I still remember the sound of the bottle opening—the sharp hiss of pressure released. It was my signal to exhale, to let go of the stress, to numb the fears I couldn’t face. It began innocently enough, a glass of wine here, a drink there, just to take the edge off after a long day. I was juggling so much at the time: graduate school, single motherhood, and a leadership role at the University of Maine, managing nearly 60 senators representing every graduate program. The weight of it all was enormous, but I was proud of how well I seemed to handle it—at least on the surface.
Then came 2020.
The Covid pandemic didn’t just disrupt the world around me; it unraveled the fragile thread holding me together. As a leader during such an uncertain time, I felt a responsibility to remain calm and composed. But inside, I was breaking apart. To cope, I began drinking more—just enough to calm my nerves. It felt harmless at first, even justified. After all, wasn’t everyone finding their own ways to deal with the stress?
What I didn’t realize was how quickly alcohol had taken hold of my life. What started as an occasional escape became my crutch. Then, seemingly overnight, it became my master. I couldn’t sleep without it. I couldn’t wake up without it. The shakes, the headaches, the constant anxiety—it all demanded I drink just to function. And yet, I was still showing up, still leading, still pretending everything was fine.
But it wasn’t fine.
My dependence on alcohol grew in the shadows, invisible to those around me. I was isolated in leadership, feeling like I had no one I could turn to for support. So I turned to the bottle instead. Alcohol became my confidant, my escape, and my prison.
In just a few months, my life crumbled.
The responsibilities I had once carried with pride became unbearable. My credibility eroded as the people around me began to see the cracks in the façade. I lost opportunities I had worked so hard to earn. I lost the respect of others, but worse, I lost respect for myself.
At my lowest point, I found myself sleeping in my car. I had gone from a self-supporting single mom in graduate school and leadership to a homeless woman with nothing but a pile of shattered dreams. My rock bottom wasn’t just a moment; it was a freefall into despair.
But here’s the thing about rock bottom—it’s also a foundation.
My recovery started with small, painful steps. Admitting I needed help. Reaching out to people I thought I had alienated forever. Facing the shame and guilt I had drowned for so long. I had to rebuild my life piece by piece, brick by brick, with nothing but the will to survive and a faint hope that maybe—just maybe—I could do better.
In sobriety, I began to discover not just who I was, but who I was meant to be. My life had been saved—many times, in many ways—by the hands of first responders and healthcare workers. Their compassion and courage became a beacon for me, lighting the way forward. I decided I wanted to give back to the very field that had saved me.
I became an EMT, then a firefighter, and later found my place in healthcare, working in an emergency department. For the first time, I felt like I was part of something greater than myself. I had found my calling—a purpose that made my pain feel meaningful.
This work doesn’t just encourage my sobriety; it demands it. I could not perform this job effectively if I weren’t committed to maintaining my recovery. The same tools I once ignored or dismissed—self-awareness, stress management, healthy coping strategies—are now essential to my success. Every shift is a reminder of how far I’ve come and why I must keep moving forward.
I’ve replaced the bottle with better tools: mindfulness, connection, and a deep commitment to serving others. Instead of running from my emotions, I’ve learned to process them, to face the hard days head-on, and to find strength in vulnerability.
The irony isn’t lost on me that the career I once feared would judge me for my past has become my greatest ally in staying sober. In helping others, I’ve also helped myself.
Today, I am not just sober—I am alive, awake, and thriving. I am proud of the person I’ve become, but I never forget the woman I was. She’s the reason I fight so hard to stay on this path.
If you’re reading this and struggling, I want you to know it’s never too late to rewrite your story. Recovery is possible. A life of purpose and joy is waiting for you on the other side.
Because sometimes, the worst chapters of our lives are the ones that teach us how to write our best.
Mind Over Mayday 