After a year of sobriety, I revisited the rehab facility where I had once been treated, determined to thank the counselor who guided me towards this new path. As I waited in the lobby, the director spotted me. The same man who a year before had told me I would never recover. Oh, I see you’re here again he said.
Yes, sir, I replied.
Why are you here? he asked with evident skepticism.
Um, I’ve been clean for a year now and I wanted to thank my counselor, I explained.
His eyes widened with surprise. Really? That’s a story I want to hear, he said, inviting me into his office. He settled behind his desk, feet up casually, and asked, So what happened to you over the last year?
I recounted my journey: moving from one halfway house to another, enduring homelessness, surviving a brutal beating and being left for dead beneath a bridge, finding refuge in homeless shelters, crashing on sponsors’ couches, and attending countless 12-Step meetings. When I finished, he looked at me intently.
Young lady, your sobriety has been sorely tested, he acknowledged.
Yes, sir, I agreed.
After a pause, he offered with a smile, How would you like a job?
Yes, sir, I said without hesitation. And that was the moment everything changed.
For seven years, I worked as a counselor’s assistant and learned to be an advocate for addicts and alcoholics. I worked with kids aged 11 through 18—some were just experimenting, while others had the severe addictions of adults.I was grateful for this job, especially since my own children were taken from me during my battle with addiction.
When the opportunity to work with kids came up, I wasn’t sure it was right for me. But then my supervisor said, Maybe God has given you these children until you’re ready to take care of your own. That thought struck me deeply. Missing my children every day, this work was both healing and rewarding for me as I helped guide other people’s kids.
After seven years, I felt that being a counselor’s assistant wasn’t enough. I needed more. So, at 45, I decided to return to college full time.
As a single mom with weekends dedicated to my children and working night shifts full time, I went back to school during the day—it was an exhausting yet exhilarating journey.
In my final year of college, I enrolled in a criminal justice class that offered an internship. While many opportunities included security positions or roles as 9-1-1 operators and in police departments, I wanted to make a real difference. I chose to work in prisons and specifically wanted to help men.
Having always connected better with men than women and drawing from my addiction experience and personal recovery, it seemed like the perfect fit. So, I interned at a men’s prison in Alabama.
I became the state’s first female drug treatment counselor intern, working for three months without pay. The director ended up being the best boss I’d ever had. He said I could read between the lines of b.s. better than anybody and gave me complete freedom to design my curriculum.
Some days, I taught classes with 30 inmates; other times, there were 50. From early morning until late afternoon, only pausing for lunch, I spent time in that classroom getting to know these men on a therapeutic level.
My first day walking into the prison felt like a scene from a gritty movie. The heavy doors clanged back and forth, echoing down the hallways, while guards bustled about, barking orders. Inmates in stark white uniforms lined up like obedient soldiers. To my surprise, the grounds were cleaner than I imagined.
I shared a cramped office with three others. In the mornings, inmate clerks would shuffle in, brewing coffee and organizing paperwork for our classes. We’d spend some moments chatting with them, exchanging stories from what had happened in the dorm the night before, prepping for the day ahead.
One vivid memory stands out: my boss led me to a sprawling drug treatment area housing over 200 inmates. On the way, a glint from a razor blade caught my eye on the ground. Unease crept in as I glanced at him, wide-eyed. He shrugged it off, saying, This isn’t rehab; this is prison. Pointing to gouges in the concrete, he explained they were from inmates sharpening toothbrushes and pencils into makeshift weapons. It was both shocking and eye-opening.
About 50 men sat in church-like pews, eyes glued to a television. At the center of the room stood a large brick-and-glass cube where the officer presided. To the left were classrooms with windows peering inward, while concrete barriers on the right led to showers and toilets. In the back, 200 bunk beds stretched into the distance.
The men were either seated or standing at attention when I was introduced.Their glares pierced through my uneasy exterior, but I’d been toughened by life’s storms. After introductions, he guided me to my classroom, showing me the desk and saying, This is where you’re going to teach.
He added he would send a clerk and 20 inmates for my first session before turning to leave.
Are you leaving me alone? I asked.
He replied, Yeah, you got this. You’re one of the best counselors in the state. If you need anything, the officer in the cube will help, and if there’s any trouble with the inmates, tell your clerk to fetch him.
“Okay, sir. Thank you.” I said.
And so it begins…
Thank you for being willing to share your journey. 🖤