The decade I almost lost — and the frequency that brought me back.

I didn't plan on becoming someone the world worried about. Most of us don't.

It started with a workplace injury. A bad one. The kind of pain that doesn't let you sleep, hold your kids, or sit still long enough to think. The first prescription was a kindness. The second was a routine. By the third year, the pills were no longer for the injury — they were for the version of me that couldn't live without them.

For ten years, my life was measured in milligrams and refill dates. I was a mother, a partner, a working woman — and underneath all of it, a person who had quietly disappeared. I missed birthdays I attended. I cried in bathrooms at parties. I knew, in some buried place, that I had traded the pain of my body for the slow erosion of my soul.

Recovery didn't arrive like a sunrise. It came in flickers. A morning I felt my coffee. A conversation I actually remembered. A walk where my body felt like mine again. The work was — and is — the hardest, slowest, most beautiful thing I have ever done.

I built The SanMarie Frequency because I needed it and couldn't find it. A place that took recovery seriously without shame. A community that believed the quiet, daily work was the work. A path with structure, but also softness.

If you're here, something in you is already reaching. That part of you is not broken. That part of you is the beginning.

— SanMarie