by Kayla Myers, Peer Support coordinator

July 21, 2025

Every year, National Parents’ Day comes and goes, and honestly, I didn’t even know it existed until a few years ago. There are no balloons or wrapped gifts. No themed parties, school plays, or glittery cards like we see on Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. And honestly? That’s what makes it feel more real to me.

Parenting doesn’t usually look like a greeting card. It’s unfiltered. It’s behind the scenes. It’s deeply personal. It’s also the hardest, but most sacred, thing I’ve ever done.

Parenting is early mornings with tired eyes and late nights filled with worry. It’s asking myself, Did I say the right thing? Was I too soft? Too strict? Too distracted? Too emotional? Am I giving them enough? Am I enough? It’s making a thousand decisions a day and second-guessing at least half of them. It’s pouring from a cup that sometimes feels empty, and still showing up the next day with whatever strength I can find. Because their love keeps me going.

And yet, even in the chaos, there is so much beauty.

There’s laughter that echoes through the house, sometimes because of something silly, sometimes for no reason at all. There are milestones—and messy milestones. Little victories that might go unnoticed by the world, but mean everything to us. There are those quiet, sacred moments when I look at my kids and catch a glimpse of the people they’re becoming, and I think, “I get to be their mom.” That thought alone has carried me through some of the toughest days.

Parenting doesn’t come with a manual. I learned that fast the day I brought my oldest home from the hospital. And no two parenting journeys look the same. There are seasons of pure joy, and there are seasons that feel like sheer survival. I’ve had to learn to let go of the idea that I need to do it all on my own. I’ve leaned on the support of other parents. I’ve asked for help, even when it was hard. And I’ve reminded myself that perfection isn’t the goal, presence is.

So this month, in honor of National Parents’ Day, I want to pause and recognize all of us who are simply doing the best we can.

Whether you’re a birth parent, adoptive parent, foster parent, bonus parent, grandparent raising grandchildren, or a chosen parent, your love matters. Your consistency matters. YOU matter.

Let’s keep building each other up. Let’s offer grace instead of guilt. Let’s remind ourselves—and each other—that even on the hardest days, we are doing something deeply meaningful.

Because at the heart of parenting lies a quiet, powerful truth: we are shaping lives with our love. It may be messy. It may be imperfect. But it is real and it is enough.

From one parent to another: Happy National Parents’ Day. You’re doing better than you think.

With love and solidarity,
A fellow mom who gets it

(Edited and Enhanced by ChatGPT)

by Nikki Russell, CBHPSS
March 19, 2024

My story is under eternal construction; another layer reveals itself as soon as I assemble it. Writing my recovery story is compelling and something I would like to present in a way that an audience would understand transformation. I immediately reverted to childhood, to one of my saddest moments, and began from there. I revisit emotional wounds that blend into this NOW moment and start composing. I realize the pattern of my life as I attempt not to retraumatize and dull the harsh edges of my traumatic childhood. I retell the same sad story I have uttered thousands of times, one that imprisoned me in unworthiness.

My first lesson in writing came from my therapist, who used narrative therapy, where I documented my past and became an expert in my own life. I had constructed stories that showed my unworthiness and influenced how I saw myself. I observed my life in this exercise, writing it as an on-looker. I could see this person as a characteristic of trauma, somebody I had created not to feel pain; her name is Gertrude. Some of Gertrude's patterns would take years of writing to unravel because they were so engrained that I could not separate them from myself. I learned a lesson in writing that inspired change and would become an instrument of healing in my life.

I had a mountain of journals when I entered recovery. I spent hours writing about the things I was unwilling to change. My journals had my deepest and darkest secrets; they held the pain of my past that regulated my current life. Step four of Alcoholics Anonymous taught me a new way to write. It recommends taking a personal inventory and conducting a fact-finding and fact-facing process. My sponsor told me to pray and meditate before I write, to put my pen on the paper, and to write until I lift the pen off the page. This process influenced a higher power to join me in writing, rather than Gertrude writing alone to ease the discomfort. I wrote for weeks, thinking about all the people I had resentment against and how it affected me. It was a systematic form of writing; I was not to believe, only pray and write. I could feel the weight of the world slowly lifting off my shoulders. This writing technique taught me that writing my story can connect me to something bigger than myself, and when I let that take over, my life transforms.

Meditation and journaling were my recovery routine. I would wake up at 5 am every morning to start my day. After a few years of this practice, one morning, I began writing, but it wasn't me; something was reaching through me as the words poured onto the page. I recognized my pen was not the instrument of a message, but it was I. Reading what I had written on paper but reading it for the first time was an awe-inspiring experience. I researched what had transpired and learned that automatic writing is a form of channeling where you allow a higher power to guide your words. Looking back through my healing process, I expanded my consciousness and cultivated creativity through meditation and writing. Automatic writing began a new path of spiritual exploration that led me home. Being in the flow of writing is what some call a runners-high; you lose yourself in the process, and something beyond the physical person takes over. The automatic writing technique combines being the observer, which I learned in narrative therapy, and systematic writing, which I learned in my fourth step of AA.

It's all about patience, precision, and trust; honing a skill can sometimes take a lifetime, and we may only understand the process once it all comes together. At that moment, you realize the reason everything happened in the exact order it was meant to. Today, I utilize all three forms of writing; they offer different perspectives at different points in my life. As I pondered my "under-construction" recovery story, a poem came to me; when I finished and read it through, I recognized my life as the recovery journey meant to be told through me, not from me.

See, I will tell you a sad story and patterns from my past, but a higher self sees potential and creates poetry from trauma.

Breaking Free

It is hard to break free

Mentally,

Once your THERE the damage is done

The destined path; unsung.

Society blames you for not conforming,

Being your own person breaks norming.

Alcohol and drugs free the pain,

but your soul cannot be tamed.

A mental health disorder labels this disdain

that keeps you trapped without a flame.

The prognosis is grim, and the ache remains

as recovery whispers your name.

Healing is only a dream

as you are enslaved mentally.

Through the prison bars, you try with all your might

to see the sun that's lost its light.

Convincing your free,

you move around your cell willingly.

Hopes and dreams are told to you,

luring you to a sun that reflects the system.

To be truly free,

one must move beyond recovery.

Where the wild unknown unleashes truth,

but the world views you as aloof.

Remaining true, you break the chains of conformity.

Kicking and screaming, yet singing your song

Finally, ending up where you

Belong.

The sun, you realize, was a fluorescent light

that lit the path of society's expectations so bright.

At once, you turn around and finally see

the essence that is truly me.

Abandoned dreams that fueled this life

were internal voices screaming with strife.

They meant no harm, you see,

for they were reacting naturally.

The light that lives inside was buried in a hole

I was filling with external soul.

The journey unknown, I tread lightly

uncovering layers that suppressed my brightly.

Uniting with life creates a storm of emotion,

the system never taught to hear.

Their beliefs so loud, they planted them with fear.

Diving deeply inward I go, following the voice of my KNOW.

The shackles of life, trap me

when I believe in their destiny.

But there is a place within

an unlikely entrance to freedom.

Stand in your truth; let it be known

Use your voice and sit on your throne.

Listen to the echoes that blow in the wind

they are your truth from far within.

Looking through the window of the soul

I see the bars put there that kept me from being whole.

This truth holds the key,

for the sun always lived inside me.

Let it be known that shining bright is to stay true,

not to dismiss you.

An essence I discovered

you may believe to be untrue.

Yet, for me, I live this life beyond recovery

standing tall and empowered by all

who are breaking free

and living a life of integrity.

     -Nikki Russell

by Nikki Russell, Recovery Coach

August 29, 2023

I am so grateful to be a mother. The ten years it took to become pregnant did not prepare me for the journey of motherhood. Just because having a baby is biological does not mean it is natural. Having my daughter activated a wound in me that had been dormant for many years; I would not fully understand this rugged process until much later. The medical community calls this phenomenon postpartum depression. I was attempting to maintain a belief that having a baby would fix me; it did, but not in the way I expected.

I was living in darkness when I found recovery; I was physically present in my daughter's life, but mentally and emotionally, I was living in the past. I needed to use substances daily to feel normal, but I needed more and more to get the same effect. Every day I looked at my daughter with guilt and shame, knowing that something needed to change but not having the power to produce it. I was completely absent in my life, a hollow person wandering, trying to escape the hurt from my childhood. An echo from my soul produced words of wisdom I did not recognize; "I need help." I thought strength meant living life without showing emotions, independence told doing life on your own, and success meant maintaining the facade I had altogether.

For the first time in my life, the pressure to be something I was not lifted. I could go to work without a daily hangover and come home without a bottle or two of wine; that meant I had a chance at connection. I could be in the moment with my daughter; my mind was not racing trying to find my next numbing event, trying to get a substance in me before the guilt and shame from the past would ignite memories.

As I healed, the bond with my daughter kept getting stronger. I recognized that I was seeing my wound in her when I was in my addiction. Still, as I started to heal, I saw my happiness in her—a direct reflection of the healing process from trauma, and internal isolation, to connection. I was becoming a proud momma, walking with my head held high, and she watched every move I made. As I healed my past through daily meditation, journaling, and a support network, I felt genuine love for the first time.

Values were becoming a priority in my life. Wisdom was rising to the surface like I do not have to have all the answers. I learned that Letting my daughter tell me what was important to her and walking that journey by her side meant she took responsibility for her actions and I could be there for her. I learned hugs feel good, words of support validate, and holding space for her was enough when neither knew what to say or do. I was enough; a profound notion and an even better feeling.

My daughter and I walked this recovery journey together because, thankfully, she watched me have courage, strength, and vulnerability. Recovery is so much more than not using substances, and being a mother is more than not numbing; it is a willingness to look at some hard truths, say sorry and hold her while she cries, and trust every day that love is enough. When I healed myself, I became the mother to myself, and then only then could I begin to be a momma to my beautiful Savannah. Modeling motherhood for my daughter is a legacy worth leaving, and I am grateful for the opportunity to be a proud momma to the most beautiful soul in the world.

Savannah girl, I love you to the moon and back.

by Nikki Russell, Recovery Coach

June 20, 2023

Image by Savannah Russell

"I relapsed," her voice trembling for fear of judgment from me. My gut twists and my shoulders get tight as I say, "I love you; there is nothing you could ever do to make me stop loving you," I tell her the words I wish I had heard in my addiction. Did she listen to me? Can she hear me through the guilt she harbors? I feel an emotion come up and out through my eyes; my breath is taken at the realization that I have found clarity. For the first time, I understand radical acceptance as an offering of the ability to hold a safe space. Two people who require somebody to bear witness to their pain with a willingness to feel it together. All the pain I felt from my past, and all the healing work I had done in recovery was for this moment, the moment I learned to respect my past as an instrument for healing. So many dots connected and unanswered questions answered, and at that moment, I thought I would never wonder, "Why me?" again.

Radical acceptance comes in moments of clarity, where denial transforms into connection. The test of my commitment to radical acceptance shows up when I try to fix, control, ruminate about the past, predict the future, or avoid pain.

When I began meditating years ago, I experienced acceptance as a way to freedom from addiction. I knew how to utilize it in my own life, but because it is a process that happens within, I did not know how to offer it as a life skill until the day my peer relapsed. I found myself desperate to affirm her worth; the ancient feeling that arose in me reminded me of what we both needed to hear. Radical acceptance is the choice to meet whatever is happening and let go of the idea that I need to be more than what I currently am to be valued. Radical acceptance acknowledges the past, embraces the current consequences, and dares to dream of the future and begin again.