I survived addiction, incarceration, and losing everything I loved.
I share my story because I want you to know that survival is possible for you, too. Whether you’re a nurse, a mother, a friend, or simply someone who feels like you’ve fallen too far, hear this clearly: there is a way back.
Holding it together while everything fell apart
When I walked into the ICU as a brand-new nurse, I felt more than I ever had. I was proud and eager to learn and determined to become the kind of nurse patients trusted with their lives.
At the same time, I was trying to balance motherhood with the demands of a new nursing career. Behind the smile I wore to work, my marriage was collapsing. The divorce left me shattered, trying to be strong for my daughter while falling apart inside.
Searching for relief in all the wrong places
I began going out more, drinking heavily, and chasing a sense of freedom I thought I had missed. At the time, it felt empowering, but now I know I was running from my pain. Then I suffered a herniated disc, and the physical agony was overwhelming.
A physician prescribed pain medication, and I held onto it like a lifeline. It didn’t just dull the physical pain. It softened the ache in my chest, the loneliness, the fear. For the first time in months, I didn’t have to feel anything.
Three months later, I had a moment of clarity. I realized I was slipping into something dangerous. I was off work, newly divorced, drowning in depression and anxiety. The pills quieted everything, but they also pulled me deeper into a darkness I didn’t yet understand. I told myself they made life manageable. I had no idea how much worse things would get.
Over time, the prescription wasn’t enough. I bought medication illegally, convincing myself it was temporary. By the time I returned to nursing, I was taking far more than prescribed and using whatever I could find to get through the day.
The moment everything caught up to me
Everything changed the night I was called in for a drug test. I already knew what the results would be. The test was positive for multiple substances, and I was reported to the board of nursing. Terrified of losing everything, I self-reported. I admitted I had a problem, but I still believed I could outsmart it and hide the chaos my life had become.
I entered the KARE program and completed every requirement. For a short period, I managed to stay clean. But addiction is patient. It waits in the shadows. It whispers lies that sound like truth. It convinces you that you’re in control, that no one will ever know. I relapsed, began faking drug tests, and eventually sought treatment at a suboxone clinic without notifying the board.
Eventually, the board discovered everything. When my caseworker called to tell me my license was suspended, her voice wasn’t just angry — it was disappointed, exhausted, and hurt. Hearing her lay out the truth felt like having a mirror held in front of me for the first time. Even then, I could barely admit what I had done. The shame was suffocating. I felt exposed, terrified, and completely alone.
Losing my license broke something inside me. Nursing wasn’t just a career. It was part of my identity. As a single mother, I was overwhelmed by shame and guilt, wondering how someone who “should have known better” could fall this far. I was too ashamed to ask for help and too afraid to admit the whole truth, even to myself.
Spiraling toward rock bottom
My addiction worsened, and I used methamphetamine. My family attempted interventions, but I wasn’t ready to hear them. When my significant other died from substance-related complications, my grief swallowed me whole. I felt like a ghost walking around on Earth. A few months later, I ended up in jail — my children gone, my life unrecognizable. I was barely surviving.
That was my rock bottom.
Addiction has a way of digging the hole deeper, until you’re staring down the only three outcomes left: jail, death, or an institution. I was living proof of how far it could take you.
Addiction doesn’t discriminate. I went from a thriving young nurse to sitting in a jail cell in just a few years. Looking back, I genuinely believe that if something hadn’t changed, I would have died. I hold a strong conviction that the prayers offered by my mother ultimately preserved my life.
Choosing treatment, choosing life
In jail, I was given a choice: stay incarcerated or enter long-term treatment. I asked my dad what I should do, and he told me something that broke me and saved me at the same time: He said that if I didn’t go to treatment, I wouldn't be welcome back at his house. That was the moment something inside me cracked open. Treatment was my choice.
Rock bottom forced me to face the truth I had avoided for years. Jail, loss, and the absence of my children stripped me down to nothing but the realization that I couldn’t keep living this way. For the first time, I was ready to surrender to healing.
Learning how to live again
Once in treatment, the fog of addiction lifted slowly. For the first time in years, I could see clearly. I saw the destruction I had caused, but I also noticed something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. After six months of intensive treatment and recovery work, I reached nearly one year clean. That’s when I finally gathered the courage to contact the board of nursing. They didn’t offer guarantees. They gave me a list of requirements and told me that only after completing them would I appear before the board. I leaned on my faith, trusting that if I kept doing the next right thing, the rest would follow.
A year and a half later, after fulfilling every requirement, I stood before the board. I’ll never forget the moment they granted me my nursing license back. The rush of relief, pride, and disbelief washed over me all at once. I had accomplished something I once thought was completely out of reach. Nothing had been handed to me. I earned it through sweat, tears, humility, perseverance, and relentless determination.
My license came with a five-year probation and multiple restrictions. To me, it wasn’t punishment. It was redemption. It was proof that healing is possible, that broken things can be rebuilt, and that with honesty, perseverance, and faith, I could reclaim my life.
In the process, I found something unexpected: purpose.
Recovery gave my story meaning
For a long time, I wondered why I had survived when so many others didn’t. I wondered what my life was supposed to mean now. I knew I was meant to be a nurse, but I didn’t know what kind of nurse I was meant to become. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be passionate about beyond the bedside.
Now I do.
Why I’m sharing this story
I’m writing this because I want other nurses who are struggling to know that recovery is possible, and that there is life — and healing — beyond substance use. You can rebuild a life more beautiful, more meaningful, and more grounded than you ever imagined.
When I was searching for help, it was nearly impossible to find other nurses in recovery. I only knew of one, who later became my sponsor. She guided me through every step of reinstatement. She was the light I needed when shame consumed me. Now I want to be that light for someone else.
I want nurses to know that there is life beyond substance use, that there’s dignity beyond the mistakes, and that great things often begin with the hardest choices. If my story can help even one nurse believe in their own comeback, then every painful chapter will have been worth it.
Recovery isn’t a straight line. It is messy, painful, and humbling. But it gave me tools I never had before. It taught me how to feel again, how to cope, and how to rebuild trust with myself and others. Slowly, I reconnected with my children, repaired relationships, and discovered a strength I didn’t know I had. My recovery restored my identity, my dignity, and my hope.
Today, I see recovery as a gift. It taught me resilience, compassion, and the power of honesty. It reminded me that healing is possible, even for those who feel lost beyond repair. And it allowed me to return to nursing with a deeper understanding of what it truly means to care for others, and for myself.
Coming back changed, not broken
Finding a nursing job with extensive restrictions was difficult. Many doors closed immediately. Having disciplinary marks on your license makes you an HR red flag, and I felt that sting over and over again. But eventually, the same hospital that once shaped me took a chance on me. They saw something worth believing in. I’ll never stop being grateful for that. I genuinely believe it was nothing short of my faith guiding me to exactly where I needed to be.
Returning to the same hospital where I first became a nurse felt surreal. The halls and faces were familiar, but I wasn’t the same woman who had walked out years earlier. I was excited but also intimidated. I carried a past not everybody knew, but I felt deeply. I had to swallow my pride, steady my nerves, and walk in with a humility that recovery had carved into me.
Those first days back were emotional. I was surrounded by some of the very same nurses who had known me “before,” and I had to face the quiet fear that they might see me differently now. But instead of judgment, I found acceptance. Instead of distance, I found support. And almost immediately, I found a mentor who stepped into my life at the perfect moment and helped guide me through the overwhelming mix of excitement, fear, and responsibility that came with returning to practice.
Loving nursing in a deeper way
Over time, something beautiful happened. My workplace became more than a job. It became a family. They encouraged me, challenged me, believed in me, and reminded me every day why I fought so hard to return. I rediscovered my passion for nursing, not as I who once was, but as the woman shaped by recovery.
I genuinely love being a nurse. Coming back to this profession after losing everything has allowed me to love it in a way I never could have before.
If you or a loved one is affected by substance use, please call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA)'s helpline at 800-662-HELP (4357), or text 988 in the U.S. for immediate mental health support. If you're in immediate danger, please call 911.
