“You either go to REHAB or back to live with your father!”,

I screamed at my son on his sixteenth birthday. He chose

rehab, convinced in part by my ex-husband of fourteen

years that I was the worst mother and human on Earth.

Wishing it would be a drive-by drop-off where I just open

the car door and kick him out, I had to walk him in and wait

an hour next to my own child as he detoxed off a cocktail of

Xanax and meth. My foot was tapping as I sat there

sweating for what felt like forever. “Shhhh, keep this a

secret,” whispered a voice inside me as I looked down to

avoid any kind of eye contact. The secret was shame, and it

wrapped its arms around me like a familiar warm blanket on

a cold day. The place smelled like foul body odor and a

convalescent home. It was older and I heard kids laughing,

joking and playing. How in the hell are they were going to

help my son, I wondered to myself, but I would have given

my son to anyone at that point.

When we finally got checked in, they told me I would need

to participate 2 nights a week. I would need to spend 3

hours each night with other parents and family night. I felt

defeated, I felt scared, and exposed. Who, me? I thought,

because I taught Yoga/Pilates as my own business, I ate well,

drove a BMW, lived in an affluent neighborhood. My

husband traveled for business, and we flew first class

everywhere we went. We had fancy dinners, I grew organic

food in my back yard, and made delicious dinners every

night. I didn’t belong in a place like that; my son did. The

secret shame was back, less of a whisper and more like a

shout. It was a bad guest that lived in the basement of my

home until eventually I was the one who felt like the guest.

As I sat in the rooms every Tuesday and Thursday, I listened

to the horror stories of what drugs and alcohol were doing

to the lives of these people. Jails, Institution, or death was

the mantra, and by 9 pm, I wanted to RUN out those doors.

My children had gone to Christian schools up through eight

grade, were "saved", and their lives and mine were

beautiful... on the outside. It was awkward to watch my son

KILL THE SECRETW R I T T E N B Y J E N N I F E R L O V E L Y

making friends, staying sober and doing better while I still

felt like a hardened piece of candy stuck to cement. These

aren't my people, this can't be my life, I arrogantly thought

to myself, because the shame was so painful and I was too

afraid of the truth.

After several months inside the rehab, I created my own

friendships and allowed my guard to come down. Slowly I

began to absorb the philosophy of recovery and how

families continue to make the addict sick. No one

mentioned me by name, but I heard every word on a

personal level. It was shame that whispering I could still

keep my secrets.

Things changed the night my husband showed up at the

rehab meeting, along with the other parents and my ex-

husband. From where I sat, I could see how he fumed and

jerked around with judgment searing from his eyes. He’d

given me the same looks- ones festered with deep anger

ready to tear into the room. “Where are you?” the group

therapist asked my husband in front of everyone, noticing

the same behavior. “A rehab, for that drug addict,”, he said

pointing to my son, then he ranted about how he ran a five-

million-dollar company and didn’t have time for this. “I’m

only here for my wife,” was his final statement. The room

gasped. As much as I wanted to crawl under my chair, I sat

there feeling all of my shame driving up to scream, I am a

bad person, only a bad person is with someone like this,

only a bad person has kids that do drugs, I AM BAD, I AM

BAD. The entire night I continued with that mantra in my

head, and as the days wore on I wanted to live in the sewer

drain. I couldn’t unsee the truth.

For as long as I could remember, I carried a fundamental

belief that I was a horrible human being, so I stayed small in

my relationships for others to feel big. I covered up my

doubts and failures with fancy men and things so no one

could see the real me. My own shame was the thing that

kept me from supporting my sons when I saw the

beginnings of their addiction. How could I help them when I

couldn’t even face the problems within me? I was terrified

for my children and scared for myself, but I could not see

that amid my own struggles. Shame turns the lights out and

has you blindly looking for the keys.

“The secrets about my shame

became the truth I had to own.

Shame lived inside of me. It was

the thing that whispered sweet

nothings in my ears loudly. It was

the thing that kept me from

looking into people's eyes, and it

was the thing that weighed me

down as I carried my children,

breastfed them, and walked to

school with them.

We're taught as parents to have our proverbial stuff

together so our kids can grow and flourish. We hold space

for them to make the mistakes but when I looked back, my

personal pain kept me separated from my children’s

struggles. I could only see my suffering, but when the pain

of my children was under siege, all the lights came on and I

knew what scorching the earth meant. It meant facing

myself. For them.

Killing the secret is the key to unlocking to the cage that we

created to keep us safe. Our secrets save us temporarily, but

they keep us sick in the end. They rob us from the intimacy

that we want with our husbands, families, friendships, and

jobs that we desire. Eventually, our secrets create fractured

families and filtered conversations even with the God of our

understanding. It’s when we begin to tell Him and others

about our secret shame that we begin to live a life of

freedom and purpose.

My children’s addictions, rehabilitation, and many months in

jail were the “thing” that allowed me to break my shame

cycle. They were the precipice that allowed me to state out

loud my children had struggles, which opened the door for

me to kill my own secret. My children are on their own

journeys to their truth, greatest, and wisdom. Today, I’m

proud to say I am on a similar path.

34 HOPE IS NOW

“You either go to REHAB or back to live with your father!”,

I screamed at my son on his sixteenth birthday. He chose

rehab, convinced in part by my ex-husband of fourteen

years that I was the worst mother and human on Earth.

Wishing it would be a drive-by drop-off where I just open

the car door and kick him out, I had to walk him in and wait

an hour next to my own child as he detoxed off a cocktail of

Xanax and meth. My foot was tapping as I sat there

sweating for what felt like forever. “Shhhh, keep this a

secret,” whispered a voice inside me as I looked down to

avoid any kind of eye contact. The secret was shame, and it

wrapped its arms around me like a familiar warm blanket on

a cold day. The place smelled like foul body odor and a

convalescent home. It was older and I heard kids laughing,

joking and playing. How in the hell are they were going to

help my son, I wondered to myself, but I would have given

my son to anyone at that point.

When we finally got checked in, they told me I would need

to participate 2 nights a week. I would need to spend 3

hours each night with other parents and family night. I felt

defeated, I felt scared, and exposed. Who, me? I thought,

because I taught Yoga/Pilates as my own business, I ate well,

drove a BMW, lived in an affluent neighborhood. My

husband traveled for business, and we flew first class

everywhere we went. We had fancy dinners, I grew organic

food in my back yard, and made delicious dinners every

night. I didn’t belong in a place like that; my son did. The

secret shame was back, less of a whisper and more like a

shout. It was a bad guest that lived in the basement of my

home until eventually I was the one who felt like the guest.

As I sat in the rooms every Tuesday and Thursday, I listened

to the horror stories of what drugs and alcohol were doing

to the lives of these people. Jails, Institution, or death was

the mantra, and by 9 pm, I wanted to RUN out those doors.

My children had gone to Christian schools up through eight

grade, were "saved", and their lives and mine were

beautiful... on the outside. It was awkward to watch my son

KILL THE SECRETW R I T T E N B Y J E N N I F E R L O V E L Y

making friends, staying sober and doing better while I still

felt like a hardened piece of candy stuck to cement. These

aren't my people, this can't be my life, I arrogantly thought

to myself, because the shame was so painful and I was too

afraid of the truth.

After several months inside the rehab, I created my own

friendships and allowed my guard to come down. Slowly I

began to absorb the philosophy of recovery and how

families continue to make the addict sick. No one

mentioned me by name, but I heard every word on a

personal level. It was shame that whispering I could still

keep my secrets.

Things changed the night my husband showed up at the

rehab meeting, along with the other parents and my ex-

husband. From where I sat, I could see how he fumed and

jerked around with judgment searing from his eyes. He’d

given me the same looks- ones festered with deep anger

ready to tear into the room. “Where are you?” the group

therapist asked my husband in front of everyone, noticing

the same behavior. “A rehab, for that drug addict,”, he said

pointing to my son, then he ranted about how he ran a five-

million-dollar company and didn’t have time for this. “I’m

only here for my wife,” was his final statement. The room

gasped. As much as I wanted to crawl under my chair, I sat

there feeling all of my shame driving up to scream, I am a

bad person, only a bad person is with someone like this,

only a bad person has kids that do drugs, I AM BAD, I AM

BAD. The entire night I continued with that mantra in my

head, and as the days wore on I wanted to live in the sewer

drain. I couldn’t unsee the truth.

For as long as I could remember, I carried a fundamental

belief that I was a horrible human being, so I stayed small in

my relationships for others to feel big. I covered up my

doubts and failures with fancy men and things so no one

could see the real me. My own shame was the thing that

kept me from supporting my sons when I saw the

beginnings of their addiction. How could I help them when I

couldn’t even face the problems within me? I was terrified

for my children and scared for myself, but I could not see

that amid my own struggles. Shame turns the lights out and

has you blindly looking for the keys.

“The secrets about my shame

became the truth I had to own.

Shame lived inside of me. It was

the thing that whispered sweet

nothings in my ears loudly. It was

the thing that kept me from

looking into people's eyes, and it

was the thing that weighed me

down as I carried my children,

breastfed them, and walked to

school with them.

We're taught as parents to have our proverbial stuff

together so our kids can grow and flourish. We hold space

for them to make the mistakes but when I looked back, my

personal pain kept me separated from my children’s

struggles. I could only see my suffering, but when the pain

of my children was under siege, all the lights came on and I

knew what scorching the earth meant. It meant facing

myself. For them.

Killing the secret is the key to unlocking to the cage that we

created to keep us safe. Our secrets save us temporarily, but

they keep us sick in the end. They rob us from the intimacy

that we want with our husbands, families, friendships, and

jobs that we desire. Eventually, our secrets create fractured

families and filtered conversations even with the God of our

understanding. It’s when we begin to tell Him and others

about our secret shame that we begin to live a life of

freedom and purpose.

My children’s addictions, rehabilitation, and many months in

jail were the “thing” that allowed me to break my shame

cycle. They were the precipice that allowed me to state out

loud my children had struggles, which opened the door for

me to kill my own secret. My children are on their own

journeys to their truth, greatest, and wisdom. Today, I’m

proud to say I am on a similar path.

APRIL 2021 • HOPEISNOWMAGAZINE.COM 35