The Day I Forgot My Name and Found My Life: 11 Weeks Sober, Eternally Changed
I still can’t fully wrap my head around what just happened. I was baptized this past Sunday. And the following evening, I stood under open skies at Kingdom Bound while Anne Wilson—the voice that got me through more breakdowns than I can count—closed out opening night as the headliner. It still doesn’t feel real. This week has transformed itself into one long, holy collision of heaven and earth. And I can’t stay quiet about it.
Sunday also marked 11 weeks sober. Eleven. That number’s been stalking me all week. Biblically, it represents disorder and chaos—the space between brokenness and restoration. The unraveling before divine order shows up. That’s exactly where I’ve lived for years. Too broken to be whole, too proud to surrender, too scared to ask for help. So I faked strength. I wore it like armor—smile polished, voice steady, eyes dead inside. People saw someone functional. But inside? I was barely breathing.
Addiction doesn’t always look like a bottle in your hand. Sometimes it looks like control. Silence. Isolation. “I’m fine.” Lie after lie after lie. I built a whole life around keeping it together while quietly falling apart.
Until I couldn’t anymore.
Eleven weeks ago, I hit the wall. Hard. I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I didn’t even want to pretend anymore. So I said the scariest and most freeing word of my life: Yes.
Yes, to Jesus.
Yes, to surrender.
Yes, to walking away from alcohol.
Yes, to being remade.
And Sunday—I got baptized. It wasn’t just symbolic. It was war. It was surrender. It was burial.
When I stepped into that water, something in the atmosphere shifted. I felt it. Thick. Heavy. Holy. The pastor asked, “What does M.J. stand for?” and I honestly couldn’t answer. I blanked. I literally forgot my own name. All I could do was whisper, “M.J.?”—like I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. And maybe that’s because the old me was already gone.
For context— M.J. is my name. And I write under Madge because it’s safer that way. It lets me talk about hard things without feeling fully exposed. But this moment? It demanded everything. I knew I couldn’t just write about it from the sidelines. I had to show up with my real name. Real story. Real surrender.
I don’t remember what else was said during the baptism. I’ve watched the video, and it’s like watching someone else. I wasn’t really there—not in the way we usually mean “there.” I was being carried. Overwhelmed. Drenched in something not of this world. The Holy Spirit overtook me—flooded every part of me I thought was too broken, too ashamed, too far gone.
I wanted to speak. I had so much to say. So much I wanted to tell everyone about why I was there. But God shut my mouth. Literally. I couldn’t form the words. And I think that silence was on purpose. Because He didn’t want my voice to be heard. He wanted to speak something so much louder than words.
And then—I came out of the water. Brand new. Still trembling. Still overwhelmed. And that’s when it hit me again. My husband came to me—weeping. And when I say weeping, I mean completely undone. This is a man who does not cry in public. Who holds it together. Who rarely lets anyone see what’s underneath. But in that moment? He broke. And that embrace—we collapsed into it like it was the only thing holding us up.
It was like God poured something through me into him. Something fierce and holy and uncontainable. A divine transfer. That hug wasn’t just emotional—it was supernatural. I believe in that moment, God cracked his heart open. He’s been carrying so much. Wrestling with faith. Haunted by his upbringing. Longing for transformation but scared to trust it. And right there—in front of everyone—something broke open.
I still couldn’t speak. But eventually, through tears, I said the only words I could: “I love you.” And I swear to you, it didn’t feel like I said it. It felt like God did. Like He used my mouth to speak straight into my husband’s soul. “I see you. I love you. I’m coming for you too.”
How do you write about that?
How do you put language around being possessed by peace, drowned in mercy, and remade in the presence of the living God?
You don’t. You just tremble. And then you worship.
And that’s what happened the very next night.
Kingdom Bound. Opening night. And Anne Wilson—the headliner—closed it out with a set that felt like it was written for me.
Her music has been the soundtrack to my surrender. Her voice has carried me through—through breakdowns, through breakthroughs. And now, just 24 hours after my baptism, I stood in the crowd hearing her sing the same lyrics I’ve been crying to for weeks.
She opened with “God Story.”
“My life is a God story / Gotta tell the world what He's done for me…”
I lost it. Again. Because that’s why I’m writing this. I have to tell you. I can’t hold it in. This is a God story. My life—my wreckage, my recovery, my rebirth—it all belongs to Him now. He gets every ounce of the credit.
Then she sang “Strong,” and I couldn’t even stand. I had to sit down. I had to sob. Because those lyrics? They are me:
“Try to make 'em all think I'm strong / Yeah, the face I keep putting on says I ain't tired…”
That fake strength? That dead smile? That was me. For years. But then—
“Lord knows I’ve tried, but I’m good at falling down / Thank God You’re good at picking me up off the ground.”
That’s it. That’s the whole story. I fall. He lifts. I fall again. He lifts again. Over and over. That’s what grace looks like. It’s gritty. Bloody. Messy. And it never stops showing up.
And finally, Anne closed the night with the anthem that started it all for me: “My Jesus.”
“Let me tell you 'bout my Jesus / His love is strong and His grace is free… He can do for you what He's done for me…”
Those words hit like lightning. Because yes—He can. He will. If you let Him.
This week has been sacred. Shattering. Raw. Holy. Eleven weeks sober. Eleven weeks of learning to breathe without numbing. Eleven weeks of falling apart—and letting Jesus hold the pieces.
But let me be clear—I’m not done. Sobriety was just the beginning. There are still other shadows. Other battles I face daily. Patterns that still try to block my growth, destroy my peace, distract me from truth. Control. Fear. People-pleasing. Shame. Lies I’ve believed for years. But here’s the difference now: I’m not facing them alone. I know who I belong to. And I know what surrender unlocks.
So no—I’m not going back.
Not to the bottle.
Not to pretending.
Not to hiding.
Not to numb.
I am brand new in Christ. Eleven weeks clean. Wide awake. Free in a way I didn’t think was possible. Fully seen. Fully loved. Finally me.
And the journey isn’t over. It’s just catching fire. I’ll be back at Kingdom Bound two more nights this week—first with Matthew West, then with We Are Messengers—because what God started in me? It’s only getting louder. Stronger. Brighter.
This journey isn’t just mine—it’s ours. And I’m ready to keep walking it, eyes wide open, heart on fire.
