Rock Bottom, Redefined.

So there I was, sunken at my latest definition for what it meant to hit rock bottom.

At thirty-one,

I was penniless, promiscuous, and panicking—

teetering dangerously close to manic, and overdue for another severe break from reality.

How did I get to this point?

Everything was supposed to be different. I was supposed to be different.

But somehow, it was always more of the same.

Perhaps my greatest delusion was believing I was destined for greatness when really

I was just made to be a stain— a grease fire that refused to go out, an aneurysm that never quite learned how to clot.

But if there was anything left that resembled grace, it was this—

I could not lie to myself anymore.

No scapegoats.

No rewrites.

No romanticizing ruin.

Just truth, raw and unflattering, staring me down without blinking.

And in that moment, buried beneath the wreckage of who I had been— there was something else.

Not hope. Not yet.

But accountability.

And that was enough to begin again.