Healing out loud with Jocelyn

The Woman in the Mirror

I can feel it creeping in again.

That tight feeling in my chest.

That lump in my throat that will not go away no matter how many times I try to swallow it down.

It is not the kind of sadness that just sits quietly. It builds. It presses. It spills over.

I do not really know when I stopped recognizing myself.

It was not one big moment.

It was a bunch of small ones that added up.

Reaching for another oversized shirt because it hid more than it showed.

Throwing my hair into the same messy bun and thinking, what is the point anyway?

Walking past my makeup drawer until everything in it slowly expired, untouched.

Putting back an outfit I actually liked because that voice in my head said, maybe when you lose weight.

Going into stores and looking everywhere except the racks that caught my eye.

Sometimes not even going in at all.

Why get attached to something I would not let myself wear anyway?

Somewhere along the way, I stopped dressing the woman I was.

I started dressing the woman who did not want to be seen.

And right now, that feeling is louder than it has been in a long time.

Like I am fading right in front of myself.

Like I am watching it happen and I do not know how to stop it.

I told myself it was because I was busy.

Because I have five kids.

Because I work.

Because I am in school.

Because moms do not have time.

Because I do not go anywhere anyway.

Because no one really cares.

I have said those things so many times they started to feel true.

But right now, they do not.

Right now, they feel like something I have been hiding behind.

And I am just tired.

The truth is, I miss her so much it hurts.

I miss the version of me who liked getting ready. The one who straightened her hair because it made her feel good.

The one who wore lipstick just because she wanted to.

The one who bought clothes because she loved them, not because they hid her body.

I do not just miss her.

It feels like I am grieving her.

Like she is gone and I do not know how to get back.

Sometimes I will catch my reflection in a window and for a second I do not even recognize it is me.

Other times I avoid mirrors completely.

Because I already know what is coming if I look.

That drop in my stomach.

That wave of disappointment.

That voice that starts tearing me apart before I even have a chance to breathe.

Days turn into weeks.

Weeks turn into months.

Avoiding it feels easier.

Until it does not.

Until it all hits at once like this.

And I can feel the tears building and I cannot stop them.

And I do not even know exactly what I am crying for.

My body.

My mind.

The way I talk to myself.

The way this has taken over.

The way I do not feel like me anymore.

And then something shifts.

Or maybe it does not shift, it spirals.

I will stand in front of the mirror way too long, picking apart every inch of myself. Every flaw. Every place I wish looked different. Every reason I tell myself I will start over on Monday.

It is never just looking.

It is obsessing.

It is bargaining.

It is punishing.

It is trying to fix something that feels impossible in the moment.

Food is not just food in my head.

It is constant.

Should I eat this?

Did I already eat too much?

I will do better tomorrow.

Maybe I will skip lunch.

You already messed up today.

You might as well keep going.

And right now, it is louder.

Everything is louder.

It is exhausting having that conversation in your head all the time when no one else can hear it.

The hardest part is knowing my kids are watching me grow through this.

Not because I want them to, but because kids notice everything.

They notice when I say I am not hungry.

They notice when I criticize myself in the mirror.

They notice when I avoid pictures.

They notice when I say I will buy something one day.

And that thought breaks something in me.

Because I do not want this for them.

I do not want them to feel like this.

I do not want them to look at themselves the way I look at myself right now.

I want something different for them.

I want them to know their worth is not tied to a number or a size.

That food is not something to be afraid of.

That mirrors are not something to avoid.

That getting dressed can actually feel good instead of feeling like hiding.

But right now, it is hard to believe I deserve that too.

Right now, I feel stuck.

In this moment.

In this sadness.

In this spiral.

Maybe finding myself again is not something that happens all at once.

Maybe it will not happen today.

Maybe right now is not about fixing everything.

Maybe it is just about getting through this wave.

Letting myself cry.

Letting myself feel it instead of pretending I am okay.

Because underneath all of it, the oversized clothes, the excuses, the fear, the constant noise in my head,
I know she is still there.

Even if I cannot fully reach her right now.

Even if all I can do is feel how much I miss her.

I think she is still waiting for me.

And maybe today, that is enough.

The Part No One Sees

“Just stop.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone has said those two words to me, I’d probably be rich.

As if I haven’t said them to myself a thousand times.

Every morning I wake up and tell myself, Today’s the day. Today I’ll leave my fingers alone. Today they’ll finally have a chance to heal. Today I’ll keep Band-Aids on them. I’ll use bitter nail polish. I’ll wear gloves. I’ll keep my hands busy. I’ll chew gum. I’ll squeeze a stress ball. I’ll moisturize them every hour. I’ll do everything the internet says to do.

And then I look down a few hours later.

They’re bleeding again.

The shame that follows is hard to explain to someone who has never felt powerless over their own body.

People see chewed fingertips.

I feel failure.

I’ve spent hours researching body-focused repetitive behaviors. I’ve fallen down rabbit holes looking for the one article, the one therapy, the one trick, the one product, the one answer that will finally make me stop. I’ve read success stories. I’ve ordered things I was convinced would work. I’ve made promises to myself that lasted an hour…sometimes less.

Every failure feels like proof that something is wrong with me.

The worst part isn’t the pain.

It’s being seen.

It’s sitting across from someone and watching their eyes drift to my hands.

It’s instinctively curling my fingers into my palms.

It’s tucking them into my sleeves.

It’s apologizing without saying a word.

I’ve had people grab my hand and say, “What happened?”

I’ve had people tell me, “You’re doing that to yourself.”

As if I don’t know.

As if I wasn’t there.

As if I didn’t feel every bite, every tear of skin, every sting when soap hits an open wound.

The comments stay with me long after the conversation ends.

Not because people are trying to be cruel.

Because they unknowingly put words to the ones I already say to myself.

What’s wrong with you?

Why can’t you just stop?

I ask myself those questions every single day.

The truth is, I don’t want to do this.

I don’t enjoy it.

I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time.

Sometimes it happens while I’m watching television. Sometimes while I’m driving. Sometimes while I’m studying. Sometimes while I’m laughing with the people I love.

It’s almost like waking up after sleepwalking.

You don’t remember making the decision.

You just wake up to the damage.

There are days I feel ridiculous.

I’m a grown woman.

A healthcare worker.

A mother of five.

Someone who has fought her way out of addiction.

Someone who can sit with people in the darkest moments of their lives.

And yet I can’t always stop myself from chewing the skin off my own fingertips.

That contradiction has filled me with more shame than I’d like to admit.

But maybe shame is only powerful when it stays hidden.

Maybe the reason I’m writing this is because I know I’m not the only person carrying something they don’t understand.

Maybe someone reading this hides their hands too.

Maybe someone else has searched the internet at two in the morning, desperate to find out why they can’t stop pulling, picking, biting, scratching, or hurting themselves in ways that don’t make sense to anyone else.

If that’s you…

I want you to know something.

You are not disgusting.

You are not weak.

You are not broken.

You are not alone.

I’m still searching for my own answers.

I’m still hoping that one day my fingertips will heal completely.

But until then, maybe healing starts somewhere deeper than my skin.

Maybe it starts the moment I stop believing that my scars make me something to hide.

My Fingertips Tell Stories

My fingertips have become a map of my life.

If you looked at them today, you’d probably notice the missing skin before you noticed me. The cracks. The places that are trying to heal while new wounds have already taken their place. They are never completely whole. Every time they begin to heal, I somehow find them again.

People ask why I do it.

I wish I had an answer.

Sometimes it’s anxiety. Sometimes it’s excitement. Sometimes I’m completely absorbed in a show, and I don’t even realize I’ve chewed through another layer of skin until I taste blood. I’ll catch myself, tell myself to stop, and before I even finish the thought, my fingers are back in my mouth.

It’s like my hands know something my mind hasn’t admitted yet.

A few days ago, one finger reminded me that even invisible battles leave visible wounds.

It started with what looked like another hangnail. Within hours it was swollen, tight, and throbbing. By night, I could feel my heartbeat inside my fingertip. The pain was relentless. I couldn’t wash my hair. I couldn’t hold a blanket. Ice hurt too much to touch it, but warm water brought just enough relief to make me cry. The skin turned white, then purple, then green. I lay awake wondering if it would burst on its own or if I’d wake up without feeling in my finger.

At the hospital, they drained it.

The pressure disappeared almost instantly, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how something so small had become so overwhelming.

Maybe that’s what anxiety is.

Maybe that’s what grief is.

Maybe that’s what addiction is.

Something that starts so quietly you convince yourself it’s nothing, until one day it’s all you can feel.

My fingertips have carried stories my mouth never could.

When I was using co***ne, these hands weren’t just damaging skin. They were destroying trust, relationships, and pieces of myself I thought I could never get back. They reached for another line after promising it would be the last one. They covered my face while I cried because I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t stop. They carried shame so heavy that sometimes I wondered if it would ever leave.

Tomorrow, these same hands will open the door to my first shift at an addiction recovery centre.

I’ve spent years caring for people. I’ve worked in long-term care. I’ve sat beside residents taking their last breaths. I’ve comforted families on the worst days of their lives. But tomorrow feels different.

Tomorrow, I’ll be walking into a place that mirrors a chapter of my own life.

I’m nervous in a way I can’t fully explain.

Not because I doubt my ability to do the job.

Because I know addiction.

I know the lies it whispers.

I know the shame that follows.

I know what it feels like to wonder if this will finally be the time you lose everything.

And I know what it feels like when someone believes in you before you believe in yourself.

I’m wondering if I’ll see pieces of my younger self in someone sitting across from me.

I’m wondering if I’ll hear Derek in someone’s story.

My brother never got the ending I prayed for.

Canada Day stopped being Canada Day the day we lost him. Since then, it’s been Derek’s Day. While fireworks fill the sky, my mind fills with memories of a little boy who survived being kidnapped as an infant, a kid who fought through asthma, and a man who fought addiction with everything he had until he couldn’t fight anymore.

Sometimes I wonder what his hands looked like during those last hours.

Were they shaking?

Were they reaching for help?

Did he know how deeply he was loved?

Grief has a strange way of settling into the body.

Mine settled in my hands.

These hands have held the hands of people taking their last breath.

They’ve cleaned wounds, wiped tears, and wrapped around frightened shoulders.

They’ve checked blood sugars through sleepless nights with my children. They’ve rested on the side of my son’s ICU bed while machines breathed for him, knowing there was nothing I could do except stay beside him.

They’ve written college papers after exhausting shifts because I refused to let my story end where my addiction wanted it to.

Every scar on my fingertips reminds me that healing isn’t neat.
Recovery isn’t neat.

Grief isn’t neat.

Neither is becoming the woman you were meant to be.

Some people see damaged fingers.

I see fingerprints.

Proof that anxiety has tried to consume me and hasn’t won.
Proof that grief can break your heart without breaking your ability to love.

Proof that addiction is part of my story, but it is no longer the one holding the pen.

Tomorrow, when I walk through those doors, I’ll carry every scar with me.

Not because I’m ashamed of them.

Because they remind me that the people I’ll meet don’t need someone who has all the answers.

Sometimes they just need someone whose hands tell them, without saying a word,

“I’ve survived too.”

The overdose crisis isn’t something happening “out there” anymore. It’s here. It’s in Moncton. It’s in our neighborhoods, our shelters, our hospitals, our workplaces, and our families.

Every overdose call is someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s brother. Someone’s mom. Someone who was once a little kid with dreams before addiction became part of their story.

People ask why I chose to work where I do, knowing what addiction has taken from me.

The answer is simple.

Because I know what it feels like to get the phone call that changes your life forever.

I know what it’s like to stand at a grave and wish you had one more conversation. One more chance. One more day.

My brother didn’t deserve to die because he struggled with addiction. Neither does anyone else.

That doesn’t mean we stop expecting accountability. It doesn’t mean we ignore the harm addiction causes. But it does mean we stop forgetting that the person underneath the addiction is still a human being.

The overdose epidemic isn’t just a public health crisis. It’s a human one.

Behind every statistic is a family learning how to breathe again after the unthinkable. Behind every life saved is another chance for recovery. Behind every person still struggling is someone who hasn’t run out of worth, even if they’ve run out of hope.

Be kind. Carry naloxone if you can. Learn how to recognize an overdose. Check on the people you love. And if you’re the one struggling, please don’t let shame convince you that you’re beyond help.

There are still people who will sit beside you until you believe your life is worth fighting for again.

I know that because I’m going to be one of them.

I am about to start a new chapter.

I’m joining Harvest House as a front-line worker, and if I’m honest, I’m carrying a mix of excitement and fear.

Most people see a new job. I see every step that got me here.

A few years ago, I was fighting my own addiction. Then I lost my brother Derek to an overdose. Losing him changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand. There are days I still wake up angry, heartbroken, or wondering what could have been different.

Now I’m walking into a place where I’ll meet people who are someone’s Derek.

That thought is heavy.

I know there will be days that break my heart. There will be overdoses, grief, setbacks, and people who aren’t ready for recovery. There will probably be moments when I see my brother’s face in someone else’s struggle.

But there will also be hope.

Maybe I’ll be the person who sits with someone on the worst day of their life. Maybe I’ll hand out a naloxone kit that saves a life. Maybe I’ll be the first person to believe someone when they’ve stopped believing in themselves.

I can’t change what happened to Derek. I would give anything if I could.

But I can honor him by showing up for people who are still here.

This job isn’t just work for me. It’s personal. It’s part of my recovery. It’s part of my healing. And it’s another reminder that even the hardest chapters of our lives can become the reason someone else doesn’t have to face theirs alone.

Here’s to new beginnings, to second chances, and to carrying Derek with me into every shift.

I hope I’d make you proud, little brother.

Healing Out Loud: A Memoir of Recovery, Motherhood, and Becoming Myself Again.

People often ask me what my book is about.

The truth is, it is about so much more than addiction.

It is about being a little girl who learned to survive before she learned to feel safe.

It is about growing up in chaos, carrying trauma that did not belong to me, and spending years searching for love, acceptance, and a place where I felt enough.

It is about motherhood, heartbreak, grief, loss, and the moments that nearly broke me.

It is about the choices I am proud of and the choices I wish I could take back.

It is about addiction, but it is also about recovery. Not just recovery from substances, but recovery from shame, self-hatred, silence, and the stories I believed about myself for far too long.

It is about losing my brother. It is about almost losing my son. It is about standing in hospital rooms, treatment centers, courtrooms, and living rooms, wondering how much more one person can carry.

Most of all, it is about hope.

Because this book is not the story of a woman whose life fell apart.

It is the story of a woman who kept getting back up.

A woman who stumbled, failed, relapsed, grieved, and questioned everything, but kept moving forward anyway.

Healing Out Loud is for anyone who has ever felt broken.

For anyone who has ever wondered if they were too damaged to heal.

For anyone carrying secrets, pain, or shame in the dark.

This book is my truth.

The messy parts.
The painful parts.
The beautiful parts.

And if my story helps even one person feel less alone, then every word will have been worth writing.

Excerpt: Chapter 24 “The door that never locks”

I used to think sobriety would close the door behind me.

That once I stopped, once I did the work, once I chose a different life, that door would shut quietly and stay that way. Like something finished. Like something I would not have to think about again.

It did not happen like that.

The door stayed.

Not wide open, not pulling me through it every day, but there. Within reach. Familiar. Waiting in a way that felt less like danger and more like memory.

That was harder to understand.

In the beginning, everything is loud. The cravings, the chaos, the constant pull toward what you know will destroy you. People talk about that part. They expect it. They prepare you for it.

What they do not talk about is what happens after.

When life starts to look steady again.

When the people around you start to trust you without watching your every move. When the days begin to line up in a way that looks normal from the outside. When you are doing the things you are supposed to do and nothing appears to be falling apart.

That is where it gets quiet.

And in that quiet, everything you used to run from has a place to sit.

I was living a life that should have felt safe. I was showing up for my kids. I was going to work. I was building something that looked stable, something that people could believe in again.

I was becoming someone they could rely on.

And still, there were moments where none of that felt solid.

I remember sitting in my car after work one afternoon, both hands resting on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. It had been an ordinary day. No conflict. No crisis. Nothing that would explain what came next.

The thought did not rush in. It did not announce itself.

It arrived calmly.

You could use.

There was no panic attached to it. No urgency. Just a quiet suggestion, as if it were offering me a solution to something I had not even named out loud.

You could use and no one would know.

That was the part that unsettled me.

Not the idea itself, but how reasonable it sounded. How easily my mind could still construct a way out, even after everything that had happened. Even after everything I had said I would never go back to.

The door had not disappeared.

I sat there longer than I should have. Long enough to feel the weight of the choice. Long enough to remember exactly what it would feel like to step through it again. Long enough to understand that nothing was physically stopping me.

No one was watching.

No one would have known.

That is the truth that does not get said often enough. Sobriety is not built on barriers. It is built on decisions.

Quiet ones.

Unseen ones.

The kind no one congratulates you for because no one else is there when they happen.

Something in me shifted in that moment, but it was not dramatic. There was no clarity that washed over me, no sudden strength that made the choice easy.

It was smaller than that.

I understood, in a way I had not before, that I was not being pulled.

I was being offered.

And I could decline.

That had never felt true to me before. For so long, it felt like something that happened to me, something bigger than me, something I did not have control over once it started.

But sitting there, in the quiet, I could see it differently.

The door was there.

But I did not have to walk through it.

I started the car and drove home.

No one knew what had just happened. There was no marker for it, no moment that would be remembered or retold. From the outside, it was just another day ending the way it was supposed to.

Inside, it was a decision that mattered.

That is what recovery looks like when it settles into your life.

Not the chaos people expect.

Not the dramatic turning points.

It is the ordinary moments where the past is still close enough to touch, and you choose, without anyone watching, to leave it where it is.

The door does not lock.

You just learn how to walk past it.

Copyright © 2026 by Jocelyn Ezechiel
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed without permission from the author, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy.

Published by Healing Out Loud Publishing
First Edition, 2026.