07/21/2026
RECOVERY STORY SPOTLIGHT ❤️🩹 :
My name is Beth, and I'm in recovery.
On December 2, 2008, I used m*th for the last time, and I pray daily that it truly was the last time.
I've been asked several times why, at 31 years old—with a very profitable self-employed business, two beautiful daughters ages 7 and 12, a three-bedroom home, a new sports car, stable family relationships, and some wonderful friends—I would ever try m*th.
Why?
Because it was offered to me.
Because I had recently gone through a divorce.
Because I was dating a dr*g user and tried to keep up with his lifestyle for almost six months.
Because my self-esteem had always suffered.
Why my self-esteem was never good is still a question I ask myself. If I ever figure that one out, I'll be rich. I believe many addicts struggle with low self-esteem. That's why many of us begin using. The dr*gs gave us confidence, even if it was a false sense of it. We finally felt like we fit in and had a whole new set of friends—or so we thought.
On October 30, 2003, I went to a party at my apartment complex and was handed a small wad of toilet paper. I asked what it was and was told it was m*th.
I asked if it would make me throw up, and they said no. Then I asked how it would make me feel.
I was told, "Good. You'll have energy and be really happy."
So, just like that, I swallowed the wad of toilet paper with crystal m*th inside.
I went upstairs to my sleeping boyfriend and said, "Tina said to take this and get to the party."
He immediately jumped up, snorted the m*th, and began getting ready.
A few minutes later, I began to feel the effects. My boyfriend looked at me and said, "You took some, didn't you?"
I replied, "Yes."
The words he spoke to me that night have never left me.
He said, "You just f* your life up. In a year you won't have anything. You'll lose your house, your car, your business, and you'll never want to see your daughters."
I replied, "I can handle it."
He laughed and said, "No, you can't. It's m*th."
They say if you try m*th once, you might be able to walk away. Try it twice, and you're addicted.
From that night until December 2, 2008, I used every day. Unless I was sleeping—which wasn't often—or in jail, I used. And I used a lot.
Less than a year later, I had lost my three-bedroom home and was living with my mom. My car had been wrecked after I drove drunk and was later repossessed. I lost all my clientele, and I made excuse after excuse for why I couldn't be with my daughters.
I remember one night my youngest daughter clinging to my leg, begging me not to leave. It was 10:00 at night, and both of my girls were crying and pleading with me to stay home and sleep with them.
But I couldn't.
I had to go chase the sack.
I physically pushed my daughter off my leg.
The hell I put my family through is heartbreaking to think about.
I remember bragging, "I do dr*gs. They don't do me."
I had never been more wrong.
M*th did me in.
I thought I would just use for a few months. Soon I had to find a way to pay for my growing habit. So, like many addicts, I began to sell.
The next five years were a blur.
Using, selling, having s*x with anyone I wanted—and anyone who would make my boyfriend jealous.
Insanity.
My morals and dignity slowly disappeared. Soon I simply didn't care. And when you don't care, you're a very dangerous person.
So many times I fell asleep while driving. G*ns were pulled on me. I walked into dope houses and hotel rooms alone carrying bags full of dr*gs and wads of cash, making myself an easy target to be robbed, assault*d, or k*lled.
I went from bad boys to extremely dangerous men.
I thought I ruled the world.
I had the dope, the money, the men, and people jumped when I said jump if they wanted their dr*gs.
I lost cars, time, memories, clothes, jewelry, and my clean record.
I was arrested time and time again.
I was given chance after chance to change.
After each arrest, I thought I could outsmart the Feds and city police.
Eventually, I found myself facing life in prison on federal charges. I had sold to an undercover ATF agent. They eventually tied me to an accumulated amount of 24 pounds of m*th. And my "friends" had ratted me out. The state was pressing trafficking charges, and on top of all that, I was pregnant.
I had become pregnant once before and miscarried in November 2005. Looking back, that was the best outcome for my unborn child. I was using and selling heavily and hadn't yet been caught. That baby would have been born addicted, and the state would have taken the child away at birth.
I found myself hoping I would miscarry again.
About two and a half months into this pregnancy, I sat in a hotel room with someone I believed was my baby's father's best friend. The truth was, I had no idea who the father was. It was between two men I had been involved with.
I decided it would be best to try to have a dr*g-induced miscarriage.
We loaded two syringes with more than a gram of m*th. We each found a vein and injected it, believing it would k*ll the baby and possibly k*ll me.
I was okay with either outcome.
Instead, I threw up and stayed higher than I had ever been for nearly three days.
No spotting.
No cramping.
Nothing.
One night in November, my longtime boyfriend and I got into an argument. He was angry that I was using while pregnant. He was scared because the Feds were closing in. I had been arrested again, my brand-new Charger had been impounded, and $7,000 had been seized.
He told me to leave.
He was sick of me.
He no longer loved me.
He hated who I had become.
A ju**ie embarrassed by another ju**ie.
I knew what was ahead of me—life in prison.
To my family, I already felt d*ad. I avoided their calls. They often went weeks without knowing whether I was alive or d*ad.
I believed my girls would be better off without me.
They deserved a stepmom who would love them and actually be present.
This baby didn't deserve to be born in prison or become another child in the system.
I had lost all hope.
So I wrote a goodbye letter to my boyfriend, asking him to tell my family goodbye. Then I texted him, telling him I had taken every pain pill I could find and apologized if I left a mess in the bed when I d*ed.
I took the pills, called my dog onto the bed beside me, and fell asleep.
I woke up in the back of an ambulance with charcoal being poured down my throat, IVs in my arms, and oxygen on my face.
I looked out the window and saw a car pull into my driveway. A woman got out, my boyfriend walked to meet her, and the two of them went inside our house.
That feeling...
He already had another woman in our bed and didn't even know whether I was going to live or die.
After they stabilized me, I was admitted to the behavioral medicine unit.
The next day, I found out the baby had survived and was a perfectly healthy little girl.
I looked up at the ceiling and asked God,
"Why?"
A week later I was released, and my boyfriend drove me to my mom's house.
She insisted I go to treatment.
I sat in her bathtub holding a syringe filled with the last little bit of m*th I had.
My arms were bruised and covered in knots from missing my veins.
My veins were destroy*d.
But I was determined to find one anyway.
The water became cold and filled with blo*d.
The syringe contained more blo*d than m*th.
I knew that even if I finally found a vein, the dr*g would be so diluted I wouldn't get high.
But addiction isn't rational.
I kept trying.
I looked down at my pregnant belly sitting in that cold, blo*dy water. Every so often, ripples spread across the surface as my baby kicked.
My tears landed on my stomach.
I was sick.
I was exhausted.
I hated myself.
I was too sick to live and too weak to stop getting high.
I slept almost nonstop for the next two days.
When I woke up, I convinced my mom to let me borrow her car so I could supposedly get a new driver's license.
In reality, I was going to my boyfriend's house to get high.
Before I could even get off the couch, the doorbell rang.
It was the Feds.
They were looking for me.
I yelled for them to come back with a warrant, smoked a cigarette, got in the shower, and waited.
That day my 17-year-old daughter did something she never normally did.
She came home for lunch to see her mom.
As she turned onto my mother's street, she saw more than 30 law enforcement vehicles lined up—ATF, U.S. Marshals, FBI, Drug Task Force, Sheriff's deputies, and police.
She thought I had finally succeeded in ending my own life.
Instead, she walked in to find five g*ns pointed at my head.
I remained in jail until, only by the grace of God, I was allowed to go to rehab.
On April 6, 2009, after three and a half months clean, my third daughter was born.
Healthy.
Perfect.
Her two big sisters were there to welcome her.
I graduated rehab on October 7, 2009.
On December 15, I was sentenced.
The day before, my attorney, the federal prosecutor, and the judge had all agreed on a three-year prison sentence.
I was expected to leave the courtroom in handcuffs.
But let me go back.
On August 17, 2009, God spoke to me.
I had spent every chance I got in rehab praying that God would please let me stay out of prison so I could raise my girls.
I was living in constant fear.
Then, one day while I was at church, I took my baby into the nursing room and prayed the same prayer.
When I finished, I felt His presence.
It felt as though He walked into the room, sat beside me, and said,
"Beth, relax. You're not going to prison. I've kept you in rehab this long so you can truly find recovery. Be patient with Me. It's almost over."
From that moment on, my entire world changed.
I began living instead of merely surviving.
I told everyone that God had told me I wasn't going to prison.
I treasured every moment with my daughters.
The prison inside my mind disappeared.
Then my attorney called and told me the agreement had been signed for three years in federal prison.
My world shattered.
I had to go home and tell my daughters.
I apologized for destroy*ng their lives.
I even told them I wished I were dead because it seemed less embarrassing than having a mother in prison for dr*gs.
My oldest daughter, now 18, was preparing to become guardian of my baby.
My middle daughter looked at me and asked,
"Are you a liar?"
I said, "I try very hard not to be anymore."
She replied,
"But you said God told you that you weren't going to prison."
She was right.
That evening, the elders and ministers from my church gathered to pray.
One prayed that the judge would have a sleepless night.
Another prayed that it would be the hardest case of his career.
Another prayed he would be in turmoil over his decision.
More than 70 letters had been written to the judge on my behalf.
The courtroom was packed.
More than 50 people filled the room, with others standing in the hallway, including my 13-year-old daughter and my 9-month-old baby.
No child should ever have to sit through a parent's sentencing.
The judge entered the courtroom, called me to the bench, and said,
"I didn't sleep last night. I was in turmoil about what to do with you, Ms. Pearson. In my 25 years as a judge, I've never had a case this difficult."
I turned around.
Everyone who had prayed the night before stood there with tears in their eyes.
Exactly what had been prayed was spoken.
That day, I walked out of the courtroom with five years of probation and six months of house arrest.
God is good.
My little girl is now grown and thriving.
Shortly after her fourth birthday, she told me something that still gives me chills.
Out of nowhere she said,
"Mom, I saw God."
I asked if she meant His picture at church.
She said,
"No. I saw Him when I was in your tummy. He came inside your tummy twice. He has really big arms. He held me and told me He loved me and that everything was going to be okay. I asked Him who He was, and He said He was God."
That story still amazes me.
If ever God intervened in her life, it was during the two moments when I tried to end it all.
God is alive and active in the life of an addict.
I put the same energy into my recovery that I once put into my addiction.
I learned to truly love myself.
The same mirror I once used to do lines of m*th from is now the mirror where I look into the eyes of a woman I genuinely love.
I'm happily married to the answer to my prayers.
We were married on December 7, 2012, surrounded by more than 400 family members and friends.
I received a letter from the United States Probation Office congratulating me on successfully completing probation.
I later wrote my judge a thank-you letter expressing my gratitude for his mercy and sharing everything I had been blessed to experience because he gave me another chance.
I attended college.
I got married.
I watched my daughters graduate high school, attend prom, and continue their education.
I had the privilege of serving as the keynote speaker at the Fourth Annual M*th Awareness Rally in Bakersfield, California.
I also spoke at a large recovery gala in Delray Beach, Florida, was interviewed by local news stations about m*th addiction, published a poem about m*th, traveled throughout Oklahoma speaking at Celebrate Recovery, NA, and AA meetings, and began writing a book. Part of my story was also published in the book Breaking Chains.
In April 2015, my husband, my oldest two daughters, and my two stepdaughters welcomed my fourth beautiful daughter into the world.
I've now been clean far longer than I ever used.
I attend meetings regularly.
I have a sponsor.
I sponsor other women.
I have a strong relationship with God and with my family.
I've been forgiven.
I've earned back trust.
My oldest daughter once told me I was her hero while I was still in rehab.
My middle daughter is now one of my very best friends.
All of my girls are my greatest blessing.
Yes, I put them through hell.
But they've also witnessed the power of prayer and proof that recovery truly works.
Today I finally know the answer to the question I asked God all those years ago.
"Why?"
Because my "why" is a life free from m*th.
Days spent with my family.
Something to be grateful for every single day.
As I write this, it's been more than 16 years... but who's counting? 😉
I've also been blessed with nearly 13 years of marriage to the most incredible man.
Together we've been blessed with five fun, energetic, handsome grandsons and one absolutely beautiful granddaughter.
My life has far exceeded anything I could have imagined—but never more than what God intended for me.
I'm not anyone special.
I simply chose to pick up my cross and follow Him daily.
Today I celebrate 5,915 days clean.
