From Rock Bottom to Redemption: My Journey Through Addiction, Trauma, and Prison
My journey has been a whirlwind of events. Battling meth addiction took me through the challenging landscapes of addiction, trauma, and the legal system, ultimately guiding me to an unforeseen place — redemption.
The first time I turned away from meth, it seemed almost effortless. There was no thunderous moment of epiphany or a grand awakening; I grew weary of the relentless party. Yet, despite walking away seemingly unscathed, the trauma lingered, an invisible weight I carried forward.
Years later, in the midst of a bitter divorce and an agonizing custody battle, when meth reappeared as an option to numb my agony, I felt no fear. Prescriptions from doctors hadn’t dulled the pain I harbored; I sought relief, an escape from the torment.
Meth had been an old friend in my youth — a refuge from life’s complexities. It offered respite, a veil that softened even the sharpest edges of my struggles. In its embrace, life seemed brighter and simpler. And so, like many drawn back to the familiar, I welcomed my old companion, meth, with open arms.
But this time was different. I was older, a mother now, and embroiled in a tumultuous battle where my daughter was used as a pawn. The deepest depression of my life had collided with my descent into addiction. I spiraled, unable to cope, and found solace in increasing doses of meth.
I had sold my soul to meth. Looking back at pictures from that time, I struggle to see the person I once was amid memories of enduring relentless assaults from abusive men, the agony of fighting for my daughter, and a hollow existence. I was unwell, spiraling rapidly. I often ponder whether I would have halted this downward spiral if not for the federal indictment.
Facing a federal indictment amidst my darkest times was a reckoning. When my indictment was unsealed, I was arrested and brought to a federal courthouse to be arranged. I will never forget sitting at the defendant’s table with shackles and chains, looking at the indictment that had been placed before me. The United States v Sabrena Morgan was the scariest words I have ever seen. I found myself at a crossroads. Sink or swim. I chose to swim.
Upon release on pretrial, with the guidance of an understanding pretrial officer, I made the decision to pursue rehabilitation. Though I knew prison loomed on the horizon, I fought relentlessly for sobriety and healing. It was in rehab that I rediscovered feeling — experiencing the entire spectrum of emotions as the drugs relinquished their hold on me. Weightlifting and boxing became my solace, reconnecting me with my body in ways I hadn’t known before.
But when the time arrived to surrender to the marshals after taking my plea, a surprising calm settled within me. I was weary of battling, constantly entrenched in combat mode throughout my life. I actually welcomed the chance to sit down and just be.
Prison became my crucible. Amidst the pain and trauma, I turned to prayer and writing. The ink became a conduit for my anguish, and as the words spilled onto the paper, I began to unravel the tangled threads of my existence. Through writing, I found clarity and began piecing together the mosaic of my life.
Now I am on the other side. As I am writing this I am now 9.5 years clean and out of federal prison. I found something better than any drug, I found my passion in helping others. I know how it feels to navigate the cruel federal justice system while overcoming addiction and being able to reach back and help someone else through it gives me a sense of peace if I can provide any amount of solace to someone in the place I once was.
Despite the consistent counsel to leave my past behind me and move forward, I’m compelled otherwise. I can’t help but extend my hand back to pull others through. I’m convinced there’s a purpose in my survival, a reason to be a beacon of hope for those starting their journey toward sobriety or facing a looming prison sentence, individuals who might feel their life is at an end. I vividly recall being in their place, and I feel it's my duty to advocate for those who lack a voice and persist in sharing my story.
