A parking lot in Claremont, California, with a half-pint of vodka and an orange soda. Sandy N. was 47, broke, and drifting through a haze of meth and alcohol when a "lightning bolt" from her Higher Power struck, telling her to get her GED and move back to Michigan. The wreckage was deep: a husband who died by a sawed-off shotgun, years of guilt, and a string of toxic men. Even after the bolt, the addiction clawed back; she spent her bus ticket money on drugs and spent her first nights in Michigan hunting for pennies in her son's couch to feed the craving.
It took hitting a wall of absolute misery and seeing the serenity in her brother's eyes to finally stop. Sandy describes the grit of early sobriety—shaking for three weeks, terrified of a future that looked like a homeless woman pushing a cart. By following a 22-year-old sponsor's strict rules and working the steps, she traded the bottle for a degree from Eastern and a career in recovery.
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