Shonda’s Story
There was a time not long ago when I woke up in a hospital with no memory of how I got there. I had been found in the middle of the street, barely clothed, in the freezing cold. A stranger called for help. I don’t remember her face, but I know now that moment may have saved my life.
Before that, my life had become a cycle I couldn’t seem to break. I started using when I was young—first experimenting, then leaning heavily into alcohol, and eventually into opioids. Over the years, it wasn’t just the substances that trapped me. It was the people I surrounded myself with, the choices I made, and the patterns I kept returning to. I don’t blame anyone else for that. I can see clearly now that I played a part in every step that led me there.
There were moments when I tried to get it together. I worked. I held things together for a while. But addiction has a way of waiting, and when it comes back, it comes hard. I lost people I loved—my mother, my child’s father, and others who had been my support system. Each loss chipped away at me until I didn’t feel like there was anything left to hold onto.
I overdosed more than once. The last time scared me in a way the others hadn’t. It forced me to face something I’d been avoiding for a long time—that I was running out of chances.
After the hospital, I knew I couldn’t go back to the same life. I didn’t want to keep ending up in the same place, repeating the same story. That’s how I found my way to WCRM. At first, even getting there felt uncertain. I showed up unsure if I was in the right place, unsure if I would be accepted, unsure if I was even ready. But I stayed. Life at the mission hasn’t been easy. Getting sober again is not just physical—it’s emotional. It’s mental. It’s facing everything you’ve been trying to numb for years. Some days feel steady, and some days feel like a roller coaster. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not running from that.
One of the hardest parts has been being away from my son. He’s with family, where I know he’s safe. That matters to me. I want him to have stability, even if I’m not the one providing it right now. As hard as that is, it’s also part of why I’m here. I want to become someone he can be proud of. Someone he can see and recognize as different from who I used to be.
At the mission, I’ve had people in my life who don’t let me hide. They’re honest with me. Sometimes that’s hard, but it’s also what I need. I didn’t have that kind of structure for a long time. Now, I’m learning what it looks like to be held accountable and still cared for at the same time. At first, I struggled with the structure. There were moments when being corrected or challenged, especially by staff like Ms. Angie, felt hard. But I’ve come to understand that kind of honesty is part of what’s helping me grow. It shows me someone cares enough not to let me stay stuck where I was.
I’ve also started to see things differently on the inside. Before coming here, I didn’t believe much in God. I had a lot of reasons for that, based on my life and what I’d been through. But something has shifted. I can’t explain it perfectly, but I know I’m beginning to see there’s more than just what I can understand on my own. I’m still figuring that out, still growing, still learning—but I’m open in a way I’ve never been before. Right now, I’m focused on simple goals. Finding work. Saving money. Taking steps toward getting my license back. Building a foundation I can stand on. They may sound like small things, but for me, they represent something bigger, a future I didn’t think I’d have.
If you asked me what I’d say to a woman coming here for the first time, scared and unsure, I would tell her this: You have to be ready. This place can help you, but only if you want a different life. It’s structured, it’s real, and it will challenge you, but it’s also a place where change can actually begin.
