From Rock Bottom to Running Free
I was fourteen the first time I got drunk.
Fourteen the first time I laced up and ran like my life depended on it. Both moments felt electric. Both marked me. But only one would save me when everything else fell apart.
I grew up in California wine country, where the world glittered with glasses full of lies. My parents didn’t drink—yet. But everywhere I looked, from the flickering screen to the sidelines of every game, alcohol was the promise.
This is how you belong. This is how you shine. This is how you soften the ache.
My dad was my coach. My mom, both my guardian angel and a brewing storm. They loved me fiercely, but I was drowning in expectations and emotions no one ever taught me to feel.
So I drank.
The first time, it felt like unlocking a secret door to power. I wasn't shy anymore. I was electric. Loud. Brave.
But the truth was darker. Behind that door was shame. Blackouts. Wreckage. Chaos.
By sixteen, I was already deep in it. I totaled my first car before I could vote. Drove drunk. Didn’t die. Should’ve. My second accident was worse—skid marks, flashing lights, faces I can’t forget.
And still, I kept performing. Smiling. Running races and winning games. Showing up to practice. Nobody saw the broken parts inside.
I earned a scholarship. My dream. My escape. But you can't outrun a fire that's already burning in your own home. I lost that scholarship to drinking. I sabotaged the one thing I had worked for my entire life.
And I told myself I didn’t care. But I did. It nearly broke me. I fell harder after that. More parties. More blackouts. More shame.
And then—something sparked.
When I was twenty, I trained for and ran my first marathon. Twenty-six point two miles of sweat, struggle, and sheer will. Crossing that finish line felt like I had finally proven something to myself. That I could still do hard things. That I was still in there, somewhere.
I even qualified for the Boston Marathon.
And when I finally got to run Boston—one of the greatest arenas in the world—I showed up hungover. Standing at the start line with a pounding head and a broken heart, I ran it. Not my fastest, and not free.
Because you can’t run away from your truth. You carry it in your body.
Years passed. The patterns deepened. I got married. Had kids. Motherhood showed me what love really looks like, and how terrifying it is to love your children and know deep down you’re not whole. I tried to control it. Moderate. Make deals with myself.
But alcohol doesn’t negotiate. It only takes and then takes more.
Eventually, the marriage ended. I lost that version of my life, too. And then came the moment I’ll always remember. The mirror moment.
The knees-on-the-floor moment where I said: No more.
Not just for my kids. Not just for my health. But for my soul.
Sobriety wasn’t a soft landing. It was a reckoning. Every emotion I had drowned came rushing back like a flood. But this time, I didn’t run from the pain.
I ran through it.
Mile by mile.
I ran sober. I cried on trails. I rebuilt my faith. I listened to God, to the Universe, to that quiet voice inside me whispering, You were meant for more.
I didn’t just get sober. I came alive. Running returned—not as punishment, but as my resurrection. Every run became a victory lap. Every finish line was freedom.
And I knew: I wasn’t the only one who needed this.
That’s why I created Recovery Road Runners and SLO Sober. A sanctuary for runners, walkers, athletes, and parents who are done numbing, hiding, and pretending. A rebellion for those who want to feel it all and still rise. A movement for the ones who don’t want wine at the end of the day—they want power.
This isn’t about perfection.
This is about becoming dangerous in our truth.
This is about healing with our feet on the ground, our hearts wide open, and our souls on fire.
Today, I am free. I am sober. I am still sensitive—but that’s one of my superpowers. I am a mother. A runner. A coach. A warrior. And a woman who ran straight through hell and lived to tell the story.
This is mine. And maybe, just maybe, it’s yours too.
So if you’ve ever woken up in shame, if you’ve ever stood in front of a mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back, if you’ve ever whispered, “There has to be more to life than this”…
—there is.
You are not too broken. You are not too late. You are not alone.
You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to take the next brave step.
We are the ones who chose truth over numbness. Strength over shame. Running shoes over regret.
We are the ones who broke the cycle. Who rose from the wreckage. Who dared to run free.
This is your invitation. This is your moment.
Lace up. Come as you are. And run with us.
This is SLO Sober.
We don’t drink to cope—we run to rise.
