my ankle, and suddenly found out I was pregnant by my friend, whom I had hired a few months prior to run my dope when I was put on GPS. I never wanted kids. My addiction was selfish, and after years and years of seeing woman after woman be forced to sign termination of parental rights paperwork in jail, I just knew better.

The moment that test and the ones that followed displayed that positive result, it wasn’t about me anymore. I was sitting in my cold bedroom in my drug den, holding my head in my hands, and I realized I had two choices: to keep surrendering to the chaos, or to start becoming the woman my child needed.

That realization hit me harder than any sentence, detox, or heartbreak ever had.
It wasn’t about winning against life — it was about rising within it.

I took a deep breath, probably the first real one I’d had in years. My heart was pounding, my nervous system still fried from years of survival mode, but something shifted inside me. I could almost feel the rewiring — those fragile neural circuits trying to remember peace.

Around this time, I had been reintroduced to the law of attraction through a series of synchronicities. I began reflecting on my adverse experiences through a new perspective.
I realized that the breaking point wasn’t the end — it was the invitation.
Every disaster, every traumatic event, every apartment, vehicle, relationship, pet, and job loss, every night I cried until my chest hurt in the hole— all of it had been shaping me, sanding me down until only truth remained.

I began studying how successful people rose from failure, and I noticed something: they didn’t avoid pain — they transmuted it. They used mindfulness meditation, journaling, or faith to transform chaos into clarity.
So I kept an open mind and despite my years of pushing off meditation due to my ADHD, I started trying it. Some days, it felt awkward, like I was pretending. Other days, I’d catch small glimmers — those little things that felt like tiny sparks of life again.

In everyday life, that looked like simple moments — making my bed, drinking water, taking a deep breath before reacting, small, random, unexpected acts of kindness. These tiny acts were rewiring me in ways that therapy alone never could.

Slowly, I began setting realistic goals: wake up early, move my body, make amends, create structure. Helping anyone that I was in a position to help. Smiling at strangers on the street. I started paying attention to the energy I was putting out into the world, and above all else, I kept an open mind.
It was the effective way forward, not because it was easy, but because it was honest.

There were still negative emotions, moments of negative self-talk, and waves of guilt that threatened to pull me back under. But I’d learned that healing wasn’t linear — it was spiral. Each loop brought me closer to my inner strength, the part of me that refused to die, no matter how many times I tried to self-destruct.

Leaving my comfort zone wasn’t glamorous. I had to face the mirror — really face it — and accept that I was the only one responsible for changing my current situation.
And maybe that’s what the times of adversity are really about — they corner us into finally choosing ourselves.

That night, I made a promise to myself:
I will never again let the worst version of me decide the rest of my story.

It wasn’t just the first step toward recovery — it was the rebirth.

my nervous system, my body, my circulatory system, my sleep, and my spirit. I refused to accept that I was unable to meditate due to ADHD and Aphantasia. Learning about mindfulness meditation became one of the easiest ways to center myself without running away. It took time. It wasn’t instant peace—it was permission to pause.

I realized that social support is more than people—it’s energy. My support system started small: one trusted friend, a parenting group, my daughter, and eventually, a growing circle online. Instead of joining support groups, I read every wonderful book I could find and followed successful people who’d walked their own dark roads.

For the first time, I understood that asking for help wasn’t a weakness—it was wisdom. Wisdom that didn’t come through professional help, offering potential solutions, or something I found on social media. Everyone close to me was a mirror, showing me new ways to grow.

My financial difficulties didn’t vanish overnight, but I stopped letting them define me. I learned that the only way out of scarcity is through self-belief and steady action. Setting realistic goals helped me rebuild momentum—like getting a new job, saving small amounts, or completing my certification. I had to remove limiting beliefs I had involving money and finances. A lifetime of selling drugs for income had stunted my financial development.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I stopped chasing the idea of perfection. I started embracing progress.
That was the real breakthrough.

Healing was messy, and there were days I felt like I was losing the race—but maybe, like a race official watching from the sidelines, the universe was just waiting for me to realize the finish line was never out there. It was always inside me.

The truth is, rebuilding doesn’t happen in a single moment—it happens in a thousand quiet decisions to keep going.
It’s what transforms a survivor into a resilient person—someone who doesn’t crumble in difficult circumstances, but instead grows roots deeper than the storm.

I didn’t know it then, but I was rebuilding not just my life, but my legacy.

These days, I look back at the adversities of life that once felt impossible, and I’m grateful for every scar. Each one taught me something about healing, patience, and faith in the process. I finally understand that the effective way to rebuild isn’t about rushing to the finish line—it’s about showing up, again and again, in the ordinary moments of everyday life.

When new storms come—health challenges, setbacks, or the chaos that visits without warning—I remind myself that resilience is not a destination. It’s a daily decision. I still practice the coping strategies that saved me back then: breathing, grounding, journaling, and checking in with my support system before the silence gets too loud, and I still struggle every single day, but I am also getting better and better with every day, as well.

One of the most powerful things I learned was the value of asking for help when needed. I never asked anyone for anything, and as it turns out, that is one of the things that truly stunted my growth. There’s no shame in it—just strength. Therapy, coaching, friends, or a trusted family member can reveal potential solutions we can’t see when we’re stuck in survival mode. Sometimes the right tools are your people.

I’ve also learned to schedule action rather than wait for motivation. When I plan small, specific steps—like a phone call, a walk, or writing three sentences—I stay anchored in movement. That’s the only way change ever sticks: by turning intention into rhythm.

The little things I used to overlook have become my anchors. A sunrise. My daughter’s laughter. The smell of sage in my window herb garden in the morning. Those are my daily miracles—the reminders that great things often hide inside the quiet.

Being a mom adds its own layer of challenge, but it also gives everything deeper meaning. When I take a deep breath after a long day, I know I’m not just managing stress—I’m modeling strength. I’m showing my kids that even in difficult circumstances, you can still choose grace. That’s how we raise resilient people—not by shielding them from pain, but by showing them how to rise from it.

In times of adversity, I no longer ask, “Why me?” I ask, “What is this teaching me?” Because I know now that the first step to freedom is awareness, and the second is courage. I find both in mindfulness meditation, in staying present when the past tries to replay itself, and in releasing negative emotions before they take root.

The truth is, there is no single formula for overcoming life’s chaos. But there is a path—and it starts with compassion, consistency, and the courage to take one more breath when it hurts to breathe. That’s what makes a resilient person. That’s what makes me one.

So when the world tilts again—and it always does—I remind myself:
I’ve been through worse, and I still became better.
Pain doesn’t get the final say anymore.
Purpose does.

There’s a moment, somewhere between surrender and survival, when you realize you’re no longer trying to become who you were before everything fell apart. You’re becoming someone entirely new. That’s what personal growth really is—it’s not getting your old life back; it’s building a better one from the ashes.

People love to talk about rising from those ashes, but for me, it was never about the ashes. It was about realizing there was still a spark alive under all that ruin. I call it The Ember Theory — the belief that no matter how dark or destroyed life becomes, there’s always a living coal ember inside you, waiting for air to reignite and reclaim its greatness.

That ember is your truth. It’s the part that addiction couldn’t steal, trauma couldn’t bury, and shame couldn’t silence. It’s the warmth that hums beneath the noise when everything else goes cold.

I used to think resilience meant coming back blazing — rebuilding everything I lost and proving to the world that I’d made it. But now I know resilience is quieter than that. It’s learning to protect the heat you already have. To cup your hands around that small light and breathe it back to life — gently, patiently, until it glows and reignites into powerful flames once more.

When you’ve lived through difficult times, your fire isn’t flashy anymore. It doesn’t burn to impress. It burns to guide.
That’s what The Ember Theory is — the art of staying warm in a world that tried to freeze you out. It’s about noticing the subtle pulse of your own strength and trusting it enough to build from there.

I’ve learned that my ember — that steady, stubborn light inside — has been there since the very beginning. Even when I was buried under personal loss, months at a time in the hole administratively segregated, twenty years of doing life on the installment plan in and out of jail, or all my failed attempts at recovery, it was still breathing. I don’t know how, but it was. It was just waiting for me to smarten up long enough to feel its heat.

Now, when life tests me, I don’t look for a miracle anymore. I just find my ember. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, giving it all the air it needs, and remind myself that the fire never actually went out — it just needed tending.

So if you’re reading this in your own times of adversity, wondering how to start again, don’t focus on the blaze. Look for the teeny tiny ember. Your dose of self-preservation.
The light you’re searching for has been inside you this whole time. I promise it’s there.
And when you finally breathe it back to life — you’ll realize you were never broken beyond repair. Nope, not at all.
You were just the ember, waiting to reignite your flame.

For me, resilience isn’t about pretending to be strong all the time. It’s about taking a deep breath when the world feels heavy, calming the nervous system, and remembering that strength doesn’t always roar—it sometimes just whispers, “Keep going.”

When I reflect on my past experiences, I see that every detour served a purpose. Every “no” redirected me toward something divine. Even the traumatic events, the adverse experiences, the tough times I once cursed—they all built the foundation I stand on now.

And while there’s no wonderful book or single quote that can prepare a single person for the adversities of life, I’ve learned that resilience grows through practice—through showing up for your own life regardless of the state it’s in.

That’s what I want for everyone who reads this—to find your ember and set your world on fire.
To see that in times of adversity, you’re not being punished, you’re being prepared.

If you’re in difficult circumstances right now, please don’t isolate. Reach out for professional help, join support groups, lean on your family members or friends, reach out to our community, or email me. I may not respond immediately, but I promise I will respond. I am a flawed human being, and as long as you get that, we good. I will help where I can. You don’t have to face it alone. Its okay to ask for help. I know. I know. I still struggle with this one, but its the truth.

Remember, even successful people didn’t get there without setbacks. The effective way through pain is to meet it with awareness, compassion, and action. Set realistic goals, take one first step, and keep your heart open.

As I write this, I’m sitting in my home—a home I once believed I’d never have—watching my kids with our pups laugh, play, and act like animals (the two that aren’t actually animals.) I think about how many tough times it took to reach this kind of peace. Every scar, every stumble, every breaking point carved space for grace to move in.

And now, I’m here to tell you this:
You are stronger than what tried to break you.
You are proof that great things grow from the rubble.
You have that same ember that I had. All you have to do is let it burn.

So take a deep breath and feed your fire.
Let go of the guilt.
Step into your next chapter.

Because the only way to rise—is to begin.

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