Writing not smoking

The symptoms of withdrawal mix uneasily with pregnancy: night sweats, mood swings, that familiar sense of dread, four-hour sleep cycles, fatigue, weight gain, food aversions.

Tonight my mum told me I should write a will before my due date, in case I die in childbirth and need to relocate custody. She’s paranoid, but she’s right. She’s usually right.

I’m 27. Aside from addiction, I’m healthy. I’ve spent my twenties moving – dancing, hiking, diving, running, eating mostly whole foods. Even after years of smoking and the long-forgotten nights of binge drinking, my vitals have stayed solid. Still, thinking about mortality feels strange. I’m trying to get used to that discomfort.

I’ve shifted from active addict to survivor. Every day I try to fill the hours with light: friends, dance, walks, coconut water, simple to-do lists. Yet part of me still feels trapped in my ex’s shadow, having quiet conversations with my own demons. I’m learning to accept them, to see where I am powerless, and to surrender to the desert heat again and again.

Am I depressed, or is this just what pregnant withdrawal feels like?

Today I started working with a sponsor. She’s a mother, full of warmth and grit. I trust her guidance, and I want to honour that by doing the work with sincerity and focus. Still, I feel daunted by how far I have to go.

It’s a big-girl-boots day. My baby is nearing the size of a banana slice inside me. I don’t feel ready for any of it. I want to nap, to cry, to give up on every task I’ve started. But I can’t. So I won’t.

When the time comes to write my will, I’ll make a list. My parents will hold financial and custodial responsibility. My best friend and her husband – steady, kind, and grounded – will raise my child if needed. She has the kind of values any kid would be lucky to absorb: she shines, she holds her boundaries, she knows her worth. I want my baby to learn that.

The father will have a clause: he may share custody if he passes regular drug tests, earns a reliable income, and remains independent from the family that hurt him.

I can’t believe I’m writing this.

In twenty-nine days of sobriety, I’ve stared fear straight in the face. My love for this tiny grape of a child is already boundless — she’s both a pain in my side and a glimmer of hope.

So I take that fear, and I offer love.