This book doesn’t come with instructions. But it does come with weight. The pages that follow move through addiction, grief, trauma, motherhood, and the long, uneven process of survival. Not as a lesson. Not as a redemption arc. Just as it happened, fragmented at times, unresolved in places, and deeply human throughout. This guide exists to help you decide how and when to enter the story.

-Whitney

Addiction and early sobriety, grief and complicated loss, trauma and it’s long shadow, motherhood under pressure, identity, self erasure and survival, the space between breaking and becoming,
This memoir doesn’t follow a straight line. It loops. It pauses. It doubles back. Some chapters are heavy. Others are quiet. Some end without resolution. This isn’t an accident, it’s how memory works, and it’s how healing often doesn’t. You won’t find a moment where everything clicks into place. You will find moments of recognition, discomfort, and unexpected tenderness.
There’s no right pace. You can read straight through, or you can step away when a chapter asks too much of you. You can skim. You can stop. You can return later. Nothing in this story requires endurance.
Some chapters touch on experiences that may feel close to your own. If you find yourself needing space, take it. This book isn’t going anywhere. Reading isn’t an obligation. Understanding doesn’t require agreement. Staying present with yourself matters more than finishing.
This book is a telling of lived experiences, without instruction or morality.
It isn’t a guide for recovery, healing, or closure.
It is honest about damage and survival.
It isn’t interested in neat endings or inspiration for its own sake.
What it offers is recognition, and sometimes, relief.
There’s no takeaway required. If something stays with you, that’s enough. If it doesn’t, that’s okay too. This story isn’t asking to be interpreted or fixed, just witnessed.