My story begins in a world where trouble was the norm. My dad was in a biker gang, and my mom spent much of her time working in bars. Their first meeting was anything but romantic. One day, my dad and his Nomad buddies parked their bikes right on the sidewalk outside the bar where my mom was working. She marched out and told him that if he didn’t move them, she’d run them over. They called her bluff—so she did it. The bikes fell like dominoes.

Instead of being furious, my dad was impressed. He asked her out, and before long, she was pregnant with me. They got married when she was six months along, but it was only then that my mom learned he was addicted to heroin.

Three months after my birth, my dad had a stroke. He recovered enough to regain feeling in his left side—only to celebrate by using heroin and cocaine in such large amounts that he suffered another stroke, this time leaving him permanently paralyzed on that side.

Then came the moment that changed everything. One day, high and unstable, he held a knife to my throat in my crib. I was six months old. My mom intervened, saved me, and left him that same day. But life didn’t magically get better. Her next boyfriend abused me for three years. When I was eight, I finally told someone, and we moved again—new town, new bar, new man. The cycle repeated.

By twelve, I had my first drink. Soon it was marijuana, LSD, stealing from my mom to fund drugs for my friends. In ninth grade, I was arrested for selling pot at school. In eleventh grade, it happened again. By twenty, I discovered crack cocaine.

When I received a $20,000 settlement, I blew it all on crack in just three months. I became a shell of myself—85 pounds, homeless, broke, and hopeless. I realized I was turning into my father. One day, I asked the universe for help.

By the grace of God, I got sober. And I stayed sober. I call it a miracle. Somewhere along the way, I made peace with my father. I forgave him—not because what he did was okay, but because I couldn’t expect forgiveness for my own mistakes if I wasn’t willing to give it. In his last years, bedridden and dependent, I cared for him. I made sure he felt loved, not judged, until the day he passed.

Today, I’ve been sober since 2006. I have a wonderful husband, incredible kids, and I run a thriving business dedicated to helping healthy people live even better lives. I’m grateful for the woman I’ve become—and it all started with one choice: to forgive.

We do recover. And sometimes, forgiveness is where it begins.