Fighting Through the Noise

Growing up wasn't easy. I lived with my single mother and two brothers, and life was far from smooth sailing. My oldest brother struggled with addiction, and my other brother kept mostly to himself. My mom had a boyfriend, which meant she spent a lot of time away from home—who could blame her, though? She was only 19 when she had my oldest brother. She was still growing up herself, trying to figure things out, but she was always an amazing mom.

I became the “problem solver” in the house, feeling like it was up to me to fix things for my mom, especially when it came to my brother’s addiction. I thought if I could just make him better, it would relieve some of the pain. But addiction isn’t linear, and it’s not something that can be fixed by anyone other than the person who’s struggling. I was only 16 at the time, and I didn’t fully understand that yet. I had countless moments of protecting people from my brother’s drug-induced schizophrenia or from his violent outbursts when his brain was no longer his own. I would find the meth paraphernalia—the foil, the spoons—and throw them away, thinking I was making a difference. But in reality, I was just a teenager trying to survive.

Despite all of the chaos, I still feel like I had a pretty good life. I had a mom who cared for me, and I had my dad around too—some people never get that. Some people have nothing. So I carried on, even when things felt impossible.

Then came the end of high school, and like every other senior, I had to figure out what was next. But with all the baggage I carried from home—nights spent hiding my things, worrying about cops showing up—it was clear I needed to get away. My father, though supportive, had his own ideas about what I should do with my life. I knew deep down I had to break free, so I made the decision to move across the country from Texas to Montana.

Those first few years were some of the hardest of my life, but also some of the most rewarding. My freshman year in college was a mess—well, the “COVID college” experience was a mess—but it was also liberating. No parents, no rules. I even cheered at the collegiate level for the University. I thought I was living the dream. Until I wasn’t.

Then came Thanksgiving and Christmas, which were combined because no one knew what COVID actually was yet, and I went back home. That was when the hard truth hit me: my brother lost his battle with addiction. His death was devastating, but in some ways, I had already mourned him years earlier. I lost him a long time before he physically passed, and that’s something I’ve never fully known how to explain. The grief didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel normal. It was just… odd. And if I’m being honest, it felt like I had already been grieving for years. I found solace in a support dog, who’s been by my side ever since. But even though I felt numb to the grief, I was also so small in a world full of people. I felt powerless, lost.

But I would never admit that to anyone. So, I started acting out instead. I found myself getting into “bar fights” with friends, losing control in ways I hadn’t before. I was sleeping around, trying to find myself, but feeling like who I was had disappeared. It took a long time to find her again.

Jump forward a bit—my senior year was upon me, and I had no clue what I was going to do after graduation. I hadn’t had any serious relationships up to that point, so moving back home seemed like a real possibility. Thankfully, that never happened. I got an internship at a local news station that summer before my senior year, and they offered me a full-time position while I was still in school as a sports anchor. Working in a male-dominated field was an experience all its own, full of crazy moments that I’ll definitely be sharing down the line.

Then, something amazing happened—I found the love of my life. He’s my boyfriend, my best friend, everything I never thought I’d have. And honestly, it was a blessing, because by then, I’d started to believe that love was something that happened to other people, not me. But here I am today, still in Montana, navigating this crazy life, still making my way through all the highs and lows. Still fighting through the noise.

Is my life perfect? No. But I’m here, and I’m grateful. I’ve survived the struggles, the trauma, the loss—and I’m sharing this to remind anyone who needs to hear it: you’re not alone. You can make it through, even when it feels like the world is too big, too hard, or too much.