Protecting My Peace: Recovery, Mental Health, and Redefining What It Means to Nurture

During Mental Health Awareness Month, I've been thinking about the holidays and moments that can stir up grief, reflection, and complicated emotions. Mother's Day is one of those holidays that can sting—especially for those of us whose lives didn't unfold the way we once imagined.

I'm in long-term recovery, approaching 15 years sober this June. I got sober at 36, after more than two decades of using substances. I started drinking at 14, and for much of my life, my substance use disorder—along with co-occurring eating disorders and depression—kept me from truly growing up.

When I got sober, I had to learn everything from scratch: how to regulate my emotions, how to build healthy relationships, and how to live with some sense of balance and peace. Recovery was not only about not drinking — it was about learning how to care for my mental health in ways I had never been able to before. In those early years, my emotions came and went like a tsunami. I often felt more like a teenager than a 36-year-old woman. My world was small by necessity—focused on my job, my recovery, my family, and a few close friendships. That was all I could manage.

I remember thinking it might be a good idea to hire a dating coach in my first year of sobriety.  A friend with more recovery time looked at me and said, "What do you have to offer anyone right now?" I was offended at the time—but eventually, I understood. Today, I laugh when I think about it.

The truth is my life didn't follow the path I once imagined. I didn't have a relationship that led to marriage and children as I might have hoped earlier in life. I've done a lot of work around that grief. It's not simple, and it's not black or white. Over time, I've come to a place of peace. At nearly 15 years sober, I can say that I feel, most days, exactly where I am meant to be. I live in the present, rarely look back, and I feel hopeful about the future.

And yet—Mother's Day still stirs something in me. That’s one thing I've learned in recovery: even when we have done the work, certain days, memories, or milestones can still touch tender places. I’ve also learned that one year you can be fine on a holiday or milestone, and next year you may not. I have learned to be kind to myself and not judge myself.

The holiday came up recently on a call with our marketing team, and I felt myself getting emotional. It caught me off guard. That's when I realized I should write about it—because I know I'm not the only one who feels this way.

Mother's Day is hard to avoid. It's everywhere. In the past, I've gone to church, cried quietly during the prayer, and taken my mom out to lunch. This year, I'm doing things a little differently. I took my mom to a movie the week before, and on Mother's Day itself, I spent time doing something fun and soul-feeding with a friend who also doesn't have children.

Recovery has taught me to protect my peace—to plan, to know my triggers, to ask for support, and to take care of myself without guilt.

Over time, I've also come to see that motherhood didn't show up in my life the way I once imagined—but it still showed up.

I make a meaningful impact on the young people in my life, and I don't take that lightly. I volunteer with a local nonprofit and drive high school girls to and from school and their activities each week. I love being with them. I also serve as a confirmation sponsor for an eighth-grade girl. I am pen pals with my colleagues' two daughters. And there are many young adults in my life—children of close friends—who have known me for years, who confide in me, or at least know they can.

Most sacred to me are my two nephews, who have never seen me take a drink. I met my oldest nephew when I was just three days sober, and in many ways, I feel like I've grown up alongside him. Being present for their lives—really present—is one of the greatest gifts of my recovery. Being an aunt is the most meaningful role I've ever had.

I also recognize that my life has given me a unique capacity to care for the people around me. Many of my closest friends are mothers, and even as their children grow up, they continue to carry a great deal of responsibility. Who takes care of them?

I get to.

I get to show up with love—bring flowers, send a card, drop off a loaf of sourdough bread, or even send a cheesy poem. I get to be a steady, nurturing presence for the people in my life. What a gift that is.

So yes, Mother's Day can still be hard. But my life is full—full of purpose, connection, and love.

If this day — or any season of life — feels complicated for you too, I hope you give yourself grace. Make a plan. Protect your peace. Reach for connection where you can. And know that you are not alone.