It began innocently enough. An old friend from high school came back into my life. We connected on so many levels. He had bipolar disorder, was going through a divorce of his own, and understood much of what I was feeling. Looking back, we were a recipe for disaster.
The nights were the hardest.
I'd wake up in the middle of the night and spend hours replaying the past or worrying about what lay ahead. My mind refused to rest. Every mistake, every regret, every uncertainty seemed to demand my attention in the quiet hours.
At first, I tried to drown out the noise by listening to Wayne Dyer and other inspirational teachers. Their words gave me moments of peace, but eventually the thoughts would come rushing back.
Then I found something that worked even faster.
I started drinking in the middle of the night.
At first, it was the relief I craved. Then it became the buzz. More than anything, alcohol numbed the pain. Living in my own skin, with all the sadness from my past and the fear of what my future might hold--felt overwhelming.
Drinking became my escape.
Two years later, I met Kevin. For the first time in a long time, I could afford to return to therapy. We eventually married after ten years together, and just three weeks after our wedding, my son told me we were shutting down the dealership.
Ironically, after decades of carrying the constant weight of owning businesses, I suddenly found myself without that burden. Since I was twenty-three years old, I'd always been responsible for solving the next problem. When that responsibility disappeared, I was left alone with something I had spent years trying to avoid.
My own thoughts.
I've often joked that I was born with busy-mind syndrome. Imagine a room full of gymnasts, twisting, flipping, spinning, stumbling, and never stopping. That's what my mind felt like most days.
Over time, I realized something uncomfortable.
Many of the greatest struggles in my life didn't begin with my circumstances. They began with my thinking.
Our thoughts shape our choices.
Our choices shape our lives.
When I finally took an honest inventory of my life, I wasn't always proud of what I found. There were moments that filled me with regret. But there were also relationships I had repaired, lessons I had learned, and evidence that I had grown. Those discoveries mattered just as much.
Life's lessons never really end. The question is whether we're willing to see ourselves honestly enough to learn from them.
Serenity didn't arrive all at once.
It came slowly.
Piece by piece.
It came through accepting my past instead of trying to outrun it. Through extending grace to the younger version of myself who was simply doing the best she knew how to do. Through realizing that peace isn't the absence of painful memories...it's learning they no longer have to control you.
Hope is a waking dream.
I believe peace begins the moment we stop trying to escape ourselves and start becoming friends with the person we've been all along.
From my open diary to yours...if something here speaks to your own journey, you're always welcome to share.
