Still in the Fight: Scars, Sobriety, and the God Who Won’t Let Go.
Life right now feels like a steel cage match. No breaks, no bell, no ref. Just me, swinging at the air some days, getting pummeled on others, and dragging myself off the mat again and again. It’s marriage tension that wears me down. It’s work stress piling on like chairs thrown into the ring. It’s the constant weight of parenting four kids — all in different seasons — each pulling on me in ways that leave my hands burned raw from the tug-of-war. One of them is pushing me to the edge, demanding the privileges of adulthood without the responsibility, lashing out when corrected, spitting words that wound deep. Their disrespect cuts me open, and yet I love them too much to let it slide. To guide them, I have to be willing to play the villain in their eyes.
Meanwhile, the other kids each need something different from me — one’s searching, one’s wrestling, one’s holding steady but still needing my attention. It’s like juggling knives. No matter how careful I am, somebody’s going to get nicked.
And then there’s the beast I face daily: alcohol. This month, I’m 4.5 months sober. That’s a miracle and a fresh wound at the same time. Don’t get it twisted — sobriety is not a trophy you hang and forget. It’s a live wire I touch every day. This past weekend hit me harder than anything: I was so tempted I could taste Patron. I could feel it sliding down my throat in my imagination — the burn, the salt, the lime, the hairs on my arms standing up like a signal. My hands shook just thinking about the relief it promised. It whispered that one drink would make the chaos quieter, would patch the raw places for a little while. I could almost feel the glass in my hand. It was vivid. Terrifyingly vivid.
Jesus brought her to me when I needed her most — my sponsor, my tag team partner. And right there, when the craving crawled up my spine and the lie sounded so convincing, my phone lit up. My sponsor. My lifeline. She showed up at the drop of a hat — as she always does when I start spiralling — and she didn't judge. She showed up literally and figuratively, picking me off the ground from the fetal position my cravings put me in. She sat with me while my hands trembled. She reminded me of the truth: that Patron is a liar disguised as comfort. She held the line with me when my knees felt weak. She and Jesus together pulled me back from the cliff. Without her? I would be lost. With her? I was reminded that grace is not a one-time thing — it's the muscle I use when my will is fried.
On top of that, my own body has been betraying me. I’ve been down with a brutal infection from my wisdom teeth — face swollen, head pounding, antibiotics and exhaustion like a second skin. I finally had them yanked last week, but the drain lingers. I haven’t been to church in what feels like forever. My body needed rest, but my soul misses the sanctuary, the Word, the worship. When you already fight manic depression, being cut off from that lifeline hits hard. The silence grows louder. The dark thoughts creep in faster. And I find myself crying out, “Lord, where are You? I’m still here. Don’t forget me.”
Then family layers on more weight. My stepdad is walking through health scares with no answers. Doctors shrug. More tests. More waiting. It’s exhausting to live in the land of “we don’t know.” And my sister — oh, my sister. She just found out she lost one of her twins. She’s still carrying one, thank You Jesus, but the other is gone. And now she’s caught in that cruel in-between place: mourning one life while carrying another. People don’t know how to respond. They fumble, they blurt, they say things like, “At least you still have one.” Those words cut like knives.
Watching her, it stirs up my own wound. Because this week is the 15-year anniversary of my son Jamison’s “unbirthday.” Fifteen years since I lost him late in pregnancy. Fifteen years since I learned how cruel silence can be, how heavy grief is when the world just keeps spinning. Sitting with my sister’s heartbreak brings it all rushing back. The clichés. The awkwardness. The way people turn their eyes because grief is too uncomfortable. But I know what she needs, because I needed it too: not answers, not explanations, but presence.
Jamison’s unbirthday marks me. It always will. But maybe that scar is its own strange gift. Because it teaches me how to sit with my sister in her valley without flinching. To let her know she’s not alone. And to remind her that the same Jesus who sat with me in my ashes is sitting with her now. That loss didn’t destroy me, even when it felt like it would — and she will not be destroyed either.
And yet… let me be honest. It feels like too much sometimes. Marriage frustrations that flare into stupid arguments. Work that grinds me down. Parenting battles that feel unwinnable. Family pain stacked on top of family pain. My own mental health gnawing at the edges. Sobriety screaming for me to give in. I am a manic depressive — and yes, that makes me feel everything louder, deeper, harder. Some days the shadows are heavier than the light. And when it all collides at once, I wonder if I can keep getting back up.
But in the middle of all that, a spark lit up that I didn’t know I needed. AJ Lee stepped back into a WWE ring. To most people, it’s entertainment. But to me? It was resurrection. AJ’s been honest about her battles with bipolar disorder, about the suffocating noise of a mind that won’t shut off. She’s carried the weight of stigma and shame and decided she would not be silent about it. There she was this weekend, back in the ring with CM Punk at her side, fighting, winning — and I ugly-cried. Because watching them raise their hands, scars and all, felt like a promise: comebacks are real.
AJ’s return preached a sermon I needed: scars don’t disqualify you. Brokenness doesn’t bench you. You can step into the fight carrying your mess and still come out with your hands raised. And as I sat there, tears streaming down my face, I felt Jesus whisper: This is you, too. You’re bloodied. You’re tired. You’re scarred. You’re tempted. You’re sober by grace alone. But you’re still mine. And I’m not done with you yet.
Paul said it plain in 2 Corinthians 12:9 — “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” When I am weak, He is strong. And Lord, I am weak. Maybe that’s the doorway where His power floods in. Paul also told Timothy to “fight the good fight” (1 Timothy 6:12). This is that fight. The day-to-day, the tiny no’s when the bottle calls, the boundary set with a child who lashes, the phone call to a doctor when tests come back inconclusive, the decision to sit with my sister and not fix her grief with platitudes. Fight the good fight. Take hold of the life God offers.
So what does this look like for me today? It looks like calling my sponsor when the craving comes instead of answering the lie. It looks like showing up for my kids when my heart wants to curl up under the covers. It looks like letting my husband see my rawness and asking him to fight with me rather than against me. It looks like pacing myself when the world expects a sprint. It looks like sitting in the silence sometimes, and then choosing to lift my hands anyway. It looks like leaning into Jesus when my muscles are spent.
This is not flashy. There’s no pyro, no arena lights, no theme song. The comeback is messy and tiny and holy. Every morning I put one foot in front of the other and say yes again. Every time I say no to the bottle and yes to my sponsor’s text, I’m winning. Every time I hold my sister while she cries, I’m lifting gospel in the middle of grief. Every time I choose the cross instead of the crutch, I win.
So here I am. Bloodied. Scarred. Exhausted. Tempted. But held. Not finished. Not forsaken. Not forgotten. I am still in the fight. My sponsor is in my corner. Jesus is in my corner. And if you’re out there with rope burns and a split lip and a heart that’s tired of trying — get up with me.
The bell hasn’t rung. The ref hasn’t declared it over. The cross already declared the victory. So stand. Fight. Love. Comeback.
