More Than One Kind of Recovery
For a long time, I thought recovery was something I watched other people do. Growing up I had birthday parties in sober living apartments, played in back rooms during AA meetings, watched my mom and others try over and over again to get sober, and witnessed several people find recovery. Recovery was woven into many of my earliest memories.
As I walked my own healing journey, I slowly realized recovery was for me, too. I recently became a Certified Peer Support Professional through DMHA, and earning that certification became more than adding another credential. It was a way to honor the lived experience that has shaped who I am and that I believe so many others can relate to.
Addiction, grief, and recovery have always been part of my life. I lost my mom when I was nine. At twelve, I lost my older brother to suicide. I lost my dad at twenty, and later another brother and both of my grandparents.
As I got older, anger became my biggest hurdle. Looking back, it felt easier than grief, easier than sadness, easier than sitting with what I had lost. At different points, that avoidance showed up in other ways too: cutting people off, conflict in my relationship, or focusing outward on things that were easier to pick apart than looking inward.
By the time I moved away from Indianapolis, I realized the anger was consuming me. Something had to change.
I first tried a couple of different support groups, but nothing felt right. Later, I found Celebrate Recovery. The first night I was supposed to go, I got a flat tire and told my aunt it was a sign I shouldn’t. She said, “Maybe the enemy is trying to keep you from where you’re supposed to be.”
I listened and I went.
At first, I hated it. Sitting in a room talking about feelings felt unbearable. I was skeptical and convinced group settings weren’t for me. One of the leaders asked me to come six times before deciding. Somewhere in those six meetings, something shifted. Hearing other people share made me realize I wasn’t alone. It was the first time I felt real acceptance and the beginning of understanding that healing was possible.
When people hear recovery, they often think of substance use. But recovery wraps around grief, trauma, depression, suicidal thoughts, anger, anxiety, and learning how to live with yourself.
That was the beginning of mine. For years, I thought recovery belonged to other people. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I had been living my own recovery story all along, I just didn’t have a name for it yet.
The Thoughts I Didn’t Understand
As life moved forward, I started volunteering, going back to school, and building a life that felt bigger than my pain. But there were still things I hadn’t addressed.
When I think back on suicidal thoughts, I can’t point to a beginning. They didn’t arrive all at once. They were more like thoughts that quietly existed in the background, sometimes tied to grief, sometimes stress, sometimes for reasons I couldn’t explain.
What made it confusing was that life kept moving. I was still functioning. Still laughing. Still showing up for people. There were good days mixed with hard ones. Because of that, I didn’t acknowledge what was happening for a long time. I didn’t talk about it. I was scared. I felt ashamed. Part of me even felt ungrateful for having those thoughts because I knew firsthand what suicide had already done to my family.
For years, I also had vivid dreams about my brother. I don’t know exactly why, but after I finally started speaking the truth about what I was carrying, those dreams slowly stopped. I don’t know if the two were connected, but I’ve often wondered if keeping everything inside was my mind’s way of trying to make sense of it.
I kept telling myself I could handle it on my own.
Even in therapy, I talked around it. I focused on grief, stress, relationships, school, anything but the thoughts themselves. I believed that if I fixed everything else, the thoughts would disappear. Sometimes they did. Then they came back.
I also never fully fit the “warning signs” people talk about. When I did, it was temporary. I would come out of it again, which reinforced the false belief that I was in control and that other people had it worse than me.
For years, I believed I wasn’t struggling enough to ask for help.
Looking back, I think that’s one of the biggest lies suicidal thoughts can tell us, that because we’re still functioning or because someone else has it worse, we don’t deserve or need help yet. I realize how common that belief is, and why it matters to expand the conversation.
Expanding the Conversation
Much of our messaging around suicide focuses on crisis, on the most severe moments, and on the warning signs that mean someone is at immediate risk. And those conversations matter. They save lives.
But after living it myself, I also wonder if there’s room to expand the conversation.
Because not everyone experiencing suicidal thoughts looks the way we expect them to.
Some people are still working. Still laughing. Still raising families. Still showing up every day. They may be teachers, nurses, mechanics, dads who never miss a game, friends everyone leans on, the person who lights up a room, the leader advocating for mental health, the cheerleader, the science fair winner, or the person who never asks for help because they think they can handle it on their own.
Those thoughts may come and go. They may fluctuate. They may exist long before anything looks like a crisis.
What if we talked more about that, too? What if we made space for people to seek support when those thoughts first appear, even if they are still functioning, still having good days, still feeling moments of joy, and still telling themselves they should be able to handle it alone?
Mental health isn’t one-size-fits-all, and neither is suicidality. And I think when we only talk about it at its most extreme point, we unintentionally leave people wondering if they even belong in the conversation at all. By broadening the conversation, we may help more people recognize themselves in it and reach out earlier.
What It Looked Like for Me
There were times I wondered if people would be better off without me. Times I believed I was a burden. Times I wished I could disappear for a while. And still, I was showing up. Smiling. Laughing. Having moments that were genuinely good.
Other times, it looked more like what people expect, staying in bed, withdrawing, saying I was just tired, or having emotions come out as anger or tears.
There were also moments I tried to reach out for help long before I ever said the words.
I remember saying one time to family, “I have everything I want, the job, the house, the partner, the child, and I’m still unhappy. Something is wrong with me.”
At the time, that was the most honest I could be.
What I didn’t say was, “I want to die.”
I wanted someone to understand what I couldn’t yet say out loud. I was hoping someone would hear what I wasn’t able to name. No one asked the question I needed. No one followed up in the way I hoped they would. And it made me feel even more alone.
Looking back, I don’t blame anyone. Most people aren’t trained to recognize those signs, and many don’t know what to say when someone is hurting. Sometimes they miss what’s right in front of them. Sometimes they assume you’ll tell them if it’s serious.
It still makes me sad, not because I think anyone failed me, but because I remember how badly I wanted someone to understand what I couldn’t yet say out loud. I remember times when I got so bad I scared myself, yet on the outside it looked like I was simply overwhelmed. Internally, there was so much more going on.
What I Learned
Recovery has taught me that people are often carrying things we can’t see. Some of the people who seem like they have it all together are struggling quietly. Some of the people others have written off are fighting battles no one knows about. That realization has changed the way I listen, the assumptions I make, and the way I show up for others.
My experience taught me something important: mental health exists on a continuum. People don’t stay in one place. Looking “fine,” or even genuinely feeling fine at times, doesn’t erase what may be happening underneath or what can ebb and flow over time.
It also taught me that reaching out matters, and so does reaching out to the right supports.
Friends, family, and loved ones can be incredibly important parts of recovery, but they can’t always carry what they’re not equipped to carry. Sometimes the next step is talking to a therapist, a crisis counselor, a peer, or another professional who knows how to help. For me, I leaned on crisis support, therapy, and friends. More often than not I leaned on my significant other. My boyfriend has been a steady presence through my healing, even when he couldn’t fully understand it.
One phrase from Celebrate Recovery has stayed with me over the years: “We’re only as sick as our secrets.” I think it resonated with me immediately because I grew up around secrets. Addiction, grief, mental health, and so many other things quietly became things we carried instead of things we talked about. I understood that phrase right away. But when it came to my own secret, I was just as scared to say it. Even knowing how heavy secrets can be, I still convinced myself I had to carry this one alone.
The more honest I became about what I was carrying, the less power those thoughts seemed to have over me. Looking back, I don’t think healing began because everything suddenly got better. I think it began the moment I stopped carrying it alone.
Recovery changed more than my own life. It changed the way I see other people. I know now that some of the people who seem like they have it all together are carrying things no one else can see. I know someone can be successful, smiling, and showing up every day while quietly fighting battles no one knows about.
Why This Certification Matters
For years, I thought recovery was something I watched other people experience. I didn’t recognize my own journey as part of it. Earning this certification made me realize it wasn’t about adding another credential. It was about honoring the lived experience that has shaped who I am. It reminded me that lived experience isn’t something to hide. It can become one of the greatest tools we have for helping someone else feel less alone.
Peer support isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about walking alongside someone, recognizing their strengths, and reminding them they don’t have to carry everything alone. In many ways, that’s exactly what others did for me long before I realized I was in recovery myself.
Whether I ever work in a formal peer support role or not, this training has already made me a better listener, a stronger advocate, and a better future social worker. Recovery isn’t perfect. It isn’t linear. It isn’t the same for everyone. But it is possible.
If sharing my story helps even one person recognize themselves in these words, reach out a little sooner, or realize they don’t have to wait until they’re in crisis to deserve support, then every vulnerable word has been worth it. If you’re struggling or having thoughts of suicide, you don’t have to carry it alone. You can call or text 988 anytime to connect with a trained crisis counselor who will listen, provide support, and help you find the next best step.
This piece is a personal reflection intended for education and awareness, not a substitute for therapy or clinical treatment.