Today, I am sad. And sadness sits heavy, like fabric draped over my shoulders, pulling me inward. It’s a feeling I often try to deny, to stuff into the seams of my life like leftover fabric scraps from a garment I no longer wish to wear. But today, I am letting it breathe.
About a year ago, I wrote about how the man who was basically my Grandfather, Pete, was dying of cancer (you can read the article here: Grief, But Make It Fashion). Today is the one-year anniversary of Pete’s passing, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I miss him.
I recently had a conversation with my friend and colleague Sean Daniels, and I discussed my desire to live unmasked like fellow writer to The Sober Curator and my dear friend Andrew Littlefield. So this is my attempt to try.
Grief and I have a complicated history. It doesn’t come to me as tears; it comes in threads and patterns, in the clinking of sewing shears and the hum of a machine. I work as a fashion designer. This is how I process the unprocessable: through creation.
When Pete was fading, I poured myself into a collection called Shadows, which explored the pain of losing someone before they’re gone, and Half-Mourning, which nodded to Victorian grieving culture. The work sustained me.
But I haven’t touched a needle since February’s New York Fashion Week. And if I were being honest, I would tell you how I haven’t looked at any of the photos or videos from the show. I haven’t opened the closet that holds the pieces I made in that raw, bleeding space. The grief feels too real, too sharp. The clothes are safe, locked away, but I—still running, still avoiding—am not.
And yet, despite running away from this all-consuming feeling, here I am at 3 am writing this. My recovery may look different from your own. For me, I never relied on vices or alcohol due to the trauma of watching a loved one live with a substance use disorder; I opted for risky behaviors because they seemed less bad. In college, this is when my risky behaviors reached a pinnacle.
College was supposed to be a tapestry of new beginnings, but for me, it unraveled. Like many young women—nearly one in five of us—I turned my pain inward, wielding it against myself with cuts or burns. It was easier to focus on physical wounds than face the emotions threatening to drown me. The voices in my head whispered that I deserved the hurt, and I listened. Looking back now, I recognize that that behavior wasn’t healthy and didn’t aid my healing process.
At first, I tried to hide it. I wore long sleeves and spun stories about clumsiness, but my friends saw through it. They begged me to get help, and I hated them for it—hated that they saw my brokenness, hated the weakness it exposed. I skipped countless therapy appointments, terrified at the thought of the University keeping records of me attending a therapist’s office for seven years. I worried that someone would find my file and spill all the darkness I kept locked inside from others.
I thought silence was strength, but silence only deepened my wounds. Eventually, I went. Slowly, with the help of a therapist who held my secrets with care, I began to understand that this wasn’t failure—it was survival. Twelve years later, I wish I could tell that scared, defiant girl that seeking help wouldn’t make her weaker; it would make her free.
So today, I am sad. I mourn not just Pete but the years I spent refusing to let myself grieve, refusing to be seen. Pete loved me enough to push me toward help when I couldn’t see it myself, and I can no longer thank him. But I can honor him by letting myself feel this, knowing that sadness is part of the fabric of recovery. I can promise to keep stitching my story together, even on the bad days.
Today, I am sad, but tomorrow, I won’t be sad. And that, as Pete taught me, is enough. That hope sustains me in my long-term recovery.
Call 988 to reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. It provides free and confidential support 24 hours a day, seven days a week for people in suicidal crisis or distress. You can learn more about its services here, including its guide on what to do if you see suicidal language on social media. You can also call that number to talk to someone about how you can help a person in crisis. For crisis support in Spanish, call 1-888-628-9454.
For support outside of the US, a worldwide directory of resources and international hotlines is provided by the International Association for Suicide Prevention. You can also turn to Befrienders Worldwide.
Help is Available
If you or someone you love is living with substance use, alcohol misuse, a co-occurring, or a behavioral health disorder, there is hope. The Break Free Foundation aids individuals seeking recovery through the Break Free Scholarship Fund. It sends anyone who lacks the financial resources to attend a recovery center to do so at low to no cost.
Review our Treatment Locator Tool to find the right program near you, as well as our list of Hotlines and Helplines. Click here for a list of regional and national resources. On this road to recovery, no one is alone. We are all in this together.
Speak Out Speak Loud is a space echoing Madonna’s call to “Express yourself!” This is where our readers and contributors take center stage, sharing their transformative sobriety journeys. Often, sobriety uncovers hidden talents, abilities, and new avenues of self-expression. By sharing these stories, we not only facilitate personal healing but also offer hope to those still navigating the path of recovery. So, let’s raise our voices, Speak Out, and Speak Loud! In doing so, we combat the silence that often shrouds addiction, offering solace and inspiration.
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