ESH*: From Rock-Bottom to Badass
Five No-BS Lessons on Recovery: Disordered Eating • People-Pleasing • Codependency • Trauma • The False Self
1Recovery isn’t a one-size-fits-all process. There’s no universal formula, no guru with all the answers. The truth is, the only “right” way to recover is the way that actually works for YOU. WHATEVER WORKS>
Quick note before we dive in: You’re already here. You already value this. If you want to take the next step and help sustain this work, upgrading to a paid subscription costs about the same as a cup of coffee a month—but it lasts a lot longer. More on that at the end.
That’s why this special edition isn’t just about my journey—it’s about yours. I asked my readers to share their hard-earned wisdom, their real, lived experiences of healing, transformation, and finding what actually helps. These five flash essays prove that recovery isn’t about doing it perfectly—it’s about finding what moves the needle for you and running with it.
Whether you’re crawling out of rock bottom, untangling yourself from old patterns, or simply trying to get through the day, there’s something here for you. No matter where you’re starting from, you get to decide what comes next. 🔥
Deadlift the Doubt by Breeann Adam
What’s one thing you once thought you’d never be able to do—but did anyway?
Thunk. The weight plates hit the rubber mat before I deadlift them again, the steel barbell grazing my shaking legs on its way up. I hold it against my thighs for a moment, then hinge at the waist, my body forming an upside-down L as I lower the bar back down.
Thud. The plates hit the ground.
One more rep. I drive my feet into the floor like I’m trying to blast myself into the center of the earth. The bar rises one last time before I release my grip and let it crash to the mat—crushing any self-doubt I had left.
As a child, I was surrounded by adults who idolized thinness as a moral virtue, one only less important than believing in Jesus and Ronald Reagan. I also grew up in the ‘90s and early ‘00s when the media modeled skeletal frames as the feminine ideal. Most of the teen girls I knew then, including me, strived to be as skinny as possible through any means necessary. This mindset was common, rampant, and toxic. We weren’t healthy; honestly, though, none of us cared.
A few years into adulthood, I stumbled into a weightlifting-focused gym. I was sick of feeling weak and like a shell of the woman I wanted to be. This gym had no mirrors, no cardio machines, and no bullshit. I could hardly lift the barbell without plates when I started. My form was awful. I was exhausted after ten minutes. But then, I came back another day. Then another, and then another. My body became more muscular, but to my delighted surprise, my mind became even stronger than my body.
My teenage self would be shocked to know I’m much larger than I was as a teenager and much happier. My teenage self wouldn’t believe I have recovered from a perfectionist obsession with thinness. My teenage self wouldn’t believe I found my badass once I got in the gym, not to get smaller through endless cardio, but to get stronger through proper strength training. My teenage self wouldn’t believe I was thrilled when my deltoids started to pop and my backside, literally, got bigger.
My teenage self wouldn’t know me if she saw me. And I’m so proud of that fact.
My true self is capable, confident, and gritty. My true self does hard things and is authentically me. My true self is a mama to many through foster care, adoption, and biology. My true self is a writer, teacher, and reader. My true self is generous, kind, and compassionate. This self is at odds with who I once was: shallow, unhealthy, and weak. Weightlifting is how I recovered from this previous false version of myself. At this juncture, my only weight-related goal is how much weight I can lift. And that’s badass. ~
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Those People by Ren Powell
Have you ever watched someone get cast as 'the problem' when they were really just the symptom? What truth did that reveal?
I had just become a teenager, crossed a threshold I believed would change my life. If I bled, I wasn’t a child anymore. That would be the end of it.
It wasn’t. Because nothing is ever that simple. Some things leave shrapnel in your mind, like foreign objects in your flesh—festering, taking years to work themselves out.
That year, at a high school speech and drama competition, I heard a girl perform a monologue in which a woman said her mother’s love was like a gun to her head. Before the script I’d ordered even arrived, I knew what the play was about. The monologue doesn’t tell the whole story of Nuts by Tom Topor, but the last line is directed at the protagonist’s mother: “I won’t be nuts for you.”
I wasn’t conscious of how much that line held me up. It was a back brace when the weight of it all settled on my head, my heart. Christmases, birthdays, family gatherings where we had to line up for photos with the man who snuck into my bedroom, between my legs, and called me chubs in front of everyone.
I was 22 when I told my mother her husband was a pedophile. She didn’t use the word nuts, but she called me deluded. Crazy. Jealous, even. She said she felt sorry for me.
Her love was a gun to my head, but I had known that for years.
Now, I could walk away—excising a wound so it could heal.
When the topic of incest comes up in discussions, sometimes at the lunch table at work, the phrase “those people” comes up. “Broken” comes up. And I bite my tongue. The assumption that no one sitting at the table is one of “those people” floors me.
Their pity is a gun to my head. Their pity could hold me hostage. But I am not broken, and I will not be exhibit A for your case against child abuse.
You can’t break a taboo, can’t shine a light on a crime, if you keep drawing an impermeable circle around victims—if you need us to be damaged goods to justify your need to look away.
People who survive child abuse are often confronted with a paradox, “you are so strong”, and “you’ll never get over something like that”. As if our pain must be permanent to prove what happened. As if we have to be nuts to be believed.
But sometimes, things do work themselves out.
Let me be proof that those people can thrive. ~ Ren Powell
Follow and subscribe to Dramatic Roots here: Poet | Playwright | Teaching Artist (PhD). A barefoot trailer park girl from SoCal starting her third act, finding inspiration in the moorlands and fjords of southwest Norway.
The Third Version by Shelley Durga Karpaty
Have you ever told yourself one story about a relationship, then rewritten it—only to realize there was another truer version waiting?
I was 41 when I sat in my car outside a Firehouse Subs, venting to a psychic about my unhappy marriage. I foamed at the mouth, telling the same story I told anyone who would listen—everything he did wrong, everything I did right.
My journal was filled with the same bullshit I spewed into the phone. Why doesn’t he see me? Why doesn’t he appreciate me? I do everything—commuting an hour each way to work, managing the kids' schedules, making dinner, packing lunches—yet it’s never enough.
Then the voice on the other end cut through: “So leave him. You don’t think someone else will sweep him up in a minute?”
I don’t remember what else she said, just that she called me a victim and told me to shut up about it. It was the most unsympathetic support I had ever received—a bitch slap to the face. After hanging up, jaw dropped, I called her a total bitch. But something shifted.
I was sick of myself, sick of the hamster wheel of thoughts. I had started attending Ram Dass retreats on Maui searching for meaning, but the lessons hadn’t sunk in. I found friends who’d listen to my complaining. I took travel-heavy jobs to escape home, only to return to chaos. It felt like punishment.
I couldn’t do anything right. My need for validation ran deep, and he fed into it. I kept trying to prove my worth—to him, to myself, to the world.
I became a self-help junkie, chasing answers in books, podcasts, spiritual teachings, food, materialism, the gym—until, five years later, something finally landed.
Much of our culture thrives on complaining, on being right, on victim mentality. But I had never considered not reacting as an option.
I had been so consumed with my own suffering that I hadn’t stopped to ask—what if I didn’t make everything personal?
Through daily meditation, listening to Insight Timer recordings, and revisiting my retreat notes, it finally sank in. I didn’t have to be overwhelmed by what happened around me. The chaos wasn’t happening to me—it was just happening. Nothing is personal unless I choose to make it so. My self-esteem wasn’t about seeking validation—it was about learning not to take anything personally, because we’re all just projecting onto each other.
This is the practice. Every single day.
Victimhood is a symptom of low self-esteem, a lack of empowerment. I searched outside myself for healing. But after many dark nights of tears and anger, I realized the answers were within. The teachings I had devoured for years finally took root, like seeds growing into a vine.
Now, I’m in the third version of my 28-year marriage. We’ve matured together and separately. And I am truly grateful for this human I am walking through life with.
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My Journey of Recovery: Unlocking the Doors to My True Self by Jay Siegmann
What’s one “locked door” you didn’t even realize was keeping you from yourself?
Acknowledging the Truth 🗝️
The turning point came when I realized I wasn’t trapped in the canyon—I was trapped in survival strategies and narratives shaped by toxic shame. It was the unseen force driving me, keeping me chasing validation, suppressing my needs, and repeating cycles I couldn’t escape.
I understood the patterns: automatic reactions, relentless striving, and the exhaustion that never left. But no matter how much I tried to break free, my body and mind continued as if something deeper blocked the way.
Then I discovered Healing the Shame that Binds You by John Bradshaw. His words revealed that toxic shame wasn’t just an emotion—it was a framework that distorted my relationship with myself. It silenced my inner voice, erased my capacity for self-anything, and convinced me I wasn’t enough.
The realization was both liberating and overwhelming. For the first time, I saw the survival mechanisms I relied on—not as flaws but as shields I had built to bear the weight of shame and trauma. Once essential, they now held me back.
Running in Circles 🗝️
Much of my life felt like running in circles. Each solution seemed new, but all followed the same pattern: working harder, enduring more, and seeking validation outside myself.
The canyon felt like a trap. Whenever I thought I had escaped, another challenge pulled me back into its depths. But the problem wasn’t the canyon itself—it was how I viewed it, shaped by the shame and fear I carried into every situation.
Confronting the Patterns 🗝️
The first shift came when exhaustion forced me to stop. Pausing was unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable. Yet, in the stillness, I began to see the cost of my survival strategies. I wasn’t living; I was functioning, disconnected from my own needs, and striving to meet expectations that weren’t mine.
Why was I stuck? I could name my triggers and understand their origins, but I couldn’t stop my body’s automatic responses. They felt ingrained, like scripts running beyond my control.
Dismantling the Mechanisms 🗝️
Dismantling these survival mechanisms was exhausting. Each carried emotions I had buried for years: grief for the life I lost in survival mode, the agony of unmet needs, and the sorrow for the self I had abandoned.
Every step forward required sitting with unfiltered emotions. At times, it felt unbearable—like dismantling a machine while it was still running. Yet, these mechanisms were my armor. Letting them go meant facing what they had shielded for so long.
This wasn’t just breaking things down—it was rebuilding. I began validating my experiences, not just the obvious ones but the deeply hidden truths of my inner child and shadow self. It wasn’t about forgiving or moving on but about holding space for the pain and acknowledging it without judgment.
Progress wasn’t linear, but with each mechanism I disassembled, I reclaimed parts of myself I hadn’t realized were missing. Slowly, I began to trust myself again.
Follow and subscribe to Wild Lion*esses Pride by Jay here: • Exploring resilience, self-compassion, and the beauty of transformation. Writing on belonging, overcoming adversity, and the wisdom found in vulnerability and authenticity.
Unbundled: A Love Story by Libby Paulin
What’s one truth about love you had to face the hard way?
The man I once believed—under the spell of love and lust—was my everything unraveled before me one weekend. He got drunk, and it was like he was floating on the ceiling, bouncing around like Mary Poppins and the children drunk on laughter—only he was just plain drunk. I stood on the ground, looking up, wondering: How do I get up there? Do I even want to? What does this mean?
Relationship amnesia set in. Oh well, it was an aberration (remember, I was in the first flush of love/lust). We got pregnant not long after, and that was that—a committed relationship, ready or not.
By the time I was pregnant with our second child, I went to Al-Anon. It was hard. I had no idea how to deal with this alcohol thing. But I did. For me, for the children, and, as a byproduct, for him. Al-Anon taught me to focus on myself first.
I stopped listening for the rip of a can tab and let him piss himself in the garage.
I began writing poetry, fitting it in where I could, my words circling my experiences—sometimes coded, so no one would know I was writing about alcoholic dysfunction.
This is how I became me.
‘Faith, Hope & Charity’
In the beginning was the word, and the word was sacred.
She believed every one:
‘I won’t…’, ‘I’ll only...’, ‘I’ve stopped…’.
He did. He didn’t. It carried on.
She lived on hope for a long time, until its toxic nature began to emerge.
She grew bat ears
hawk eyes
perfumers nose
a goitered throat, steel bars of denial down either side
a desert of a heart.
Charity came stealing
out of her mouth
that day she said ‘no more’.
Months later he whispered
‘I’m sorry I squandered your love’
as tears rolled
out of his eyes
into hers.
© Libby Paulin 2025
Unbundled
We have become unbundled you and I.
We’re not a package any more.
Now there is space for me to stretch out
feel the edges of myself
see what lives there on the margins.
There are shapes there, waiting.
I can feel them with my fingertips.
They thrum, calling to me.
I stretch out my foot
I run, I jump
I fall
into the void.
I see.
I am a button of light
sewn by glowing filaments
to you, and you, and you, and you.
© Libby Paulin 2025
~ Libby Paulin A poet whose Substack serves as a creative space for writing original poems, exploring others' poetry, and reflecting on the creative process.
On Repeat:
In the early days of our relationship, Wayne and I discovered our shared passion for creativity and healing. One of Wayne's early songs, "Lighten Up the Dark," exemplifies his talent and our collaborative spirit. The song's message of transforming darkness into light parallels the journeys depicted in the five flash essays featured in this post, each exploring personal recovery and self-discovery. You can listen to it here:
Original lyrics, music, and vocals by Wayne
One Thing:
My life in writing, or my life as a writer, comes to me as two parts, like two rivers that blend. One part is easy to tell; the places, events, people. The other part is more mysterious; it is my thoughts, the flow of my inner life, the reveries and impulses that never get known - perhaps not even to me.” ~ William Stafford “You Must Revise Your Life”
Writing Exercise: The Story of My ______ Over Time
Recovery, transformation, and self-discovery happen over time, shaped by struggle, realization, and growth. This exercise helps you explore a key theme in your life by tracing its evolution.
How It Works:
1️⃣ Pick Three Ages. Randomly choose three numbers—these represent your age at different points.
2️⃣ Write a Scene for Each. Whatever memory surfaces matters. Don’t overthink it.
3️⃣ Weave in Reflection. Let the story reveal itself.
Choose Your Theme:
⚡ The Story of My Recovery Over Time
⚡ The Story of My Fear Over Time
⚡ The Story of My Strength Over Time
⚡ The Story of My Voice Over Time
⚡ The Story of My Self-Worth Over Time
Example Reflection: A girl imagines love in the form of violence because that’s what she knows. Thunderbird makes it go down easy for him, while the metallic taste of blood left in her mouth never quite goes away.
Read my full essay, “The Story of My Fear Over Time" at The Rumpus where I trace scenes from my life at ages 11, 16, and 18 to show how this pattern unfolds in practice.
This prompt pulls from your subconscious—you don’t need to force connections. The story will reveal itself.
Want to Submit?
I’m looking for 500-word submissions on reclaiming your power, finding your badass, and aligning with your true nature.
For the next round, I’m especially looking for pieces that explore The Story of My Recovery Over Time. These special features will be published quarterly—stay tuned!
📩 Email submissions to: thompsonk@substack.com
There’s no one way to recover—only the way that works for you. Now, go write. 🔥
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How much have you paid to fix what was never broken? What if, instead, you invested in the truth of your wholeness?
Me and money.
Yeah, not so much.
I was raised in a world where belief was proven through sacrifice—where itinerant preachers gave up everything, and we were taught to slip them money in envelopes, trusting that giving freely made it holy. Never mind the hidden abuse, the lack of transparency. Later, I found myself in twelve-step rooms, where I heard the same scripture from Matthew: Freely give as ye have been freely given to.
So I get it. Charging for this feels unnatural. But here’s what I know: words sustain us. And if my words have done that for you, I invite you to support this work—not because you need fixing, but because you never did.
This Substack isn’t about self-improvement—it’s about self-recognition. It’s about remembering what the world tried to make you forget: your wholeness, your right to take up space, your power to name your own experience.
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Experience, Strength, and Hope (ESH)
“This Substack isn’t about self-improvement—it’s about self-recognition. It’s about remembering what the world tried to make you forget: your wholeness, your right to take up space, your power to name your own experience.” - ah, this is so great.
Thanks again for featuring me as a guest essayist! I think this issue will encourage a lot of readers to take even a single step forward in their own journeys. I love all of these stories, and I look forward to reading more of your work! Thanks again. You rock.
Thanks Kelly, for these peeks into recovery journeys of many kinds. Thank you https://open.substack.com/pub/shelleydurgakarpaty, for the reminder “The chaos wasn’t happening to me—it was just happening.” I heard something similar in early recovery, it came back to me in the beginning of what promised to be another huge family fight. I heard “They’re not doing it to you, they’re just doing it,” echo in my head and I didn’t engage. It changed my life and my relationship with my family forever. ❤️