Like many people in recovery, my childhood was far from easy. I won’t dwell on it too much — it was a long time ago, and there are big parts I can’t clearly remember. What matters most to me now is the present and the future. But there’s one moment that changed everything: when I was 12, my mum — who struggled with alcoholism — fell, hit her head, and died. She wasn’t perfect, but she was my mum. Losing her so young left me feeling lost, confused, and deeply alone.
By the time I was 15, I was in care. Eventually, I moved in with a foster family in Sheffield who were kind and supportive, but I was already rebellious. I started hanging around with an older crowd and was introduced to drugs. What started as weekend partying quickly spiralled into something much darker. By 17, I was addicted to heroin. At the time, I thought I was living life to the fullest — but in reality, I was falling into years of chaos and destruction.
After my first attempt at going cold turkey, I moved into a young people’s hostel. I was determined to stay away from heroin, but I was still using speed and party drugs. During that time, I met my future husband. We had a son, bought a house, and for a while, life felt almost “normal.” But when the marriage broke down, I turned to alcohol — something I’d always avoided because of my mum. I started drinking to cope, and that opened the door to a whole new level of pain.
For the next three decades, my life was a cycle of addiction, chaos, and attempts to get clean. In 2013, I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, which helped explain a lot of the emotional turmoil I’d experienced. There were moments when I thought I had things under control — especially after having my two amazing sons — but the relationship with their dad was toxic and unsafe. Eventually, I lost my home and access to my children. Without them, life felt meaningless. I went to bed every night hoping I wouldn’t wake up.
But somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark remained. It whispered that there had to be more to life than this. I spent three months homeless on the streets of Sheffield, relying on local projects for food and clothes. Eventually, I got a place in a Salvation Army hostel. Drugs were still everywhere, and at first, I told myself I’d get clean once I left. But I became so exhausted by the chaos that I decided: if I could get clean there, I could do it anywhere.
I don’t know exactly where the strength came from, but I enrolled in college, started volunteering, engaged with support services, got on a script, and began taking my medication properly. It felt like a fire had been lit in my belly — and it hasn’t gone out since. That was two years ago. I’ve tried to quit before, but this time, I know I’m truly in recovery. It’s not easy, but I finally see a life worth fighting for — for me and for my boys.
Today, I have my own flat and a cat who’s my emotional support. I’m travelling this year to fulfil a lifelong dream of seeing sloths. I’ve found purpose in lived experience work — speaking on harm reduction panels, joining WayThrough’s lived experience council, and building my website, Borderline and Beyond. I use TikTok, blogging, and public speaking to share my journey — not for sympathy, but to show what’s possible.
In the past year, I completed an Access to HE Diploma with distinctions, earned a university place to study Sociology, and received a scholarship. I’m documenting my recovery and parenting journey to show social services that I’ve changed — and that I’m ready to be the mum my boys deserve. They are my biggest motivation. Every step forward is for them.
Recovery isn’t a straight line. I still have tough days, but I’ve built structure, purpose, and routines that support my mental and physical health. I’m grateful every day for my safe bed, my clear mind, and the relationships I’m rebuilding. I’m not just surviving anymore — I’m healing, growing, and building a life I’m proud of. Recovery gave me back my voice, and I intend to use it.
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