I've said those words a dozen times now.
They still feel strange in my mouth—the admission of something I spent so long denying.
But they also feel true.
And there's power in that truth.
In owning what I am instead of hiding from it.
Today's meeting is small—just eight of us, huddled against the February chill.
The basement is freezing despite the ancient radiator clanking in the corner.
Mark, who's been clean for three years and sponsors half the group, is running the session.
Denise, a middle-aged woman who lost her nursing license to pills, sits across from me, her hands wrapped around her coffee cup for warmth.
Hawkins, a kid barely out of high school who reminds me too much of myself at that age, slouches in his chair with studied indifference that doesn't quite hide the fear in his eyes.
And the others, each with their own story, their own scars, their own daily battles.
"How are you doing this week, Vanna?" Mark asks.
"Good. Really good." I put my hand on my stomach—a habit now, a constant reminder of what I'm fighting for. "Seventeen weeks pregnant. Still clean. Still showing up."
"That's what it's about," Mark says, nodding. "One day at a time."
"One day at a time," the group echoes.
The meeting continues—Hawkins shares about a close call at a party, Denise talks about the anniversary of her mother's death and how she almost used—and I listen.
Really listen.
Because their struggles are my struggles.
Their victories are my victories.
After the meeting, I linger by the coffee table, refilling my cup even though the coffee is terrible. Denise comes up beside me, her eyes kind.
"You're doing great, you know," she says quietly. "I can see the change in you. From that first meeting when you could barely look anyone in the eye—you're different now."
"I don't feel different."
"That's how you know it's real." She smiles. "The fake stuff feels dramatic. The real stuff just feels like life."
I think about that on the drive back to the clubhouse.
Maddox is my shadow today—the club's been rotating who stays with me, making sure I'm never alone—and he doesn't try to make conversation.
Just drives, his massive hands steady on the wheel, his presence a quiet reassurance.
The real stuff just feels like life.
Maybe that's what this is.
Not a dramatic transformation, not a Hollywood redemption arc.
Just life.
