Knock Knock…

Moving into that apartment felt like stepping right into my next chapter. For the first time, everything I wanted was suddenly within reach—campus parties during the week, apartment parties on the weekends, and a roommate who brought a constant buzz of energy into the place.

She was loud, fun, and incredibly social—the kind of roommate who always had people dropping by, which somehow made our small apartment feel bigger and more alive. Bit by bit, I found myself drifting away from the fraternity where I’d been a little sister. That season was fading out. I was settling into something new, whether I meant to or not.

Somewhere in the middle of all the late nights and questionable decisions, I took a job with a singing telegram company.

Yes—a singing telegram company.

The funny part? I couldn’t sing. Not even a little.

So they made me a manager. My job was to accompany the singers to their gigs—part moral support, part safety escort, part “just in case” backup. It was ridiculous and completely perfect for that point in my life.

Then came the night that would shift everything.

We were throwing one of our typical big parties—music pounding through the floor, people laughing so loudly the walls might’ve rattled. And then there was a sharp knock at the door.

Instant panic.

We were sure it was the police coming to shut us down.

But it wasn’t.

It was our neighbor.

And the moment I opened that door, everything else blurred out.

Tall. Dark. Drop-dead gorgeous.

One of those faces that makes you forget whatever you were just doing—or breathing.

I stood there like an idiot, staring, knowing deep down that something had just changed.

And the rest of that story… deserves its own entry.

To be continued.

10. Life is “The Pits”

I left off my story at the point where I carried my old life straight into college. I didn’t mean to. I thought college would be a clean start, but it turns out you don’t get a clean start just because you change locations. You bring your patterns, your insecurities, and the parts of yourself you haven’t healed yet.

I was assigned to McReynolds Residence Hall — basement level. We were called The Pits, which sounds terrible, but it wasn’t. It was a good group of girls. Most of them pledged sororities, but they treated me like I belonged with them, even though I didn’t always believe that myself.

I remember going to parties and being asked one question on repeat:

“What house are you rushing?”

The moment I said I wasn’t, the conversation usually ended. At eighteen, that kind of thing mattered more than it should. It hit the part of me that was already used to feeling “almost enough” but not quite. I slipped back into familiar habits — lowering my standards, trying to be whoever someone else wanted, chasing approval I didn’t actually need.

And when you’re already in a pattern like that, college can make the highs higher, and the lows lower. I didn’t have anyone I felt safe talking to. So I kept repeating the same choices, hoping something would feel different. It never did.

That’s how I ended up spending a lot of time at Sigma Chi. I was a little sister there, and on the surface it seemed fun. But looking back, it was also where I spiraled the most. People saw it. They talked about it. Just not to me. I don’t write that with bitterness — just honesty. Those moments were part of the story that eventually led me into addiction. Ignoring them now would be rewriting the truth.

There was a room in that house where everyone wrote on the walls — quotes, jokes, signatures. One night I wrote:

“The things you want most in life are the things you can’t have.”

It was personal to me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Later, someone added underneath it:

“Like weight loss and boys.”

That one comment changed everything for me.

It wasn’t just rude — it cut straight into the insecurities I was already drowning in. After that, the whole place felt different. Unsafe. Blurry. I didn’t know who had written it, and I didn’t trust anyone enough to ask.

I heard talk about them repainting the room because of it. Maybe they did. What I remember clearly is the shame. I felt like the whole thing was somehow my fault, even though it wasn’t.

By sophomore year, I moved out of the dorms and into an apartment. I needed distance, even if I didn’t know how to articulate that then. I just knew something had to change.

That period of my life wasn’t all bad — it rarely ever is. There were friendships and fun, mixed in with choices I didn’t know how to stop making. But those experiences shaped me, and they’re part of the road that eventually led me to addiction… and later, to recovery.

Writing about it now isn’t about regret.

It’s about telling the truth.

And remembering who I was, so I can show who I became.

And moving into that apartment opened the door to a whole new chapter — new faces, new neighbors… and, eventually, new problems.

9. She Was a Badass

I missed my Sunday post this week.

I normally try to stay consistent here — showing up with words, stories, little pieces of my life — but these past few days have been full. I’ve been preparing for my daughter’s virtual baby shower, sorting details, wrapping love in small ways, and letting the emotions come as they wanted to.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, the creative spark just… quieted.

Not gone — just quieter.

I think that happens when we’re living the things we one day plan to write about.

But the quiet made me think about something I haven’t really put into words before:

What parts of my story do I want to live here, where my family — my grandchildren — may one day read it?

My purpose in writing has always been twofold:

1. It heals me.

To take what once felt heavy and give it shape.

To let the truth breathe instead of burying it.

2. It might reach someone who needs it.

Someone who feels stuck in darkness, addiction, shame, or regret.

Someone who needs to see proof that a life can be rebuilt from rubble.

Someone who needs to know they aren’t too far gone.

If even one person reads something I write and feels hope?

Then every vulnerable word is worth it.

But then there’s the part about my grandchildren.

One day, they may read my story — the messy parts included.

And I realized: I do not need them to think I was perfect.

I want them to know I was strong — even when it didn’t look like strength.

I want them to know I fell down, and I got back up — more than once.

I want them to see the parts of my life where I could have chosen to stay broken, but didn’t.

I want them to look back and be able to say:

“She wasn’t fragile.

She wasn’t defeated.

She was a badass.”

Not because everything went right — but because I kept going when it didn’t.

So even in this quieter week, when the words feel slower and I’m showing up a day late, I’m still here.

Still writing.

Still healing.

Still choosing to build a life I am proud to leave behind.

If you’re here reading this — thank you for being part of the story with me.

8. MIZ…

There’s a certain magic in those last months before college — that mix of excitement, nerves, and “anything is possible.” For me, it was pure adrenaline. Every time I stepped onto campus before classes even started, it felt like a high. The kind that comes from freedom. From standing somewhere new and thinking, this is where everything changes.

Mizzou was that place for me — or as we’d all chant, MIZ…

It was stepping out of my hometown bubble and into a world that didn’t know my past or my pain. I thought I could finally start fresh. No one to treat me the way I’d been treated before. No one to remind me who I’d been.

But life has a way of showing up wherever you go.

There it was, waiting for me — right at the fraternity door.

Tamie and I were still just high school seniors then, sneaking into her boyfriend’s frat house like we belonged there. We’d hide up in the attic, trying not to laugh too loud as we listened to their meetings. A house full of college boys felt like another planet.

Those weekends are a blur now — loud music, too much drinking, sneaking into bars, and ending every night with Zip’s fries (seriously, nothing compares). Themed parties like Blue Hawaii and Purple Passion turned entire houses into movie sets. I was in awe of it all — the lights, the people, the thrill of being somewhere bigger than the small world I came from.

But deep down, I knew I wouldn’t rush a sorority when it was my turn to start college. That wasn’t my world. I didn’t know the rules, the look, or the confidence it took. I just knew I didn’t feel good enough.

So I found other ways to feel wanted — quick highs, instant validation, fleeting moments that made me forget. I told myself I’d deal with the regret later.

And while I can’t blame anyone else for the choices I made, there were moments when the fun turned sharp — when disregard crossed into something darker.

Looking back, that time was a mix of freedom and warning. It shaped me in ways I couldn’t see then. I thought I was running toward a new life, but really, I was carrying all the old pieces of myself right into it.

That lesson didn’t come easy. But it came.

Muse: It’s OK to Be Pissed

A memory popped up on Facebook today — one of those that used to make me smile and say, “Those were the good days.”

But this time, I stopped myself.

Because they weren’t the good days.

They were the numb days.

The Xanax and vodka days.

The silent house and lonely heart days.

I used to convince myself I was happy then. I told myself I was in love, that we just had our issues, that things would get better once he drank less or I did more. But that wasn’t love — it was me clinging to an illusion because I didn’t want to face the truth.

He lied about me. He told people he was miserable. He played the victim in stories where I was the one quietly breaking. And still, I made excuses.

“Alcohol makes people say things.”

“He’s just hurting.”

“He loves me, he just doesn’t know how to show it.”

But it wasn’t just one relationship. It was a pattern — one I repeated because I didn’t believe I deserved better.

Today, I’m finally saying it out loud: it’s OK to be angry.

It’s OK to look back and say, No. That wasn’t OK.

Because it wasn’t OK when I was thrown on the floor and told, “I’m gonna kill you, bitch.”

It wasn’t OK when people who claimed to love me made me feel small, or crazy, or invisible.

It wasn’t OK when I blamed myself for their choices.

And I’m done pretending it was.

There are always people who will say, “You’re just playing the victim.”

But sometimes… you were the victim.

You were a victim of circumstance, manipulation, or abuse.

And admitting that isn’t weakness — it’s honesty.

Today, I don’t need to numb it or justify it.

I can sit with it. Feel it.

Be pissed. Be hurt. Be healing.

Because this is part of recovery too — realizing you can love yourself enough to say,

That was not OK. I was not OK. But I am now.

7. Slow down, dude

How a reckless phrase became my life’s mantra

I was making breakfast the other morning when I stopped myself from tearing open a butter wrapper. I had to laugh a little because, out of nowhere, I heard a voice from my teenage years say, “Slow down dude, you’re moving way too fast.” It’s funny how a memory can show up like that, almost like it’s checking in on you.

I hadn’t thought about that phrase in years, but the moment it came back to me, I knew exactly where it started. It took me right back to high school, to a time when slowing down didn’t feel natural. I chased the thrill because slowing down meant I had to feel, and I didn’t want to.

Back then, my friend Becky and I spent a lot of nights cruising the strip. That was just what we did—drive around, music up, windows down, looking for something to do or someone to meet. One night, the energy shifted, and we ended up in a car with a guy we barely knew. It happened fast, and we just went with it.

He was heavy metal, and we were more Top 40, which says a lot right there. His style was loud and fast, and everything seemed to pick up speed the minute we got in. He drove like the rules didn’t apply to him, and at that age, that kind of energy pulled us in.

There was a road everyone called Devil’s Curve, and we all knew why. When we were heading toward it way too fast, Becky and I looked at each other with that “oh no” look. At the same time, still laughing and holding our breath, we yelled, “Slow down dude, you’re moving way too fast!”

When we made it through the turn, the relief hit us hard. We laughed until we cried—the kind of shaking laugh you have when you realize you’re okay, even though it could’ve gone the other way. We didn’t think much of it then. It was just another wild night with a story to tell later. I had no idea those words would come back into my life years later with a completely different meaning.

Looking back, I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was trying to belong. If I could be the girl who went along with things, who didn’t scare easy, maybe I wouldn’t be left out. Maybe you know that feeling too—the quiet hope that if you just keep up, you won’t fall behind or be forgotten.

If I could sit next to that younger version of me now, the one gripping the seat but pretending she loved the rush, I’d tell her: “You don’t have to do this to be seen. You’re allowed to choose what feels safe. You matter, even when you’re still.” I don’t think she would’ve believed me then, but I wish she could’ve heard it.

Now, “slow down” means something different to me. It’s not about speed or driving. It’s about being present. It’s opening the flour without ripping the bag. It’s taking my time in the kitchen, in conversations, and in moments that deserve to be felt instead of rushed through. Life, much like a good recipe, turns out better when you don’t rush it.

And no, that fast-paced way of living didn’t stop in high school. I carried that “hold on tight and hope for the best” feeling right into the next chapter of my life. The next time I felt that same kind of rush wasn’t in a car—it was the night Tamie and I visited Mizzou. A whole new world, a whole new kind of thrill, and I jumped in just as fast.

Muse: Accountability

I haven’t been very thoughtful about my past this week — and that’s exactly why I need to sit here and write. Accountability has always been one of my biggest struggles. I can show up for everyone else, but when it comes to showing up for myself, I slip. Maybe you know that feeling too — when you realize time has gone by and you haven’t done the thing you said you would.

My mind’s been all over the place lately. Not with memories, but with food talk — the kind that won’t shut off once it starts. I’ve gained 13 pounds, and even though I don’t feel bad physically and I actually look healthy, that number still gets in my head. It’s wild how much space a number can take up.

I wish I could say I’ve moved past that kind of thinking, but I haven’t. It still hits the same nerve — the one that tells me I’m not trying hard enough or doing enough. It’s an old habit I can’t seem to shake.

And then there’s the other thing weighing on me. A friend from my baking community has cancer. She’s one of those people who brings light everywhere she goes, and she showed up in my life right when I needed a friend the most. I don’t have many of those — real friends I see in person. Most days it’s just me, my husband, my daughter, and the grandkids. I’m grateful for them, but sometimes it’s still quiet in a way that gets to me. So yeah, I’m hurting for her. And maybe I’m also just feeling that empty space a little more right now.

Accountability, for me, isn’t just about sticking to goals or staying productive. It’s about being honest about where I’m at — even when I don’t like it. Some weeks it looks messy. Some weeks it looks like this. But I’m here, writing it down, trying to face it instead of hiding from it.

Because maybe that’s all accountability really is — showing up anyway.

6. Where’s the Party?

Sometimes, the best nights were the ones that made us forget who we were trying to be.

“Where’s the party?”

That was our line. Our anthem. Me, Becky, and Steve—three teenagers with nothing to lose and everything to prove. We’d cruise around our small town with music blasting, windows down, and laughter that felt too big for the world we lived in.

There was always something magical about those nights. The kind of reckless freedom that only comes when you’re young enough to think nothing bad will ever happen to you.

One snowy Christmas, we ran around to all the holiday displays taking pictures of “Joe, Mary Lou, and the baby Jew.” That was our kind of humor back then—irreverent, weird, and pure. I can still see the big, clunky camcorder in my hands, heavy and awkward, but I never went anywhere without it. It was my way of freezing moments before they disappeared.

When we weren’t filming or laughing, we were crafting—gluing pearls and sequins onto corsets and leggings so we could hit Flamingos in Springfield like we owned the place. It didn’t matter that our outfits were homemade or that we weren’t the “it crowd.” We sparkled anyway.

And then, just before a trip to Phoenix, everything came crashing down—literally. I totaled my sister’s car. I told everyone I slid on rocks, but the truth is, I think I fell asleep behind the wheel. I was exhausted, running too hard, trying too much, and pretending I was fine.

That’s the thing about that time of my life—it was fun, yes, but it was also a blur of trying to keep up with everyone else’s version of happiness. I laughed the loudest and drove the fastest, but I was still the same girl underneath—the one who never really felt enough.

Becky was my ride-or-die. She was wild and fierce and loyal. Steve had that soft humor that made every night feel safe. We were a trio that didn’t make sense on paper but made perfect sense in the moment. They were my family when my world felt too heavy to carry.

Looking back now, I can see that all of it—the laughter, the danger, the sequins, and even the wreck—were part of the same story. I was a kid trying to outrun the pain with loud music and late nights. Searching for something that felt real, even if only for a few hours.

And for a while, we found it.

Muse: The Boxer and the Inn

Before the boys with cars and secrets, there was Ross — my first real crush. He was twelve, maybe thirteen, a Golden Gloves boxer with a grin that could light up the whole gym. I’d sit with his dad in the bleachers, cheering until my voice cracked, pretending I understood anything about boxing beyond the sound of the crowd and the rush in my chest every time he landed a punch.

Ross’s parents owned the local inn, and it became the weekend hangout for a group of us — a mix of kids chasing freedom and trying to feel older than we were. We’d sneak into the bar when no one was looking, giggling and pretending we belonged there. That’s where I had my first sip of liquor and smoked my first cigarette — coughing through the smoke but acting like I had it all figured out.

There were always the older kids around — only a year ahead of us, but at the time, they seemed like they’d seen the world. They were the ones who taught me how to inhale, blow rings, and yep — smoke weed. I hated it from the first time I tried it. Eventually everyone just accepted that I didn’t get high; I was just there for the laughs and the feeling of belonging. Alcohol would end up being my poison, but back then, it all just felt like part of growing up.

There were plenty of faces that drifted in and out of those nights, but Ross and Mike were the ones who felt like home base — steady, familiar, safe in their own way. I’d ride my bike five or six miles just to be part of that world, hair tangled from the wind, heart pounding with the kind of excitement that only comes from being twelve and alive and certain nothing could touch you.

Looking back now, I see how innocent it really was. There was no heartbreak yet, no double life, no shadows — just a group of kids finding their way, one summer afternoon at a time. And forty-three years later, Ross and Mike are still in my life — proof that not everything from childhood fades away. Some friendships — and a few memories — stay golden.

5. The Hype Girls

Every girl needs a crew that hypes her up — the ones who clap the loudest when life feels heavy and who make ordinary moments feel like a movie montage.

For me, that was Tamie and Dawn. My hype girls before the term even existed.

Tamie and I were the Tamie Twins. We weren’t related, but you wouldn’t have known it by how inseparable we were. She had the prettiest blonde hair, always sprayed high with Aqua Net until it practically defied gravity. She’d shake her head to fluff it out, a cloud of hairspray catching the light like a halo. We passed notes, ate ice cream at lunch, and dissected every look a boy gave us as if we were decoding secret messages. Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam was our anthem, and we choreographed arm movements to songs like bad mimes who didn’t care who was watching.

Then there was Dawn — my first best friend. The kind of girl whose laugh could pull you out of any funk. Her mom introduced me to monkey bread — sticky, sweet, pull-apart magic that I can still taste if I close my eyes. Dawn and I would spin around her living room until we fell over giggling, making up routines, talking about everything and nothing. She knew my family, my heart, and my hiding places.

These girls were my anchors when everything else was chaos. They didn’t try to fix me or question the parts of my life that didn’t make sense. They just showed up. With laughter. With music. With love that didn’t need to be explained.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were saving each other in little ways — with inside jokes, shared ice cream spoons, and phone calls that stretched late into the night. We were teenagers trying to find our place, but together, we were magic.

Forty-plus years later, I still talk to them. We’ve lived lifetimes since those big-hair, bad-dance-move days. But when I think about the light that trauma tried to steal, they’re part of it. My hype girls. My sunshine. The proof that even in the hardest chapters, laughter leaves its fingerprints.

We didn’t have social media then, but we had each other — and somehow, that was enough.

Muse: Coffee, Blankets, and Little Feet

As I sit here writing my blog, I look over at my three grandchildren piled up on blankets, sound asleep. I’m sipping my Donut Shop coffee with sugar-free French vanilla creamer — yeah, yeah, I know the fake stuff’s bad for you. But come on, God’s not going to let a little creamer take me out.

Anyway, I look at my babies and think about my own childhood — and I wonder what I want them to take away from their time with me.

I think love.
And safety.

I want them to feel safe, always. I don’t ever want fear to have a place in my house. Sometimes I worry that when I say “no” or fuss at them, that’s all they’ll remember. But then I remind myself: my past isn’t theirs.

I want them to sleep at night without fear.
I want them to have full bellies and remember the smell of something baking.
I want them to grow up doing life with me — making biscuits, pancakes, cookies. Laughing, learning, and making messes we’ll clean up together.

And more than anything, I want to teach them the science behind cooking — the art of creation. Because it’s a skill no kind of AI can ever replace.

4. Are you there God? It’s me, Tamra.

When I think about where my faith began, I don’t start with a sermon or a youth group or even a big spiritual moment. I start with my grandma, Dovie.

Her Bible was the most well-loved book I’ve ever seen. The cover worn soft from years of handling, the pages marked with underlines and notes, her handwriting curling in the margins. It wasn’t a decoration on a shelf — it was alive in her hands. She didn’t just read it. She lived it.

Sitting in church with her was always a mix of comfort and discipline. If we couldn’t stop giggling, we got “the look,” and that was all it took. My grandma didn’t need to raise her voice — she carried authority with her love.

The church in Beebe, Arkansas, was Pentecostal, and speaking in tongues was just part of the service. To me, as a child, it was confusing. I felt like I was missing some secret language, some deeper connection that I couldn’t reach. And yet, even with the confusion, there was peace. There was belonging. The smell of that little church, the sound of her voice singing Jesus Loves the Little Children — those memories are still stitched into me.

Of course, as a teenager, I thought some of her beliefs were too extreme. Dresses only, no makeup, hair a certain way — that was her way of honoring God. She never enforced those rules on us, but I knew that’s what she believed. And as a teenager, I just wanted to be a teenager. I prayed my cousin would make the trip at the same time we did, because when she was there, everything felt more fun. We’d hang out in my Aunt Reta’s room, trying on clothes, giggling about boys, and talking for hours. Those visits were our little slice of joy tucked into the rhythm of church weekends.

Looking back, I realize now that my grandma gave me more than rules or traditions. She gave me a foundation. She gave me the sound of old hymns echoing in my ears, the sight of underlined scripture, and the steady reminder that I was loved by both her and by God.

3. The Older Guy

Charm, looks, charisma — the bad boy wrapped in a pretty package. That’s what drew me in, and that’s what held me there. I desperately wanted to be seen publicly with him, but if all I could be was hidden, I would take it. I even confronted him about why we had to stay a secret, but I was never given an answer.

There was always her. Rough around the edges, a reputation that trailed behind her everywhere she went, but she was the one who got to stand beside him in the daylight. They stayed together through thick and thin, no matter how messy it was. And me? I couldn’t stop wondering what that said about me. Why wasn’t I as good as her? Why was I the one kept in the shadows?

That period taught me something brutal but necessary: if you tell yourself you aren’t worthy, if you convince yourself you don’t deserve more, you won’t strive for greatness—you’ll settle for mediocrity. My bulimia was part of that cycle. It kept me thinner, and it gave me the illusion of control. I felt empowered when he chose me, but that empowerment always collapsed into immense sadness when I sat alone, waiting, hiding.

Most of the time we were in his car—the cool blue Nova, cigarette smoke hanging in the air, music spilling from the speakers. If I went to his house, I had to crawl through the window. His room was plastered with posters—Sting, The Police, Led Zeppelin—and he told me once that “Wrapped Around Your Finger” was our song. In those moments, it felt like I belonged to something bigger, even if it was only in secret.

But then came the day at my house, when he was excited to watch my family’s old 16mm tapes. We popped one in, a reel from a business trip to Canada with my dad and sister just a few years before. Without missing a beat, he blurted out:

“OH MY GOD, FATSO IN CANADA.”

The air left the room. I couldn’t breathe. In a single moment, he had taken my worst thoughts of myself—the ones I worked so hard to keep buried—and flung them in my face as a joke. I saw how he really thought of me when he looked at me, and I knew he knew it hurt me. That moment was pivotal. We didn’t recover. “Fatso in Canada” would die with that hidden relationship… or so I thought. But he didn’t need to be in my life for the name to linger. It stayed.

Even now, certain things take me back. When Wrapped Around Your Finger plays, it’s his face I see, his car, his posters, that cigarette smoke. And when my mom passed away, my dad gave me some of the things she had quietly saved over the years. Among them was the jacket with the Canadian flag on it—the very one I had on in that old video. She had folded it neatly, sealed it in a Ziplock bag, and kept it safe. Holding it in my hands, decades later, I felt the weight of both memory and survival.

That day in my living room — “Fatso in Canada” — it branded me. He didn’t just humiliate me; he confirmed the voice already living in my head, the one whispering that I would never be enough. The nickname lingered long after he was gone, curling itself into my self-worth. One boy gave me the spotlight, another kept me in the shadows, but both left me emptier than before.

And in the quiet after, when the smoke cleared and the music faded, the only words I had left were the ones I whispered to God: Why am I not good enough? Why am I the one who gets hidden? Why me?

2. First Loss of Self

Attention can feel like love, but sometimes it’s the beginning of losing yourself.

When the star basketball player noticed me, everything inside me shifted. For a girl who had always felt invisible, suddenly being seen felt like magic. I wasn’t just Tamra anymore—I was the girl he chose. The one he called. The one he wanted.

Before him, I was the one always laughing. I had more guy friends than girl friends, mostly because I always had alcohol on me. People liked me when I had something to give, and I let myself believe that meant they liked me. Any attention felt like good attention. Still, I had two true friends—the kind you sneak out with, pile into a car with no plan, and somehow make the best memories. But even those nights began to fade once he came into the picture.

I started skipping the things that once grounded me and chasing every party he was invited to. My calendar became his calendar. They weren’t my real friends—I knew that. The girls were nice enough, but they weren’t going to pick up the phone to ask how I was doing. The boys noticed me only when I had something to offer.

With him, the highs were blinding. The basketball games, the concerts, the late-night parties—it all felt larger than life. When he looked my way in a crowded gym, it was like the whole place froze. That kind of attention felt like oxygen, and I inhaled it until I couldn’t breathe without it.

But there was another story happening underneath. In high school I became bulimic. It started as a way to control my weight, but quickly it became more than that—it was a way to have some control in a life that felt like it belonged to everyone else. It was private, secret, and laced with shame, but it was mine. And that battle followed me for years, shaping how I saw myself and what I thought I deserved.

By day, I was the girl crying in biology class. Always. Everyone knew it. I had lost myself so completely that the thought of walking away from him terrified me. If I left, I believed I’d be alone.

The only place I felt steady was in the kitchen. My parents owned restaurants, and I loved being back there, watching food come together. It was my safe place—the one spot where I felt good, where I felt like I belonged. My parents and grandparents were my first teachers, and I learned just by watching. Everyone in my family could cook, and meals weren’t just food—they were a way of showing love. My mom always made sure we had a big meal on the table, no matter how hard the day had been. I still have her recipes, pages smudged and worn, and when I read them now, they feel like a novel of my life.

That’s the thing about first love—it’s intoxicating, but it can also be dangerous. For me, it taught me how fragile I had become when I tied my worth to someone else’s attention, and how much of myself I was willing to give away just to keep it.

The star player was only the beginning. His attention filled me up, but it also hollowed me out. And while I thought his gaze was everything I ever wanted, there was another story unfolding at the same time. Another boy. Older. Sharper. A different kind of dangerous. With him, I didn’t get the spotlight — I got the shadows. And I told myself that was enough.

1. Double Life at 13

Addiction doesn’t start with a drink—it starts with the need to belong.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel different.
In kindergarten, I was the kid terrified to step on the scale in front of the whole class. By first grade, I knew what it meant to be left out of birthday parties because I was “the fat kid.” I learned early that food could be a comfort, and that shame could be a teacher.

Addiction doesn’t usually begin with a drink in your hand—it begins with a need. A need to fit in, to numb, to belong. For me, it started long before alcohol ever touched my lips.

My parents were working hard, doing their best to give us the life they never had. They taught me about grit and perseverance, but they didn’t see the loneliness that lived in me. Or maybe they did, but didn’t know what to do with it.

By ten, I’d found my people—friends who became my chosen family. We laughed hard, we played hard, and as we grew, we partied hard. Many of us would go on to battle addiction in different ways, but at the time, it just felt like freedom.

And then came thirteen. My double life. By day, the chunky girl who made the dance team. By night, running with the Black Jacket gang. Somewhere in between, I discovered a way to make myself sick after eating. I didn’t have words for it yet, but I was bulimic. I was also reckless, lost, and desperate to be noticed.

That’s when the “star” of the basketball team noticed me. Me. The invisible girl. It felt like everything I’d ever wanted—attention, validation, proof that I mattered. I didn’t know then that it was the start of both the best and the hardest years of my life.

I thought I had everything I wanted at thirteen—friends who felt like family, nights that felt like freedom, and now the attention of the star player on the basketball team. For a girl who always felt invisible, it was intoxicating. But looking back, I can see it for what it was: the beginning of the best and the worst years of my life. The double life I thought I was in control of would soon start controlling me.

Stay with me. This is only the beginning.