Some Joy Then A Lot of Pain, Agony & Hope
Mia was only fourteen when she tried drugs for the first time. It was a friend who handed her a joint at a party, laughing as she said, "Come on, just try it. It’s nothing serious." Mia hesitated, but curiosity won. The world didn’t end. In fact, it felt kind of nice. Relaxing. No harm done, right?
But that first hit was just the beginning.
By sixteen, marijuana wasn’t enough. She needed something stronger. She started experimenting with pills, then cocaine. The rush was incredible. She felt untouchable, powerful—until she wasn’t. The highs came with lows that felt unbearable. The solution? More drugs. By eighteen, fentanyl had taken over her life. It wasn’t fun anymore. It was survival.
Mia lied to everyone. She stole from her parents, her friends—anyone who trusted her. She lost jobs, dropped out of school, and moved from one place to another, chasing her next high. Her reflection in the mirror no longer looked like the girl she once was. Her skin had lost its glow, her eyes were empty, and her body was thin and frail. She looked decades older than nineteen.
And then, everything crashed.
She woke up in a hospital bed. A stranger had found her unconscious on a sidewalk. Overdose. The doctors said she was lucky to be alive. Her mother sat beside her, eyes red, hands trembling. “Mia, please,” she whispered. “You have to stop.”
Mia had heard it all before. Rehab, therapy, interventions. None of it worked because she never wanted to change. But this time, she had nowhere else to go. The hospital wouldn’t release her without a plan, so she agreed to attend an NA meeting. Just to check the box. Just to prove it wouldn’t work.
She walked into the room with arms crossed, ready to roll her eyes at every word. But as she listened, something shifted. A man spoke about stealing from his mother, just like she had. A woman admitted to waking up in an alley, just like she had. Every story felt too familiar. These people weren’t different. They weren’t judging. They understood.
For the first time, Mia admitted the truth—not to others, but to herself.
“I’m Mia,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m an addict.”
No one gasped. No one looked disgusted. They just nodded, as if they had been waiting for her to say it.
Mia kept coming back. She learned to face her past without drowning in shame. She apologized to the people she had hurt, one by one. It wasn’t easy, but for the first time in years, she wasn’t running anymore.
Recovery wasn’t a straight path, but it was hers to walk. And for the first time in a long time, she believed she could make it.