The mom my adult kids deserve

Six years ago this month, I sat down to write my very first article for Central Penn Parent. It was called “Being Sober in a Wine Mom Culture,” and I had been sober for about a month.

I remember thinking — well, if this doesn’t stick, I can always say I tried. One little experiment, and I’ll never have to write about it again.

I genuinely wasn’t sure I could do it. I had tried Sober October, Dry January, and every other month-long challenge I could talk myself into, only to be met at the end of the month with not one single day. They all ended the same way — another drink, another promise that next time would be different.

But this time, something was different.

For the first time, I had found a community of people doing exactly what I was trying to do. They weren’t asking me to stay sober forever. Just today.

One day at a time.

Back then, I hoped sobriety would clear my thinking. I hoped it would make me a better parent and remove the blocks that had been standing in front of me for years.

I was also afraid. Afraid life would be boring. Afraid celebrating wouldn’t feel like celebrating. Afraid life would simply be too hard to do without a drink in my hand.

What I never imagined was that sobriety would introduce me to myself — that it would deepen my relationship with surrender, acceptance, trust, and love in ways I never could have predicted.

Because here’s the honest truth: I wasn’t really trying to escape alcohol.

I was trying to escape life.

I was a single mom with two kids and every responsibility resting on my shoulders. I wanted to build a childhood for them that looked nothing like mine — no worrying about money, no going without. That pressure felt enormous.

Hard day? Drink. Happy day? Drink. Celebration? Stress? Drink.

Every excuse in the book.

Alcohol wasn’t the answer. It was just how I coped with the questions. And looking back, I wasn’t escaping events at all. I was escaping loneliness. Exhaustion. Pressure. Grief. Perfectionism. The constant feeling that I had to hold everything together.

Sobriety didn’t remove any of those things. It just stopped letting me run from them.

One of the hardest truths I’ve had to face is about motherhood.

When my kids were little, I was incredibly present. I stayed home with them. I homeschooled them. We learned together, played together, explored together.

Then the divorce happened. Responsibilities multiplied. Hard feelings piled up. Around 2013, I started coping with life in ways that weren’t healthy, and it progressively got worse.

Please hear me — I was there. There was always food on the table. School clothes. Doctor appointments. Recitals and concerts. ER visits and hospital stays. Birthday parties. Holidays. Presents under the tree.

I did all the things.

But the one thing that wasn’t always there… was me.

That sentence is hard to write. It’s also true.

Recovery taught me that healing doesn’t begin when we rewrite our past. It begins when we’re willing to tell the truth about it.

So when I got sober in July 2020, I made a decision to become present again. And then something happened that every parent knows is coming but somehow still catches us off guard.

My kids grew up. They left the nest.

Now we’re rebuilding — during the once-in-a-blue-moon visits and the phone calls, because life gets busy when your kids become adults. 

I’m sure they still carry big feelings about those years. And I’m here for all of it. To mend, amend, repair, and reconcile. To answer any question. To be present. And to be willing to accept the outcome.

Sometimes I wish I had learned these lessons sooner. But recovery has taught me it’s never too late to become the parent your children need today.

Today, my kids don’t need me to pack lunches or drive them to practice. They need a mom who answers the phone. Who remembers every conversation. Who celebrates their wins and is willing to hear the hard things. Who apologizes when it’s necessary.

A mom who is fully present.

Every year when I tell them I’m celebrating another anniversary, the response is almost always the same: “That’s awesome, Mom. We’re so proud of you.”

I can hear them smiling through the phone.

Those moments mean more than I can explain. Not because I’ve hit six years — but because they remind me that growth doesn’t just change one person. It changes families.

Recovery has given me gifts nobody told me about. My career — becoming a death doula has been the accomplishment of my life. Friendships that are genuine and honest. A growing savings account. No hangovers. Waking up clear-headed. Coffee on the porch. Keeping promises to myself. The ability to feel every emotion — all of them — without immediately trying to escape.

And this one: I get to be authentically me. From what I wear, to what I eat, to how I move through the world. Sometimes authenticity is uncomfortable. But now I get to be present in that discomfort instead of running from it.

And wow — that’s a gift.

Six years ago, would I have believed I’d become a death doula? Host one of the largest community conversations on death and grief in our area? Watch my children become adults? Fall in love again? Be happy?

Honestly, all of it would have sounded impossible to the woman writing that first article.

Which brings me to this column. Writing for Central Penn Parent has let me participate in a community of parents all trying to do the same thing — love their kids well and share the journey as honestly as possible. These articles have become a time capsule for me. I go back and read the old ones and think, wow, I remember exactly where I was.

And here’s something I’ve never shared: I have never written a single one of these pieces under the influence. Not one. That streak started with the first article, and I made a commitment to keep it.

If I could go back and hug the woman writing that first piece six years ago, I wouldn’t give her advice. I’d just whisper, “It’s all going to be okay — and it’s going to work out way better than you could have ever planned.”

And if you’re reading this in your own hard season — recovery, parenting, grief, divorce, loneliness, or simply trying to make it through today — I want you to know this:

You don’t have to believe you’ll make it six years.

You only have to believe you can make it today. Sometimes one day at a time. Sometimes one moment at a time.

Thank you to Central Penn Parent for taking a chance on a woman who was one month sober and had no idea where the journey would lead. And thank you to everyone who has read along all these years. You’ve let me grow up a little on these pages — and reminded me that sharing our stories helps someone else feel a little less alone.

When people congratulate me on six years, I don’t think they’re celebrating that I stopped drinking.

They’re celebrating a life restored.

Still imperfect. Still growing. Still learning.

But fully lived.

Somewhere between that first article and this one, I didn’t just quit drinking.

I became the mom my adult kids deserve.

And for that, I will always be grateful