you see him with your son and despite the drugs, he’s still a good father. When they’re spending time together, there is so much love. There is still laughter, and playtime, and endless love. You still love the man you married, and you don’t want to give up on him.

Eventually, perhaps you tell his family, because you can’t handle the weight of it by yourself anymore. They live nearby, and they’re able to watch your little one when your husband finally agrees to get help. They pick up your son from daycare and pack an overnight bag for him while you sit in the ER with their son, who is still high, and you are pulling needles out of his pocket and wondering if he’ll even be taken in if he’s not experiencing withdrawals yet, but they have to. “If he comes home, he’ll use again,” you tell the doctor, your voice wavering with desperation. The doctor looks at you and maybe you see sadness and even empathy in his eyes. He is moved to a rehab facility, and as you’re leaving, the withdrawals are starting to kick in, and he’s threatening to leave, but the nurse is able to calm him down with one his own prescriptions, maybe a Xanax? You can’t remember anymore, you just remember that he stayed, and you went home, alone.

His parents are there for you, but their struggle is different. You check out local support groups for families, and you notice that you’re mostly surrounded by parents of opiate addicts. Because the parents, of course, are the ones who will never leave. Even if they have kicked their kid out of the house and broke off all communication, there is still that tie to their children that will never break.

There are some wives in your Al Anon group, but their husbands are alcoholics, which is a different struggle, as well. You find there are far more spouses who stay with husbands addicted to alcohol, and you’re starting to wonder where all the wives of opiate addicts are. Did they leave? Did they lose the fight? Were they forced to let go and move on? You start to think that maybe that’s your future, too. You turn to Google and search for phrases like “wives of addicts” and “I’m married to a heroin addict.” Looking for a support group, a community, a blog, an article – anything from another wife who shares your story. Who has to live every day with this horrible disease and watch it eat away at the man she fell in love with, at her family, her marriage, herself. Who empties tiny little baggies of powder down the toilet, and finds nearby dumpsters to throw away needles. Who frantically searches for more, because hard evidence is the only way she can get him to admit he’s using, any speculations or gut feelings met only with excuses, lies, defenses, disgust. Who wakes up in the middle of the night, night after night, to an empty bed, and wonders if he’s overdosed in the garage. Who is constantly looking for her husband at family gatherings and finding him in the bathroom, door locked, or else not finding him at all. Who wonders what it looks like to other people. Who wonders how much longer she can live with the lies and the pain.

You find a few articles on rehab websites with advice for spouses, and even a few articles from women who eventually left their husbands. But where is the article telling you there is hope for your marriage?

A former therapist of mine once told me, “There is always hope.”

This story is mine. Maybe it’s yours, too. If it is, then we’ve found each other. There’s some hope, right there. And I have more to tell you. I am writing and rewriting my story every moment, every day.

It’s been 20 months since my husband returned home from rehab. He came back the first time just before Christmas, and he was back in days later – just as the year was ending. He was five months clean before he relapsed again. By that time I was going to Al Anon every day, praying to a Higher Power that I had never known before, learning how to take care of myself because it was the only thing I could do. The only things I have control over are my own health and sanity, which were slowly slipping as I lived in a home filled with lies and mistrust. I had to remove myself and my son from the situation, so we went to Las Vegas to stay with my sister. My husband got clean while we were gone, on his own terms this time, and he stayed clean for another 10 months before he used again.

This time, it was only a week before he told me about it and stopped. We wondered how it could have happened – we were going to couples therapy, he was going to a support group once a week, we were communicating better, he had found healthy hobbies and made new friends, we were doing good. How could it happen?

Addiction is a scary and powerful disease. It can take hold of someone, no matter how strong or how far in recovery, and it will stick him in a dark tunnel with a light shining on nothing but one thing – heroin. And that’s all he can see, and it’s all he can move toward, and all reason and love is silenced in the darkness, and there is just that. One. Thing.

Somehow, after he told me, I found peace. A trust in the power that was in me, in him, in us – in everything. A sense of relief, because it wasn’t going to be another cycle of lies this time. The truth had revealed itself quickly, and he was back on track to recovery once again. Perhaps this last relapse meant there was more work to do, and with that, he made an appointment with an individual therapist and looked deeper inside himself and the universe for the strength needed to quit.

Progress. It’s all I can ask for, and all I can hope for, because relapses will happen. Is this my life now? I used to ask myself when I feared another relapse. Yes, it is. But it’s not about worrying about the next relapse, wondering if and when it will happen, fearing the pain it will bring. It’s about finding peace in the now, and celebrating how far we have come in just under two years. Despite all of it, I can tell you that right now, in this moment, I am happy.

I’m not going to leave my husband because he suffers from addiction. It’s a family disease from which we are both struggling. It will always be a part of our lives. But it doesn’t have to control our lives. We’ll work together to keep darkness out and shine a light on the good things. And as long as there is love and trust, ‘til death do us part.

Here’s to love. Here’s to hope. Here’s to you and to us. We are not alone.

A journal entry from March 30, 2018: We are all struggling.

I know a mom whose husband recently told her he doesn’t want to be with her anymore.

Another mom whose 1-year-old is undergoing chemotherapy

A friend at work, with a son M’s age, just went through a divorce.

Another woman at work left her husband.

A family friend was diagnosed with ALS. The doctors say he has two years left to live.

A girl I know from college who I follow on Instagram just delivered a 20-week stillborn child.

My old roommate’s mom died suddenly. They found cancer in her brain. Days later, she was gone.

My husband is a recovering addict. Every day I fight fear and pray for peace, love in our lives.

There is suffering everywhere. I don’t know if I notice it more now, or if I am more sympathetic to those suffering, or life just gets more difficult the older we get, or all of the above. I hear these stories, and my heart aches. I feel pain. I know what it is to feel helpless, hopeless, alone, like my world is crumbling down around me. And I want to tell them it will be okay. I want to tell them to let go. Take care of yourself. Surrender to love. But I don’t know that everyone wants to hear that when they’re struggling.

How did I find my path? I picked up an Al Anon book and I started reading. I opened my heart. I prayed. I cried. I let go, and I became very afraid, but I stopped letting the fear take over. I breathed in, and put my future in the hands of the universe. It was hard, but also easy because I felt I had no other choice. I felt so alone.

I am still here. We are still here. We are happy and healthy. We are always working to be good.

We are meant to suffer and struggle. It makes us stronger. It heals us. And for me, it creates connection. Especially when we become vulnerable enough to share that struggle. To open up and let people know that we are hurting, that life is hard, that we are sometimes lost and alone, and that we need support. It’s that vulnerability that breaks down walls of perfection – the Instagram exterior that showcases a happy life . The highlights reel of life, the corner of the kitchen that is clean when just out of the frame, chaos. And when you show that mess, you open up to show the real you.

I crave transparency and meaningful connections. Conversations about faith and God and the universe. About pain and love and prayer. About writing, and mothering, and adulting. Connection. Community.

At one of my first Al Anon meetings, a woman said that eventually, whenever something went wrong, she looked forward to seeing how God would fix it. “Oh goody,” she said. I almost wanted to smack her. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing for her to say to a newcomer whose husband was still using. But I think I understand now. The universe is amazing. In a way, it is exciting to see what else it has in store. Because in the end, it will all be okay.