Cussing, Crying, and Coping

We drove to Michigan on Day 5. Long-ass drive. Like, “who the fuck made this state so far away” kind of long.

We drove to Michigan on Day 5. Long-ass drive. Like, “who the fuck made this state so far away” kind of long.

I was running purely on caffeine, grief fumes, and cuss words. Hadn’t eaten in 48 hours. My stomach wasn’t accepting anything that resembled food. Just vibes and anxiety. And pee breaks—so many damn pee breaks. My body was like, “Water? Caffeine? Yes. Nutrition? No thanks.”

As we got closer to our destination, the panic attack started creeping in like a slow-building horror movie soundtrack. I knew we’d have to pass the crash site. No detours. No options. Just straight through the place my son died.

GPS was counting down like a ticking bomb.

Two miles. My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe right.
One mile. I wanted to run. Just bolt. Hide under a blanket in my bed back home and pretend this wasn’t my life.

Then we hit THE CORNER.
And everything inside me shattered.

Debris was still everywhere. You could feel it—the tragedy, the chaos, the finality. I remembered the photos from the news story. They flashed in my brain like a cruel slideshow I didn’t ask for. This corner, this little patch of road in BFE, is now sacred ground to me. It’s where my baby took his last breath. It’s also where another man died—a man with his own family, his own people grieving.

My heart broke for them. And for us.

In that moment, the thought of staying sober felt fucking impossible. I wanted out of my body. Out of this pain. Out of this timeline.

So I did the only thing I could do:
I prayed. Not that fluffy Hallmark kind of prayer. No. I begged God, the universe, any higher power listening, to carry me through this. To keep me from picking up a drink.

And then—I called my person.
My local bestie. My sobriety ride-or-die. She answered. She showed up with love, with calm, with a plan. She reminded me that I’m not alone, even in this hell.

That day, I leaned on every sober support I have. I was grateful for each and every one of them—because without them, I don’t know if I would’ve made it through THE CORNER without crawling into a bottle.

Grief doesn’t play fair. But neither does sobriety.
And that day, I stayed sober anyway.

Barely. But I did.

—Jess
💔☕🛣️🙏🏻

Barely. But I did.

—Jess
💔☕🛣️🙏🏻