Sometimes I still think of myself as an awkward teenager—quiet, unsure, convinced no one would be interested in what I had to say.
I had a lot of thoughts back then. Big ones. The kind that didn’t seem to match what everyone else around me was talking about. So I stayed quiet. People often thought I was stuck up, but the truth was simpler than that: I didn’t know how to enter the room.
A few years ago, I did something that version of me never would have done. I shared a video publicly—about my alcoholism, my depression, my miscarriage, my mistakes. It was one of the most vulnerable things I’ve ever done.
I didn’t share it because I felt ready. I shared it because I didn’t know what else to do.
A few days earlier, I had prayed a simple, desperate prayer:
God, what do I do? I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do.
And the answer that came back was just as simple:
Share your story and watch what happens.
That moment didn’t fix everything. But it started something.
Months earlier, I had another experience that I’ve come back to again and again.
I remember thinking about someone who had hurt me deeply, and wondering how I could forgive them when I held grudges against everyone else. The thought came to me: I think it’s because I can see their heart.
And then another thought followed—clear, steady, not quite my own:
What if that’s how God sees me?
What came next is hard to explain, but I felt it as much as I heard it:
Leah, I created you—with that mind that never stops and that heart that feels so much. I know everything you’ve ever done and everything you ever will do. I’ve always loved you and always will. I created you on purpose and for a purpose.
I had spent years believing that the very things that made me me—my overthinking, my sensitivity—were liabilities. Things to fix. Things to tone down.
That moment didn’t instantly change everything, but it planted something new:
What if I’m not too much? What if I’ve just been misunderstood—by others, and by myself?
Recovery has a way of rearranging everything.
I didn’t expect that part.
I thought I would “fix the problem” and move on. Instead, it felt like my entire life started shifting—relationships, habits, patterns, even the way I saw myself. Some things fell away. Some things deepened. A lot of it felt unfamiliar.
At times, I’ve felt like a toddler in my own life—learning how to do things that used to feel automatic.
The best way I know how to describe it is this:
It’s like getting a new operating system.
Years ago, when I was waiting tables, I made my living on speed.
I was paid $2.13 an hour, so if I wanted to make money, I had to move fast and take great care of people. Over time, I got really good at it. My fingers flew across the ordering system without me even thinking. I knew where everything was.
And then one day, corporate changed the entire system.
The screens were different. The buttons were in new places. Everything that had once felt automatic suddenly required focus.
I remember feeling panicked. Slowing down felt dangerous. My income depended on speed, and now I had to stop and think.
It was frustrating. Disorienting. Humbling.
And eventually… it became familiar.
Recovery has felt exactly like that.
My old “operating system” was built on staying quiet, going along with things, and avoiding conflict. I didn’t speak up when something bothered me. I didn’t set boundaries. I let things build until they turned into resentment.
And resentment, I’ve learned, has a cost.
So I started doing something new: I started speaking up.
Not perfectly. Not comfortably. Not even well, at first.
But honestly.
What I didn’t realize is that when you change how you show up, everything around you responds.
Some people have met me with understanding. Some have taken responsibility for their part. Others have pushed back, dismissed me, or walked away entirely.
That part has been hard.
But I’ve learned something important:
I can’t control how people respond.
I can only control whether I tell the truth.
These days, I try to speak clearly, honestly, and with kindness. Not to control the outcome, but to stay connected to myself.
Sometimes that builds deeper relationships.
Sometimes it creates distance.
I’m learning to be okay with both.
I don’t always know where the buttons are yet.
Things that used to feel automatic still take intention. I still hesitate sometimes. I still feel the pull to go quiet, to keep the peace, to fall back into what’s familiar.
But I also know this:
I’m not who I was before.
And I’m not going back to that old system.
Leah McCracken 