Cussing, Crying, and Coping

At 1:15 am on March 15th, I got the call. You know (actually, I hope you don’t know) the one that rips the air out of your lungs before your brain can even translate the words. But it wasn’t even the real call. It was the one that left me in emotional purgatory for fifty-nine excruciating minutes. I was told there had been an accident. My youngest son. That’s all I knew.

So I did what any sober woman trying to keep her shit together would do, I called my sober friend. And she prayed with me. We begged. Pleaded. Whispered desperate hopes to God.

Then at 2:14 am, my phone rang again. And this time, the nightmare had a name. My baby was gone. A tragic car accident. Just like that. My world split in two—before and after. There is no going back.

I hung up the phone and called that same friend again: “Come sit with me. Right fucking now.” I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust the four walls around me. I didn’t trust the ache in my chest that felt like it could rip me open from the inside out.

Keegan, my oldest, was home, but he was drowning in his own tidal wave of terror. There was nothing for us to say. What could we possibly say?

The rest of the day? A blur. A goddamn fever dream. I was making calls to family, talking to the medical examiner (who, by the way, I’d be okay never speaking to again). Calling the funeral home. Googling things I never imagined I’d need to Google. Do you know how fucked up it is to make a decision of burial or creamtion before you’ve had your coffee?

All while in a kind of emotional auto-pilot, because let’s be real, being a good alcoholic means I know how to shut that shit down. I closed the door on my feelings and locked it tight. I’d deal with them later. Maybe.

But that day, I dragged myself to a meeting. One of those meetings—the kind where you don’t have to explain anything. Where nobody tries to fix you or throw cheesy quotes at your grief. They just sit with you. No names, no details, just connection.

I sat, eyes swollen, barely able to talk. And wouldn’t you know it? My sober community showed up like a fucking army. No questions. No demands. Just presence. Hugs. Silence. Shared pain. Shared strength. People I didn’t even know well handed me love like they’d been training for this moment their whole lives. And honestly, that meeting saved my life. They saved my life.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I don’t have a damn clue. But I know I’m not doing it alone. And I know, somehow, I’m staying sober. One breath, one cry, one curse word at a time.

This is Day One of a journey I never asked for: 365 days of grief, faith, sobriety, and love for a boy who should still be here. This is my truth. Unfiltered. Every messy, painful, holy-fucking-hell part of it.

If you’re here, reading this, thank you. I hope you stay.

Welcome to the ride. Buckle up. It’s gonna be bumpy as fuck.