As a family interventionist, I have spent the last 12 years supporting families of addiction through the holiday season and into the New Year. Some families are still waging the war, trying to save themselves and their loved ones and some families are in early, middle or the later stages of recovery. Whatever phase families are in they all need support and guidance. I have come up with the top ten suggestions I have given families over the years. I hope they help you or someone you love.

1. Tell the truth. Families of addiction are afraid to tell the truth. The most painful truths, when told with compassion, can mend broken relationships. It is not pain that splinters families, it is dishonesty. Be honest with yourself and those you love. Take the risk to live a transparent life. Hide nothing; Live open.

2. Be mindful of your own relationship with alcohol and other chemicals. You cannot pass on what you do not have. Be an example.

3. Do not let your holiday plans be derailed by another person's choices or consequences. Addiction will derail the best laid plans if you allow it. Stay focused on path, your family will follow.

4. Create new family holiday traditions that do not include alcohol. If addiction has affected your family first hand, it makes sense to take a break from all substances and enjoy life and the holidays unaltered, sometimes for the first time, in years.

5. Do not be afraid to be different. Not as many people as you think will notice if you choose to take on number 4. Set the tone for your family and lead the way. It simply is not true, that 'everyone drinks at the holidays.' Be brave. Be sober.

6. Attend a 12 step meeting. You do not have to have your own addiction to attend a 12 meeting and the redemption in the rooms is almost contagious and the good will palpable.

7. Be of service to someone else. Give freely of your time. Nothing soothes the soul like getting outside of yourself.

8. Play. Families that have been affected by addiction become accustom to heavy tension, free floating fear and a sense of powerlessness, to help themselves and those they love most. Over time, this 'walking on egg shells feeling' becomes the norm. Families need to play. Run on the beach, walk down a sidewalk and notice something you have not before, or get up five minutes earlier and simply stare out the window and take in the beauty of early morning.

9. Write a gratitude list. Families of addiction can have a narrow tunnel of vision as addiction slowly takes over the lives of the family members. Write a gratitude list. Put down everything you are grateful for. I guarantee that by you get number 10 you will begin to feel better, if only for moments.

10. Remember, it is possible to be 'happy, joyous and free', with addiction in your life. Families and addicts can recover, transformation is possible and redemption, 12 steps away.

I was taking a yoga class the other day and the instructor said if the next pose was hard then that meant you need it the most. I began to wonder why pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth. Maybe it is because we are ultimately afraid to die. We are afraid to go beyond limitations because it leads to a kind of death for parts of our minds and life as we knew it. If I push further than I ever thought I could go then I must rearrange everything I thought about my life, myself and my way of being in the world. There is a continual readjustment of my mind and the way I think about myself.

We are afraid of dying and therefore afraid of change.

Once I inch passed the edge of my limitations I must reset my thoughts. The process of change is very uncomfortable. If I change, I will see everyone around me differently and if they don't change as well, then our relationship becomes like babysitting. I suppose this is why the road gets narrow and many people have fallen off the edges in my recovery.

Even when homeless and I was faced with the choice of recovery I was scared to take it. You would think it would be an easy choice because it was ticket off the street but still I was terrified. I knew how to survive in the street and I figured simply that I would die there. The thought of change and the responsibly that the change would bring was overwhelming. I was afraid, not of succeeding, but of the accountability and responsibility that success and normalcy would bring.

What if I actually could live sober? Have a job? Pay rent? Marry? Have children? What if I could live the life I had dreamed of? If I dared to move toward the life I deserve, then I must grieve the life I have left and learn a whole new way of being in the world. The very foundation on which I built my belief structure and existence shatter, and a new way of thinking must be born.

We are moving. Soon my family and I will be moving to a different town, a different home, a different school and neighborhood. I am scared. I have two small children to consider and my worry keeps me awake at night. It is a move up for our family and terrifying all the same.

Change is a death of sorts and dying is never easy even with 14 years sobriety. My lessons are hard to learn and the process of growth can be relentless. Today I am tired, and the best I can do is walk through the discomfort of change with some grace and dignity. I do not want to shy away from the life I want. I don't want to shrink back or curl up in a fetal position and wait for the storm to pass. I want to walk face forward into the exciting and tumultuous process of change and embrace the death of a chapter in my life and look forward to the unwritten pages that lay ahead.

I was running today. It was very hot, and the sun was beating on my back warming me from the outside in. I love running in the heat. I feel strong and alive. And for this once homeless girl who nearly froze to death on the cold brutal streets, the hotter the better.

I love to run, breathe hard and sweat. The taste of sweat reminds me of my humanity, and the salty and sweet issues that come with it. I trail run. Zig zaging back and forth up a steep mountain, no one for miles and the heat beating down on my shoulders.

Today I was half way up the mountain and I had to stop and catch my breath. I heard a rustle in the grass. It was loud and the tall dry golden grass was moving back and forth. Terror came over me. Being a survivor of rape I still can get very jumpy in situations, and hearing this noise I was sure it was man coming to get me. I was terrified as adrenaline pumped through my body, and my breath was heavy going in and out. I wanted to run but I was miles away from help. Oh my god what am I going to do. I began to prepare for my attacker. I swore after the rape that I survived that I would never allow that to happen to me again, no matter what. Even if I had to kill someone with my bare hands, I would. I was drunk, mercifully drunk, when I was raped on the street, but here I am sober and that is almost more terrifying.

Realizing there was no way out I began to prepare. I rubbed my sweaty hands against my running shirt so they won't slip from his throat as I try to squeeze the life from his ugly face. I looked around and grabbed two rocks to hold tightly in my hands. The rustling is getting louder, and I can't see through the grass but I know he is closing in on me. Oh my children, my husband, what will they think. I have to get out of this. The worst part is waiting for him to come from the bush. I can't stand the suspense. I begin to scream in hopes that maybe someone will hear me or he will be scared off and suddenly, he emerges.

Out from the grass, walked a sweet blue belly lizard and her baby. I collapsed on the trail, let go of the rocks in my hands, and began to laugh and cry all at the same time.

I realize that I have spent most of life this way, anticipating a monster around every corner and confronting so many challenges. All my fears have simply been lizards in the grass. I have walked through tremendous times in my sobriety. I knocked on 22 doors of homes I robbed, knees shaking, stomach turning, dry mouth and slowly acknowledged the harm and pain I inflicted on those innocent families. I have walked into stores, too numerous to count, with no home, phone or references and asked for employment, only to be turned away, time after time. Having to dig deep, through the fear and tap into my perseverance, I finally found a job and began to put my life back together. I have stood behind the man who raped me, only to have my fear of him morph into an unexpected sense of compassion, leaving him in peace to find his own way in recovery. I have sat with my family and friends and listened with grace and dignity about the harm and effect I had on their lives; I have stood in front God and vowed my life to the man I love, given birth when I was sure I was unworthy of children; and I have stood in front 2,500 people, turned the microphone on and shed light on my darkest days. I have traveled the country working with families and I have published my first book. And even after all this, I still get held up by fear.

I realize how great I am at surviving, but I am only just learning how to live. Do you know I cannot make banana nut bread? No matter how hard I try. I have tried recipes from Martha Stewart, Cooking Light and Real Simple to name a few, and for the life of me I can't get the middle to cook as quickly as the sides. All I want to do is make a fucking loaf of bread to feed my kids with warm chocolate milk as my mom did for me, but instead I end up with raw bread and two laughing little children, who think it is funny that their mom doesn't know how to cook. Do you know that I am afraid to have a dinner party? I am scared that somehow people might see trough my pretty furniture and shiny floors, and be able to tell how unsure of myself I truly am. We are moving house, and as I fill out applications for loans, I am filled with terrible feelings of shame and worthlessness, even after all this time.

It is amazing to me that I can put on a $1,500 Calvin Klein suit and stare at myself in the mirror only to see the lost, drug addicted, broken girl staring back me. I walk out the door to my presentation with a fear deep within that when the lights go down and the spotlight finds my body, all the audience will be able to see the scared girl that is hiding in me. I struggle with overwhelming fear as I navigate through a male dominated industry, struggling with the belief that my thoughts and feelings and ideas are valid and purposeful. I struggle with the fear of losing weight and wearing that little black dress that hides in my closet because I am afraid of being judged by people around me.

There is no greater captor than my own mind and the limitations I put on myself. I have done a good job facing my fears but it is still hard at times. And as my life gets larger and healthier, I am still held back by fear. My greatest challenge is my deep fear of being seen for who I really am. Maybe it is the aftertaste of rape, maybe it is the memory of my past and maybe it is my self doubt, that if I am truly seen, then the world will find out that beneath it all, I am terrified and feel unworthy of all the respect and success I have created in my life.

I want to take my rightful place in this world, shrinking back from no one. I want to stand face forward, chest out, arms at my side and walk straight into my destiny. One day at a time, I want to live free of the bondage of fear and self doubt, and free from all the lizards in the grass.

My daughter graduated from pre-kindergarten yesterday. It was quite an event. Now, I know it may sound silly, a graduation from Pre-K, however with my past, I am going to celebrate every graduation my children have because you just never know what the future may hold. We bought a graduation dress, new shoes and braided her hair and tied it with a special butterfly clip. I made her favorite breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes, and she ate every bite. We all piled in the car and headed for school.

Her class of eight was very excited and the teacher stood proudly at the front of the class room. As we waited for the other families and for the principal to arrive, we sat in tiny chairs with great anticipation. It's funny what things will trigger memories of my past life. Sometimes they come completely out of the blue like yesterday. I was sitting in a little yellow chair with my knees close to my chest listening to the buzz of the older school kids hustling in the halls trying get to class when suddenly my mind was triggered into a memory.

The Greyhound bus station is a lonely place, faces are empty and people wait in line to go off to their destinations. The station fills with people every few hours or so, as the buses pull in and out. The sounds of passengers getting off the large buses echo through the hall. Sometimes people are greeted with warm hugs and kisses and sometimes the strangers would shuffle through the station, similar to the kids at school, and out the glass doors onto the city streets, not to be seen by me again.

I used to sit in the bathroom of the bus station in my city sometimes. I would go there for warmth and a more quite and safe place than the street corner or an alley. I would lock myself in the bathroom stall and with four walls around me; I could very briefly let my guard down. One of the most tiring parts of homelessness for me was always having to watch my back. It is a relentless hyper-vigilance that if one is not careful, could easily drive a person mad. The moments in the stall provided some rest however fleeting. Once in the stall, I would sit and place my head in my hands, close my eyes and try to dream of a better place. I would squint hard and place my hands over my ears so I would not hear the noise outside the restroom. I would picture a warm, sunny day and a quite lunch with my mom. My mom and I used to eat lunch together when I was very young. I loved that time with her. My big brother was at school and my baby sister was sleeping, and it was just her and me. This was one of my fondest memories of my mom. I would hold my eyes close, breathe in and out, hoping that somehow the mess I was in would go away. Then someone in the stall next to me would flush the toilet, and I would be awakened from my day dream and back into the nightmare of my life.

I was pulled from my flashback as the principal arrived in class room spot on 8.30am. The ceremony began.

As I watched my daughter in her new Gymboree dress, her clean skin and sweet face alive with pride, I am amazed at how normal my life is. It is hard to believe that this girl belongs to me. It is surreal, really, like the haze of waking mid-dream early in the morning. I watch her laughing and smiling, and my hard edges soften and my belief in goodness slowly returns. I wonder for a moment what the other parents would think if they knew that only fourteen years ago I was a homeless drug addict. Tears leap from my eyes as I watch my daughter's class perform their graduation songs. With the ceremony coming to a close and the last song playing, the other parents begin to file out.

I watched these parents move quickly out the door hurriedly trying to get on with their busy lives. I used to watch, while I sat on the street corner panhandling, people drive to work and home again. People driving their cars, talking on their phones, trying to finish up their 80 hour work week before they got home to their families. I wondered what they would think of themselves if they could see what I saw: Absent, empty, very busy people doing their best just to survive in a world that would easily forget they ever existed should hard times fall upon them. I swore I would never be like that, if by some miracle, I survived.

Maybe the gift of the street is, after having been faced with the end of my life, I have a renewed interest and joy in the ordinary. And even though I have a client waiting, an intervention to follow up with and a book to write, I stay until the last note of the last song is played.

Holding my daughter's hand, walking to the car, I am filled with deep gratitude for my life and in some ways for my past and the nightmare I only awoke from fourteen years ago.

I have a very short blog today. Mom and I had a book signing the other night in Walnut Creek. Many people came to hear us. It is a humbling experience to stand before perfect strangers who have come to spend an evening with us. It is hard to explain the peace that settles deep within me, when a person shares with me how our story has inspired them to change a piece of themselves or a part of their lives. My hard edges melt and the belief that I am worthy climbs a little higher. I am moved and grateful. I simply wanted to say, to all of you who have read the book, and those of you who have come out to meet us and all of you who read this blog, thank you. Please know that your support has changed my life in deep and profound ways.

Warmly, Kristina

Mom and I flew to Texas for a large signing and presentation on our book, The Lost Years. We have family in Texas. We are a close family, and they have embraced The Lost Years as some of our greatest supporters. We had dinner at my aunt's house with her three sons. Two of them are going off to college so, after we ate, they were talking about Notre Dame and other colleges, choosing their next steps carefully. As I listened to them talking about their ideas and reasons for each school, I could not help but feel ashamed of my own life and choices. It's amazing even after 14 years sober I can still slide into the gaping hole of self loathing. I am much better now about beating myself up, but there are occasions when the truth of my addiction is still staring me right in the face. There was a time in my swimming career before the addiction sucked the life from me, that I too had choices. Where did I want swim: Berkeley, Stanford, University of Texas, UCLA, but as my addiction grew larger and larger my life became smaller and smaller. All the things that were important to me, like swimming, school, friends and family, I simply let go. I have worked hard on accepting this painful loss, but sitting at my aunt's dinner table listening to my cousins I could not help but feel the burn of regret in my stomach. Fighting back tears, I went to bed.

Lying in a quiet dark room, feeling deep grief for the choices I made, I cried myself to sleep.

The next day mom and I were speaking in front of an audience of 300. We had prepared and practiced, and fine tuned our story. My heart was heavy but my nerves took over. Mom and I stood on stage, lights low, and the mike turned on; many eyes were on us. With a deep breath and a quiet prayer we began. I poured myself into the story reliving the nightmare of the lost years. Shaking in my shoes, I began sharing with my mom back and forth the devastating effects of addiction on our family. Slowly, I recounted the episodes that took me from a million dollar neighborhood to the cold streets of San Francisco.

My mom was incredible. She has come a long way from our first appearance together promoting our book. She stood proud holding the mike, with her manicured hands, speaking the truth about her failures as a mother and her transformation in recovery. The room was silent, not a person moving, waiting on edge for her next word. For a moment, I was amazed at this woman I was watching, walking along the front of the stage, laughing with the crowd and in the next minute having them crying. She told the story of a mother losing her daughter to addiction, trying everything to save her beloved child and finally having to close the door on her daughter, saying, "If I never see you alive again, please know how much you are loved."

It was my turn again and my mom's honesty encouraged me to step further into my story. I began to share about the rape I survived while homeless. It was violent, cruel and cold. The worst part was that I had nowhere to wash myself when it was over. I stumbled along staying intoxicated, praying with all my strength that god would take me from this nightmare. I told them how I found my way into recovery slowly putting myself back together, making amends to every person I harmed, working hard on my family relationships, learning the meaning of an honest day's work and before I knew it five years of my life had passed.

One evening while sitting in a 12 Step meeting, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my rapist. I was overcome with repulsion and anger so primal I could have pulled his head off with my bare hands. I began moving towards him and suddenly I found myself pressed up against everything I had learned the last five years. If I can go around knocking on doors, making right my wrongs towards others, don't I then have to be willing to forgive those who have harmed me? I realized as I watched his stained hands griping his Styrofoam cup, the same hands that forced me to the ground, that he and I were more alike than different. Let me be clear, I never raped anyone, but I violated people, robbing them of a sense of security and safety. He tore into my body, and I into homes leaving families exposed and hurting. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with an unexpected sense of compassion for this man who was sick from alcohol and barely able to hold himself upright. Miraculously, I saw him no longer as my rapist but my fellow. I had no hatred for him nor did I blame myself any longer. I was free. I was free of him, of my past and the shame that held me hostage for years. I had tears rolling down my cheeks, as I looked at my mom and then at the crowd of 300. I felt exposed and terrified that I had shared too much.

The room was quiet, dead quiet, my mom motionless and my heart beating so loudly it hurt my breast bone. I wanted to run. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted my mom to protect me from the painful silence that had fallen over the room.

Then, I heard clapping, it started as one and in a few moments the applause was thundering, and the room was on their feet. Mom and I moved toward each other and stood in front of the standing ovation. I could hardly look up. Tears were leaping from eyes and I was swept away by the cheering that filled the room.

My mom looked at me and placed her arm behind my back, and we stood by each other while five minutes passed. I am humbled by the acceptance of our story. And although I am not swimming at UCLA or any other power school, in moments like this I know I am in my rightful place. Maybe the spirituality of an ordinary life is the art of holding onto moments like these, when everything feels just as it is meant to be.

I walked onto my high school campus to do a presentation for the student body and their parents. Mom and I were asked to come to talk about The Lost Years, the book that we had co-written. I have not been back there in many years. I went to this high school for a short time before drugs got the better of me. My sisters and brother graduated from this school so the campus and school were well known and respected in my family. All my grandparents had been on campus for the graduations of my siblings, and my parents came to many parent nights and sporting events. It is a very popular high school in our community, hailing a championship football team and some of the fastest swimmers in Northern California.

It was dark when I pulled up into the parking space labeled STAFF. I was told to ignore the sign by the student body president, who said it was after hours so no one would mind. My heart was pounding in my chest as I began to climb the steps that spill from the upper campus onto the parking lot. In the morning, once the bell rang, these stairs would fill with students trying to make it to class on time. I remember feeling so out of place my first few days of class. The upper classmen would bound up the steps with ease and confidence leaving the freshmen walking cautiously up to the unknown world of a new high school. I tried to stay close to the few girls I knew from my grammar school but somehow we were separated in the mass, and the anxiety of losing track of the only thing familiar to me was choking my breath from my chest.

This night, there were no other students, and I am far from a wide-eyed freshman. In fact there is no one else with me. My mom is going to be ten minutes late. The sound of my new black high heeled shoes is echoing in the dark, and I feel overwhelmed with a deep sadness. How my life might have been different if only I had made different choices. At the top of the stairs, I am looking down freshman hall. I remember my locker number because it was right next to John Bailey's, the cutest boy in the whole freshman class. He had blond hair and brown eyes that looked like chocolate kisses. His smile was huge and his athletic talent brought him here on a football scholarship. He was very tall, almost 6'4 and he wore POLO aftershave which could be smelled from six feet away. All the girls were crazy about him because he was so cute and nice; he had four sisters so I think he knew how to be around girls without being a total dork. I wonder whatever happened to him. His locker number was 116 and mine 115.

There was locker 115. I stood staring at the grey metal door and was filled with emotions. Twenty years ago, the first time I stood in front of this locker, I felt alive and full of ideas. I was pretty, I never felt pretty but people told me I was, and I was smart, athletic and alive with ideas and hope, and looking forward to the opportunity of life. I could have done just about anything.

Addiction happened next. It wasn't long that I was pulled from school, placed in a treatment center, ran, refused help, lost everything and landed homeless on the streets of San Francisco. I ended up so far from the sweet, innocent girl who stood in front of this locker many years ago.

We all have choices in our lives that we question. What if I chose a different person to marry or place to live or school to go to? Or what if I bought a different car, went on a different vacation or simply turned left instead of right? What if, what if? I do my best not to play the "what if" game because I only come out hating myself. But for a moment I dared to ask myself the very painful and useless question, "What if?"

What if I had said no to the first drug? What would my life be like?

I would have stayed in school, studied hard, and swam fast. I would have gone through four uneventful years and graduated the top in my class. Oh, I would have dated John, even kissed him and maybe allowed him to feel me up. I would have gone to UC Santa Barbara or UCLA on a swimming scholarship. I would have majored in psychology with a minor in journalism. My college career would have been smashing. I would have carried a full load, worked a part time job and swam my way to an All American honor in my senior year. After graduating and traveling to Europe for six months I would move back to my home town and land the perfect job working with troubled teens in San Francisco while attending a masters program. I would finally meet the man I would marry, study, get my degree and license, and open a private practice. We would have children, buy a home close to my brother and sisters and live a simple, happy, quiet life.

My throat was aching with a lump of emotions that was forcing its way out. There were tears rolling from my eyes and my chest ached with tightness. How could I have gone so far wrong? I had to turn and lean on the locker to catch my breath. How was I going to go talk in front of 300 people in ten minutes?

I stood behind the podium, the lights went down, the microphone switched on and I stood staring at the faces of three hundred parents and students. Adrenaline shot through my veins and I thought for a moment that I may faint. It is amazing to me how I could stand there with so many feelings going through my head and look completely calm on the outside. You could have heard a pin drop as I stood silent but the words were not coming. My mom, arriving exactly when she said she would, took her place beside me. She put her hand on mine, and suddenly, the words came, "My name is Kristina Wandzilak and I am one of the co-authors of The Lost Years."

The presentation went well and when we were finished 300 people stood and applauded. We signed books, shook many hands, and made our way back to our cars. I hugged my mom goodbye and we went our separate ways.

As I drove the hour it took to get home, I realized that if I had lived my "what if" life, I would not be who I am today. I have seen the darkest part of life and have overcome incredible adversity. I take this wealth of experience into every interaction of my life. I have compassion now that I did not before and a belief that anything is possible. I appreciate the sweetness in my surroundings and my family, even when I think I might drop from exhaustion. I can find the spiritual meaning in everyday existence because I know what it is like to literally have nothing but the clothes on your back. And the amazing thing is that my life is not so far from what it might have been. I did finish school, it just took a long time, and I am an All American swimmer after returning to the sport once I was sober. I studied psychology and opened a practice where I work with addicted young adults and families. I did marry and have two children who are healthy and happy, and I wrote a book. My life has not been straight and my journey has been hard and not well guided. The truth is, I may have taken the long way home, but this evening, I felt like I had finally arrived.

I woke up out of a terrible haze today. Almost like coming to right in the middle a moment like the slow progression of a new day dawning. I have been feeling very depressed because I have not achieved all I think I should. In this society where we are always trading up, for the larger house, the bigger car, the more flawless diamond, smaller bodies, greener grass, and always striving for more, it is so hard to stay focused on what is right for now. I hear messages on talk shows about accepting your body just as it is and then an episode two days later, telling you the secret to losing ten pounds in four weeks. On the cover of Vogue magazine there are ten, count them ten, sub-titles each one talking about your body; Losing weight, looking thinner, accepting yourself the way you are, all shapes and sizes are okay, but if you are not okay, then we have the solution for you to look eight pounds slimmer by wearing black. And of course the article, when all else fails, on learning to love yourself, if you must. So I have found myself wrapped up in this race to be more than I am. And when I compare myself to the images I see all around me, I always come in the loser. I am never thin enough, rich enough, smart enough, never. It is like I walk around with a low level of depression, hanging close to my head, like fog: A low level of misery like white noise always humming in the background.

Until yesterday, sitting in my yard, I woke up in the middle of a moment. I was watching my children play on the grass laughing, and it came to me that I am living my once in a lifetime life now. It is not coming, it is here, and it is not in the computer or in earnings or in possessions but right here on the grass. When I look at my life, comparing myself to no one but myself, I am amazed at how far I have come. Not so long ago, I was homeless, broken, a thief and a prostitute. The last 14 years I have not had a mind or mood altering drug, even though there was a time I could not go an hour without a substance in my body. I have the privilege to help other young addicts find their way through recovery, sitting in coffee shops late into the night as another few hours of sobriety are achieved. I have worked an honest job for all this time, starting at a desk and now owning a successful and thriving business. My sisters and brother trust me, leaving their children in my care, without question, knowing that upon their return, I will not have sold their home, car and child for whatever drug I might need. I have married a man who adores me, and who, after I have been gone only 48 hours, will be standing by the car outside the baggage claim waiting for me, and I will feel dizzy with the pounding of my heart and the desire to feel his sweet face against mine. I have two well adjusted healthy children who giggle in their sleep. I have a home which may not be large, but it is safe and warm and mine. I have a job that I love, working with families to instill hope into the hopeless hole of addiction. And I have written a book with my mother; the very person I hated and wished dead for years. We have written about our darkest days and have stood in front of audiences proud and humbled by our mistakes and triumphs. We have traveled this country on a national book tour, sharing our work and hope with those who come out to meet us. I have watched my mom shake the hands of strangers whose lives have been transformed by her words on the pages of our book.

Instead of trying to do more, be more, get more, make more, I will learn how to simply be. I want my children to know and experience contentment. I want to enjoy my two once in a life opportunities, who sit in the booster seats in the back of my car. And if my business doesn't grow and my book doesn't sell and we never trade our home up, if my life were to stay just as it is today, what an extraordinary life it has been.

Mom and I went to a private book club for a great group of women in our home town. A kind woman from the audience commented, "You are such a strong person to have survived everything you did and to have come out of it so normal. You much stronger than I could ever be."

This got me thinking. Stronger than you could ever be? Don't be so sure. I am no different than anyone else. We are not really pushed to the limit in our everyday lives. I know it can feel like it sometimes. We rush around from daybreak to dark trying to get everything done and then we say we are stressed. The grocery store is packed and I, of course, get the one cart in 500 that screeches and turns constantly to the left, driving me in crazy. My car is running low on gas and I need to fill it with the last $50 in the bank after the mortgage is paid. The kids need to go to baseball and tumbling, and homework needs to be finished and laundry needs to be washed. Dinner needs to be made. Dinner stresses me out. Somehow, everyday, I need to prepare some sort of protein and carbohydrate and a green food. How many recipes for chicken do you think exist? Really, how many fucking ways are there to make chicken? 'Kids need their greens,' I hear my mother say in my head, so I tear open a pre-packaged bag of salad, cut some strawberries, and throw some almonds in the bowl and we have a "fresh salad". This is the stuff that stresses us out today.

The only difference between me and you is that I have been to the edge and back. I am not strong; I simply survived. I used to have a list of things that I would never do, but now I no longer have a list. I have not killed anyone, but I never saved anyone either. Things happened on the street, and I saw things out if the corner of my eye: horrific that I cannot bring myself to describe to you. My vocal chords would freeze and the adrenaline would pump so hard in my veins that my eye balls would feel like they might explode from my face. I was hungry, starving, really. Its funny, I hear myself saying sometimes, "I am staving." Like after 90 minutes of yoga or after a five mile run or I hear my kids say how starving they are after school, but this is not the kind of starving I felt in the street. The hunger I felt was deep in my body, my arms and legs weak, I was so hungry that digging in a dumpster somehow became an option. And the cold was so brutal that I was willing to do anything. It's not like everything I learned as a child went away; I was still painfully conscious of all my parents taught me, but values and ideals do not keep you warm. There is the scared place between my legs that I knew I was supposed to save for marriage or for someone I loved, but the cold hurts worse than you can imagine. Even a bottle of vodka and the USA Today stuffed in my clothes didn't keep the frigid air away. Suddenly, selling the scared parts of your body becomes a solution. I didn't think about it too long; I just needed to be warm, even for an hour. I never asked him to buy me; it was more of an understanding. It was over quickly, and the warmth of the moldy corner of a rancid hourly motel felt like heaven, however fleeting.

Survival is an incredibly primal instinct. I have had my fingers around the throat of another female who wanted the money in my pocket that I had made by panhandling. I heard myself say "Don't fuck with me or I will kill you." Her eyes were filled with fear and even in the moment, it felt like an outer body experience and I was baffled by the words as they spewed from my mouth. Where did that come from? It was not too long ago that I was walking down the aisle in our church, white dress, patent leather shoes to match, for my confirmation into the Catholic Church. And here I am with my hands around someone's throat because she wants to steal the money that will buy me the only food I will have in days. I never thought I could do the things I have done, until there was no choice. I had to fight or die. Survival is deep in the gut of every human and some of us, fortunately or unfortunately, have the opportunity to tap into it and wake the most primal aspect of ourselves: Life.

I stand in front of 30 women in a private book club and they all have read my book. I can hardly believe I lived these two lives in 35 years. With my mom and co-author at my side, I have tears rolling down my face. As I look at the faces of these women who have invited us onto their home I am overcome with emotion and humility. "I am no stronger than you. I simply was tested. And by the grace of God, I survived."

Mom and I drive home in silence. Even after all these years and a 287 page book, sometimes we still don't know what to say to each other. The grief of the lost years runs very deep in both of us. We pull up to my mother's home; we turn towards each other and smile. And my mom, with all her wisdom, simply says, 'I love you." "Me too, mom" I say. And an hour later, in my quiet dark home, kids and husband sleeping, the dishwasher humming in the kitchen, I sit on the couch, and cry. I feel both sad at everything I lost in my years of addiction and thankful for all I have today and mostly I feel deep gratitude that our story is touching lives.

I worked on an intervention some time ago. A meth addicted 18 year old homeless girl. She had lost everything to her addiction and was living in the streets. Addiction is the same from case to case, but every intervention has a story and I learn from every family I work with. My lessons surprise me. Amazing that families hire me for my professional services, but I walk away learning so much about myself and my life. My intervention work has made me a better wife, friend, business owner and parent. When I keep my eyes clear and remain open to all possibilities, my life and spirit are transformed.

The family was mom, dad, daughter and a younger daughter who died of a rare cancer that took her life by the age of eight. The two sisters were close, very close and four years apart in age. The oldest daughter having never fully recovered from the loss of her younger sister started using meth at the age of 13. Her name was Gabrielle. (All names and descriptions have been changed.) Her youngest sister was called Isabella. The parents were in a state of tremendous grief having to bury one daughter and now losing the other daughter to addiction.

I met with the parents at their home. As I pulled up to the front of their house I was amazed at how beautiful it was with a manicured lawn, blooming rose bushes and a full size carousel horse in the front the window. You would never know by looking at the house what kind of pain lay just beyond the front door.

The mother, Pam, was beautiful younger than I excepted, bare foot in a casual beach way, with her pastel pink Capri's folded to mid-calf. Her arms her toned and her tan looked great against the white tank she wore. Her hair was a soft brown with blond highlights that were just enough to look as if they came straight from the sun. Her home smelled of sweet gardenias and the pale yellow walls soothed my nerves that even after a decade of doing this work have never gone away.

She welcomed me with a warm, strong embrace. She was kind. We began to walk down the hallway and into the back room where we were meeting her husband, Mick. The walls of the hall were 15 feet high, and the windows on the right side were large and let the morning sun spill onto the honey hardwood floor. As I scanned the wall I was taken back by the many black and white pictures of their daughters. There must have been 50. I did not stop to look but I could tell just by the glance that there pictures from all stages of their lives. The younger ones were very sweet; two tow-headed girls running around naked at a beach somewhere. There were pictures in their school uniforms, and graduation from eighth grade, girls scout pictures, swim team and many others. There were also pictures of Isabella when she was sick. Some in the hospital, some with tubes in her nose with her hair falling out and her little body getting sicker and sicker. And the final picture in the hall was a photo of the funeral and her cold body in her casket. I shuddered at the sight of the picture and wondered to myself why they would have these pictures of their daughter dying, on the wall?

We turned the corner and her husband Mick stood to greet me. He was looked younger than 48. He had on 501 jeans and a brown O'Neil surf shirt with a surf board across the chest. He had hair to his shoulders and white straight teeth. Actually the two of them looked like they step out of a surf magazine. He offered me a cup of tea and an oatmeal cookie, hot out of the oven.

We sat in the living room and they told me about their daughter Gabrielle and the addiction that stole her away. They also told me about their daughter Isabella, her cancer and the journey that led to her death. I was amazed at their peace and serenity about their daughter's death. They explained that while she was on earth they did their best to live each day to the fullest, and they shared in every part of her life with cancer. They took Gabby out of school, hired a tutor and traveled the world. The pictures in the hall were taken at beaches in Barcelona, France, Fiji, Hawaii and other exotic places. They wanted to show the girls as much of the world as they could before Isabella became too ill to travel. Once the cancer became too severe, they returned home and began to plan her funeral. It was a family funeral and Isabella wanted there to be a clown and horse rides for the other kids, and her favorite singer, Mrs. Kitty, who plays and sings all the children's favorites. Isabella wanted it to be a funeral to celebrate her life. She asked everyone to wear pink and she wanted to pick out her casket. Of course, she chose a pink one.

The morning Isabella died, she was at home with her sister and parents, her favorite stuffed kitten and Mrs. Kitty's CD playing softly in the background. They all held hands and said good bye to this sweet angel they had only had in their lives for eight short years. Gabby began her drug use only months after they laid Isabella in the ground. It started slowly but grew quickly until only three years later she was on the street.

"We still celebrate Isabella's birthday every year. We have huge party with all of our friends and family. We have pink cupcakes and Mrs. Kitty plays her music. We dance and laugh and every year we light candles on a cake. I still cry. Gabby used the blow out the candles but the last few years we just let burn until they melted all over the frosting."

I had tears in my eyes as they explained to me all that they have done to support both their daughters in life and death. I was very moved. I had to get up and use the rest room to gather my thoughts. As I stood looking at myself in the mirror, I wondered if I could do the same for one of my children.

We planned the intervention. I met with Gabby and could see, through the mess, she had become the girl that hung on the wall. The intervention was simple. It was a challenge to find her on the street but once we were together, we sat against a building and talked.

"It's time for you to come home. I will find a place for you where you can say good bye to Isabella and mend your broken heart, recover from this addiction and begin to take your right place in the world. Your sister's birthday is in four months and your parents are saving the candles for you." She cried and I cried, and we sat silent for 38 minutes.

Gabby was in treatment that evening.

Four months later, I was at their home for the celebration of Isabella's life. It was amazing. The home was packed full of people. Jack Johnson was playing in the background, Mrs. Kitty was entertaining the children in the living room, and every person had on pink. The best sight was Gabby standing with her parents, wearing a pink ribbon in her jet black hair. Her makeup was soft and the ring in her lip was still hanging off to the left. She looked great and came towards me to give me a hug. She was on a pass with her sober buddy and would be going back to the facility in a few hours. We talked for awhile and when it came time to cut the cake, she blew out the candles. Her parents gave her a hug, smiled my way and waved, as I turned to go.

As I walking through the same hall I first came through, I noticed the pictures on the wall. I realized that this hall way was a photographic journey of their daughter's life and the picture at the end with her in the casket no longer gave me chills. Instead it brought a sweet smile to my face as I saw the pink roses hand painted on the casket and stuffed kitten that lay beside her very pale and thin face. What I learned from this case was that it is my job as a parent to help my children learn how to live, and if it was to be so, how to die. I have great respect for this family and their incredible story that changed my life.

I cried the whole way home. I rushed in my house and kissed my children on the cheek. I read them each three stories and sat by their bedside as they fell asleep. I just sat in their rooms; in the dark and listened to them breathe in and out, feeling deep gratitude, for my work, my life and my family.

Kristina