At the sweet, innocent age of four years old, I already had my life planned out. From preschool through high school, adults always asked the same question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” My answer never changed. I wanted to be a professional wrestler. I said it proudly, confidently, and without hesitation.
Funny how life works. I said that dream out loud my entire childhood, yet five or six years ago, I never imagined I would become a full-blown heroin and opiate addict.
I was everything growing up. The athlete. The class clown. The prankster. The singer. The dancer. The baby of the family. I was the kid who could do no wrong, the one everyone loved and protected. I adored life and my family with my whole heart. I felt special. I felt safe.
One thing recovery has taught me is that addiction and mental illness do not discriminate. I had a wonderful childhood filled with beautiful memories, and I still cherish them. But even when you take the drugs away, the core problem can remain. For me, that problem was me. I don’t believe God’s plan for my life included heroin addiction, but I do believe everything that came after—the lessons, the growth, the person I became—was exactly what He was preparing me for.
From a very young age, I felt like I needed a boyfriend. I was constantly searching for love and validation, and I found it in all the wrong places. What business does a 10-year-old have “falling in love”? Yet every boyfriend I ever had, I believed I loved deeply. I was desperately chasing a feeling that never naturally existed inside me.
Throughout my high school years, I found myself in abusive situations—physically, emotionally, and mentally. As I grew older, I began to understand that while some of those situations were not my fault, others were choices I made that put me in harm’s way.
Freshman year of high school, I broke up with the boy I thought was the love of my life. We had met in sixth grade, and when it ended, my world felt like it collapsed. I truly believed I couldn’t live without him. But the truth? I did. And I was doing just fine.
That changed sophomore year when I met another guy. He used drugs, so I started using drugs. He smoked pot, so I smoked pot. He was a skater boy, and yes—I should have said, “See you later, boy.” Instead, I stayed. During that relationship, I was sexually assaulted after a party. Two weeks later, I told my family. At school, I was called a slut for months. The police investigated, and he was found guilty after admitting it during a phone call detectives overheard. Suddenly, the same people who shamed me came rushing in with apologies once he was put behind bars.
Junior year, I met another man who had to be “the one.” He was charming beyond belief. One month in, he slapped me across the face. I stayed another eight months, enduring daily abuse. That was the year I first experimented with painkillers. They numbed the physical pain—and erased the emotional pain too. Eventually, we went to court, got a restraining order, and never spoke again.
Senior year came, and once again, I met “the one.” This time, it had to be real. His name was James, and I will say his name because he mattered and always will. The connection was instant. The chemistry was undeniable. We felt perfect together. That same year, I began feeling sick and couldn’t understand why—until I realized I was experiencing withdrawal for the first time. My relationship continued. My addiction escalated. I spiraled completely out of control, using opiates, sniffing heroin, and smoking crack cocaine like it would somehow earn me a future. I remember asking myself, “What happened to me?”
James and I eventually separated. He got help. I didn’t. I knew I was physically addicted, but I couldn’t yet grasp the mental grip addiction had on me. James was kind, athletic, funny, warm-hearted, and deeply loving. He adored his family and found peace in hockey—it was his safe haven. He fought with everything he had until God saw he was tired. On December 28, 2017, James lost his battle with addiction. I wasn’t with him, but he meant the world to me and always will. Rest in peace, James.
My family relocated in 2012—and so did my addiction. A new place didn’t mean a new start. I was deeper than ever. I genuinely believed I was meant to be a heroin addict forever.
I couldn’t see the light anymore. Wrestling—the one thing I loved most—became painful to watch. I couldn’t turn on Monday Night Raw or SmackDown without crying. I should have been in the ring, not in bed sniffing pills and heroin. I felt completely alone for the first time in my life.
In April of 2015, I finally told my parents, “I need help.” I went to my first detox. Ironically, I met the love of my life while detoxing off heroin. He was tall, handsome, from Florida, and made me feel worthy. When I left detox for treatment, I followed him. I fell hard and became obsessive. I didn’t know how to process emotions sober. Months later, he admitted I deserved better. I ignored the red flags until I couldn’t anymore.
I relapsed. After four months sober, I shot heroin for the first time. Within a month, I overdosed and nearly died. Another treatment center. Another relationship. The same destructive cycle repeated. Even nearly dying wasn’t enough to stop me.
Another detox followed. This time, my parents sent me to Arizona. I hated flying, but I hated my life more. I wanted to get better. I wanted my dream back.
A month into treatment, I left against medical advice. I ended up in California, found cocaine, and used it without hesitation. That moment confirmed it—I had a serious problem.
I called my mom crying and asked to go back to treatment in New Jersey. My dad was done with me, and that hurt deeply. Still, he bought the ticket. The rest was on me.
On December 10, 2015, I entered treatment for the last time. I chose a new life. I moved into a recovery house and learned how to live again. I fell in love, made mistakes, and eventually learned that choosing happiness mattered more than clinging to relationships.
With years of sobriety, clarity came. I realized I had never truly been in love—I had been searching for something drugs temporarily gave me.
Through sobriety, I learned to love myself. I survived suicide attempts, dark thoughts, and deep confusion. But I held onto two dreams: wrestling and love.
Today, I am nearly four years sober. I live my dream as a professional wrestler. I have a healthy, loving relationship built on respect. My family trusts me again. Hearing my parents say they’re proud of me never gets old.
I watch wrestling now with happy tears. I look up at the sky and say thank you. My wildest dreams? I’m living them.
