Angie

Ten years ago, I was trying to disappear. I was homeless, carrying the weight of an abusive marriage, and breaking apart in ways I didn’t know how to name. My children had lived through things no child should ever see, and I convinced myself they were asleep when it happened. Therapy proved me wrong about that. Hearing my sons describe what they witnessed cracked something open in me. And then came my breaking point: in just one moment of anger I struck my son so hard it left my handprint on his face. The fear in his eyes is something I will never forget. I knew right then that if I didn’t change, I would become the very thing I hated. As I healed, something else happened to me as my story stopped feeling like a wound and started feeling like a bridge. I shared my witness statement at an ISP retreat. I returned for more retreats, not just to receive, but to give. I even started making bracelets for women as small reminders that they are seen and worthy of something beautiful.

After I got sober, I found myself at a warming center, still trying to rebuild from nothing. That’s where I first heard about an ISP retreat. I’ll be honest, I didn’t know what ISP was, and I was nervous it might be tied to a religion that wasn’t mine. But I was cold, exhausted, and I wanted somewhere safe to be for the weekend. I went thinking I’d finally get rest. What I didn’t expect was to be fed in every sense of the word. The first meal I ate there was the first real food I’d had in almost three days. I had been living on chips and water. And as the retreat went on, movement by movement, my heart started to open. I realized ISP wasn’t about pushing one religion. It was about recovery, grounded in the spirit of the 12 Steps, and about remembering that God exists and loves us. Alcohol had been my escape as my drug of choice. For nearly eleven years I drank a fifth of tequila a day so I wouldn’t have to feel the pain, the fear, or the shame. But numbing myself didn’t protect my kids, it only made me absent when they needed me most. When I finally asked my sister to help me get into treatment, I made a decision I had failed to make before. I was determined to stay. Detox was the scariest and most painful thing I’ve ever lived through both: mentally and physically. I could smell the alcohol coming out of my skin. I shook, I vomited, I burned with fevers. Still, I kept going, because my sons were watching, and I was the only stable person they had. Their father didn’t want them — in fact he even tried to harm them. I had to choose life for all of us, and I am so grateful that I did.

When I was invited to join ISP’s Detroit Advisory Council, I felt humbled and ready. Being on the Advisory Council means I don’t just show up for a weekend. I help strengthen the work all year long. We meet quarterly to build community with one another, listen to what’s happening on the ground, and advise how ISP can better reach others who need this kind of support. We talk about what organizations and agencies we can partner with, who in our networks might open doors, and how we can help more people understand both what ISP is and what it is not. We’re not here to change anyone’s religion. We’re here to make sure people recovering from homelessness and addiction know they’re not alone, that recovery is possible, and that there is a path forward. For me, serving on the Advisory Council is the clearest sign of how far I’ve come. I survived, I recovered, and now I get to help build the community that once helped save my life. In AA, you find a family of people who understand you because they’ve been there. ISP felt like that, too. A community that didn’t try to fix me, judge me, or preach at me. They accepted me as I was, and they kept reminding me I didn’t have to do recovery alone. One moment from my first retreat still lives in my body. I sat quietly, closed my eyes, and talked to God. I felt a warmth wrap around me like a hug, as if I were being held up when I could barely stand on my own. Later, I drew the word Prosperity in a pottery heart. I kept it through every move, every new start, because it became proof that I could have a future. Today, I’m nearly eleven years sober, still learning, still choosing the next right thing, one day at a time.

Angie, Detroit