An alumna’s graduation reflection

Good evening, everyone.

When I was asked to speak tonight, I spent a lot of time wondering what I wanted to say. I thought maybe I should tell you about my trauma. Or my addiction. Or my recovery. But none of those things felt like the whole story.

Then one word kept coming back to me. Permission. I even looked up the definition: the act of allowing someone to do something… consent… authorization granted by a person in authority. I sat there staring at that definition for a long time. Because I realized something. For most of my life, I believed permission was something someone else had to give me.

Permission to speak. Permission to cry. Permission to ask for help. Permission to take up space. Permission to believe I deserved love. Permission to heal.

Years ago, my life changed forever. Someone made a choice without my permission. I don't have to tell you the details. Many of you already understand what it's like to have something happen that changes the way you see yourself. That moment didn't just steal my sense of safety. It slowly stole permission from every part of my life.

I spent years believing I wasn't worthy of peace. I self-medicated. I self-harmed. I bounced from therapist to therapist, hoping someone else could somehow fix what I couldn't even explain. Then I spent many years in an abusive marriage. Leaving took courage. But leaving wasn't healing. I was free, but I wasn't whole.

Eventually my pain stopped affecting only me. It began affecting the people I loved most. My children. And that was the moment I realized surviving wasn't enough anymore.

One night, I was lying on the floor of my closet. Crying. Broken. Exhausted. I remember thinking, "This life isn't what I signed up for." I didn't know how I was going to do it. I didn't even know if I could. But somewhere in that moment, I stopped waiting for someone else to save me. I gave myself permission to ask for help. And I walked through the doors of Denver Women's Recovery. That decision changed my life.

One of the most unexpected parts of my healing was writing. When I couldn't find words out loud, I found them on paper. Writing gave my pain somewhere to go. It gave my hope a voice. A month into treatment, I wrote this. It's called "My Release."

Today I give it all away / Every ounce / That holds me down. / I break away / From all the barriers / That take away / My crown.

Today I give back / All the pain / You so blindly gave to me. / And allow the soft / Back in my heart / To heal and set me free.

Today I give back / All the nights / That fear consumed my soul. / And allow the smiles / To come back in / And help me to my goals.

Today I give back / All the days / Of pretending who I am / So I can live authentically, / And you can be the sin.

Today I give myself the grace / That I so clearly need. / And hug myself a little more, / Heal the wound so I don't bleed.

Today I give back all the fear / That paralyzes me. / The fear that suffocates my rights / And stops me / From being free.

When I wrote those words, I didn't realize what I was really writing. I thought I was writing about letting go. Now I know I was writing myself a permission slip. Permission to stop carrying what was never mine to carry. Permission to heal. Permission to become myself again.

Recovery didn't happen because one person fixed me. It happened because people chose to sit beside me while I learned how to heal myself.

To my therapist: thank you. You looked me in the eyes one day and said words that changed my life forever. "It's not your fault." Not because I wasn't responsible for healing, but because I had never been given the tools to heal correctly. Then you reminded me, "You're here now." Thank you for seeing strength in me long before I could see it myself.

To the therapist who loved me enough to challenge me: you made me cry more times than I can count (gentle movement was in fact not gentle at all), but every one of those tears helped wash away years of pain.

To the woman who never kicked me off her couch: that couch became one of the safest places I've ever known. I will be back to take my regular naps.

To all the women who sat beside me in group: thank you for checking in. Thank you for reminding me I mattered. Every story you shared, every tear, every laugh, every breakthrough helped me become the woman standing here today. None of you healed me. You couldn't. But every one of you sat beside me while I learned how to heal myself. Sometimes that's the greatest gift one human being can give another.

Somewhere during treatment, something beautiful happened. I got my softness back. For years I thought strength meant becoming hard. Now I know strength looks different. Strength looks like boundaries. Strength looks like accountability. Strength looks like self-love. Strength looks like compassion, without abandoning yourself.

I'll never forget my final therapy session. My therapist looked at me and asked, "How do you feel?" Without even thinking, I answered, "I'm proud of myself." And then she almost cried. And as usual, so did I. Because in my whole life, those were four words I had never spoken about myself. I had spent my whole life waiting for someone else to tell me they were proud of me. That day, I didn't need anyone else's permission anymore.

To my children: thank you. Thank you for loving me while I learned how to love myself. Thank you for believing there was still a mom worth fighting for, even when I couldn't see her. I hope the woman standing here today makes you proud. But more than that, I hope if life ever knocks you down, you'll remember that your mom got back up. And you'll know that you can too.

To every woman sitting here tonight: maybe you're wondering if you'll ever get to the finish line. Maybe shame is louder than hope. Maybe you've convinced yourself that your mistakes define you. I promise you, they don't. You are not defined by the worst thing that has happened to you. You are not defined by the worst thing you've ever done. You are worthy of love. You are worthy of healing. You are worthy of peace. And if you can't believe that yet, borrow my hope. Just long enough to find your own.

When I first read the definition of permission, I thought it meant something another person gives you. Today I understand it differently. The authority I spent my whole life searching for was me. Healing began the day I stopped asking my past to decide who I was allowed to become.

Today, I give myself permission. Permission to heal. Permission to have boundaries. Permission to cry. Permission to laugh. Permission to say no. Permission to love. Permission to forgive myself. Permission to choose peace. Permission to be proud of the woman I've become.

Because no trauma, no addiction, no mistake, and no person gets to decide who I become. I do.

Thank you.