Surrender: A Doorway to Freedom

A few years into my sobriety, I landed what I thought was my dream job. It checked all the boxes: purpose-driven, creative, respected, and aligned with what I thought I was supposed to be doing. I gave it everything—my time, my energy, my heart. I truly believed that job was the only space where I could thrive, and I tied a lot of my self-worth to it.

So when I was unexpectedly let go, it felt like a sucker punch to the soul. I was heartbroken, humiliated, and completely blindsided. I lost colleagues I cared about, relationships shifted, and I spiraled into a deep sadness I hadn’t felt in a long time. And to be honest, I felt betrayed and very misunderstood.

I remember thinking, This isn’t supposed to happen when you’re sober. I had done the work. I had shown up. I had given my best. I was so ashamed, I even lied to people about being let go because I was so embarrassed. I said I had decided to leave on my own - it was horrible. I remember the night I got fired i was in my now husbands car and we had only been dating a few months and I leaned over into his chest and sobbed the ugliest sobs.

So I gave myself a boundary. Two weeks. Two weeks to grieve, cry, scream, feel sorry for myself, and let the heartbreak move through me. I took a trip to visit my family. I let them love me. I let myself fall apart a little. And then—I got quiet.

And in that quiet space… I surrendered. There is actually something pretty freeing and pretty relieving about everything you think you know just kind of crumbling down.

I let go of the belief that this job was the only path. I let go of the fear that I’d never find something better. I stopped trying to force outcomes or rush into the next “fix.” And instead, I reached out to people I trusted. I asked for help. I told the truth.

Within two weeks of surrendering, something miraculous happened: I was offered a new position. Not just another job—but a better one. One that paid me literally double what I had been making before. One that required half the hours. One that aligned with my actual gifts and allowed me more time with my family, my clients, and my life.

It was the definition of “beyond my wildest dreams.”

And I realized—I had been clinging so tightly to something small, afraid there was nothing else out there for me. But the truth is, sometimes we’re let go not because we’ve failed—but because life is clearing space for something far more aligned.

Surrender isn’t weakness. It’s the opposite.

It’s trusting that you are held—even when it feels like everything is falling apart. It’s choosing to believe that your worth is not tied to a title, paycheck, or position.

Two weeks before I got fired I was so overwhelmed with work I couldn’t even pick out outfits for the day, I would just stare at my dresser paralyzed with anxiety. I got on my knees and prayed to either get me out of the job or give me the strength to adapt to the stress. Well…the universe has a sense of humor.

Letting go and surrendering is so incredibly painful and hard and that is why you cannot do it alone, I had to have the support of my loved ones and my faith. Surrender isn’t an action, its an allowing.

The Power of Asking for Help

I used to think asking for help meant I was failing at life. Like if I just tried hard enough, meal-prepped enough, and kept a positive enough attitude, I could muscle my way through motherhood, marriage, work, and the general chaos of life without ever needing to say, “I can’t do this alone.”

Spoiler alert: that didn’t exactly work out.

Picture this: I’m eight months pregnant, belly out, lying flat on my kitchen floor while my naked almost-2-year-old has a full-blown meltdown because—brace yourself—he doesn’t like the chocolate covering on the Trader Joe’s ice cream cones.

And what am I doing? I’m pounding those same Trader Joe’s ice cream cones. Chocolate smeared across my face, belly pointed to the sky, just laying there on the floor like a human cautionary tale.
And I remember thinking... If someone could see me right now...

Before I had kids, I thought I was pretty capable. After kids? I thought I could still do it all. I was making Blue Apron meals that had about 47 unnecessary steps during the witching hour (a.k.a. 5–7 pm — basically hell’s happy hour). I was constantly folding laundry, psychotically cleaning a house that never looked clean (the madness), fending off our cats from stealing dinner off the counter, racing around to meet every demand from my tiny humans — all while my husband was off at jiu-jitsu. Because, of course, someone in this house had hobbies.

And then, I broke.
Not in some dramatic Lifetime movie kind of way. More like the slow-burn kind of way: a thousand passive-aggressive comments to my husband while staring dead-eyed into the dishwasher.
My resentment was loud. My cry for help? Silent.

I would ask for help... and then take it back because I felt so guilty and ashamed.
I’d say, “No no, I’ll do it,” and then simmer in resentment while doing it.
It was a real treat for everyone.

I didn’t want to ask for help because somewhere deep down, I thought it meant I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t like those moms on Instagram baking sprouted bread and peacefully meditating with their 2-week-old newborns on their chest.

I was Googling:
"How do you know if your son’s body knows how to breathe in the middle of the night without you prompting it?"

Insanity.

The turning point came when my family offered to help pay for my son to go to daycare a few days a week. It felt like both a gift and a gut punch. Daycare was expensive. We were on a tight budget, anxiously awaiting baby #2.

I sat on the floor with my mom friends, toddlers stumbling around like tiny drunk roommates, and asked, “Should I take the help?”

And they all, in unison, basically shouted: TAKE. THE. HELP.

So I did.
And it changed everything.

Was it perfect? No. Did I still feel guilt? Absolutely. But suddenly, I could breathe again. I could sit for five minutes without someone asking me for “coclate” (aka chocolate) or climbing on top of me like I was a human jungle gym.

I wasn’t failing; I was human.

Its Easier to Stay Sober than Get Sober

People say the first 90 days are the hardest. I say that’s an understatement.

Getting sober is brutal. It’s physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausting. In those early days, white-knuckling it through cravings and chaos can feel like climbing out of a pit with no ladder. What no one tells you at first—or what you can’t fully believe—is that staying sober, once you've built the scaffolding, is a hell of a lot easier than getting sober.

In the beginning, I couldn’t stay sober. I’d show up to a community gathering, filled with good intentions, maybe even get through the day. But then I’d find myself at the pot shop, buying weed I didn’t even want. Or I’d throw my Adderall down the garbage chute, only to be digging through the basement dumpster two hours later, heart pounding, ashamed, desperate. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be sober—I just couldn’t hold onto it. I couldn’t string the days together.

It wasn’t until I put myself into a facility—literally put walls between me and the substances—that I began to get some real time under my belt. And even then, it wasn’t magic. It took coaches, mentors, community, structure. I had to let people help me. I had to stop pretending I could do it alone. There is such a thing as Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS)—and for me, the fog, the mood swings, the bone-deep exhaustion lasted well beyond 90 days. Sometimes over a year.

I remember standing in front of the mirror around day 20 of sobriety. I had gained weight—much needed weight, because I weighed 90 pounds when I got sober. And I had this fleeting thought: Well, Adderall would fix this. And then immediately: If I keep taking that, I’m going to die. So I told myself: I’d rather gain weight—and figure that out later—than die. So, goodbye Adderall.

Today, I’m almost eight years sober. Eight years. And most days, I rarely crave alcohol or drugs. Cigarettes? Yeah, sometimes. Definitely cigarettes. But even that passes. And when a craving does come up—when I think, I could go for a [fill in the blank]—I do two things: I pray to have the obsession removed, and I turn my attention immediately to something else. I don’t luxuriate in the fantasy. I don’t let the thought set up camp in my brain.

That’s the gift of long-term recovery. The obsession lifts. The cravings get quieter. And staying sober becomes less about raw willpower and more about structure, support, and a life you don’t want to escape from.

Getting sober? That was the fight of my life.

Staying sober? That’s where the freedom is.

If you're in the fight right now, if you're somewhere in the middle of the mess and it feels impossible, please hear me: you don't have to do it alone. Get help. Get honest. Build your scaffolding. Let people in.

Because one day at a time? That sh*t adds up.

And it gets so much better.

Therapy vs. Coaching:

I’ve been in therapy for most of my adult life, and I can honestly say: it’s been one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever given myself. Therapy helped me unpack trauma, deepen my self-awareness, and understand the why behind so many of my patterns. It gave me a space to be witnessed, held, and understood—and there’s so much healing in that.

But a few years ago, I hit a wall. Not a crisis, exactly—more like a whisper in my gut saying: okay, I know where this comes from… now what? That’s when I found coaching. And it changed everything.

Where therapy helped me look inward, coaching helped me move forward.

I remember one particular session with a master coach that honestly blew my mind. He guided me through an exercise to externalize my inner critic—something I’d talked about endlessly in therapy, but never quite been able to see. And in that moment, she showed up. Clear as day.

She was a gothic Barbie doll named Persephone. Sixteen years old, too cool for school, smoking a cigarette and judging everything I did. I could feel her in the room with me—this icy, eye-rolling version of myself that had been calling the shots behind the scenes for years.

In therapy, I had explored the roots of that voice. But in coaching, I met her. And because I met her, I could change the relationship. I could talk back. I could laugh at her. I could see her as a character—not a truth.

That’s the power of coaching. It’s creative. It’s action-oriented. It’s about shifting perspective and actually doing something with all that insight. There’s a call to action—a real call to change. And for me, that’s what took my growth to the next level.

Here’s how I see the difference:

• Therapy helps you heal the past.

• Coaching helps you create your future.

• Therapy is the deep dive. Coaching is the forward launch.

• Therapy is about understanding. Coaching is about action.

• Therapy says, let’s sit with this. Coaching says, what do you want to do about it?

And the truth is, many of us need both. I did. I still do. But if you’ve done the work in therapy and feel like you’re still circling the same blocks, coaching might be the bridge you’re looking for.

Because sometimes, the insight is already there—you just need a guide to help you move.