Recovery isn't a straight line.
People love to pretend it is—like once you "choose better," the demons politely pack their bags and leave.
But mine didn't leave.
They just got quiet…
until the night they didn't.
It happened on a day that already had its claws in me.
I'd spent the morning at a meeting where everyone was smiling like healing was supposed to feel good.
Then I went straight to a parenting class, where the instructor talked like she'd read a textbook about motherhood but never lived it.
By the time I left, my head felt too full and too empty at the same time.
That tight-chested, dizzy feeling—the kind that happens right before a storm hits.
Then the phone rang.
I didn't even want to answer.
But when DHS calls, you don't get to ignore it.
The worker's voice was sharp and indifferent:
"We need to reschedule tomorrow's visit. Something came up."
Something.
Something always "came up."
I asked if the girls were okay.
She said they were "fine"—in that clipped tone that meant she didn't care enough to give details.
I hung up the phone and felt something collapse inside me.
Like the last tiny piece holding me together finally cracked.
Tomorrow was the day I'd been counting down to.
The day I'd been staying sober for.
The day I'd been marking on the calendar like a lifeline.
And now it was gone.
Just like that.
I sat on my bed staring at the wall, thinking about the last visit—the way my oldest kept looking at the worker for permission before she hugged me, the way my youngest clung to my leg like she was drowning.
And then…
the lie they'd told them.
"Your mom didn't show up."
That memory alone was enough to send me spiraling.
The cravings came in quiet at first.
A whisper.
A tap on the shoulder.
Then louder.
Like a roar inside my skull.
One time won't ruin everything.
Just enough to numb the sting.
Just enough to breathe for a second.
I told myself I wouldn't do it.
I told myself I would get up, make some food, call someone—anyone.
But trauma is a thief.
And addiction is its accomplice.
By nightfall, I was sitting in a familiar place I had sworn I'd never return to.
The streets looked the same.
The faces looked the same.
Even the guilt felt familiar.
When it happened—when that first hit slid through me—it was like sinking into warm water after months of shivering in the cold.
Relief.
Escape.
Silence.
But the silence didn't stay gentle.
It turned sharp.
Dark.
Unforgiving.
Because the high didn't erase my problems—it just made them blur long enough for the guilt to come back swinging harder.
When I finally looked in the mirror hours later, my reflection made me flinch.
Eyes dull.
Face drained.
Shame radiating off me like heat.
I whispered, "What did you do?"
But I already knew.
I had made the one choice that had the power to destroy everything I'd been fighting for.
The next morning, reality arrived like a punch.
Heavy.
Ugly.
Undeniable.
My phone buzzed with a reminder:
Drug test today.
Of course.
Of course it was today.
I sat on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands, trying to figure out how to undo the undoable.
Trying to bargain with a universe that hadn't shown me mercy in a long time.
I thought about skipping it.
But skipping would be worse than failing.
It would make me look like I didn't care.
It would give them an excuse—another one—another reason to paint me as the mother who didn't try.
So I went.
Every step toward that building felt like walking toward a grave with my name on it.
The worker barely looked at me when she handed me the cup.
Routine.
Cold.
Impersonal.
She didn't know my heart was breaking.
Or maybe she did, and it didn't matter.
When it was done, I sat in my car gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white.
A single tear fell, then another, then I broke completely—ugly, shaking, breathless sobbing.
Because I already knew what was coming.
The system doesn't care about the days you did right.
It only remembers the day you didn't.
And this one mistake—this one slip—could become the chapter everyone used to define me.
As if relapse was proof I didn't love my girls.
As if relapse was the end, not part of the fight.
As if healing was supposed to be clean.
I cried until I couldn't anymore.
Then I whispered to myself,
"Get up. You messed up, but you're not done."
Because relapse wasn't a surrender.
It was a reminder.
A painful, ugly, unforgettable reminder of what I stood to lose.
And I wasn't ready to lose them again.