In an earlier post, I shared about the 2025 Pennsylvania Catholic in Recovery Women’s Retreat. I returned home carrying a deep sense of grace, yet also stepped into a quiet that felt almost unfamiliar. The retreat had been filled with sacraments and prayer, honest stories, laughter, and the fellowship of women who understood my journey in ways I’ve rarely experienced before. It was beautiful, but it also stretched me. Right after sharing my testimony, I had a sudden pain in my chest, which was the first sign of my myocarditis. My body was asking me to listen to it.
Back home, my life slowed down. My fragile body reminded me of my limits that I couldn’t ignore. Even the smallest tasks—folding a few pieces of laundry, walking to the mailbox, climbing the stairs—left my chest fluttering and my energy drained. Most days, I wound up lying down again within minutes of any activity. Long stretches of silence filled the house, and I became keenly aware of everything: the low hum of the air conditioner on hot afternoons and my dog’s prancing across the floor. At first, this silence unnerved me. I’m used to measuring recovery by visible signs, but my heart lay hidden away healing in its own time. Adult child recovery can feel like that at times. Quiet, slow, almost invisible, all while God is healing childhood wounds we may have hidden long ago.
One morning, while lying in bed and wondering how long it would take before I had the strength to start my day, an old pre-recovery belief surfaced: “Your life has no meaning or purpose.” Instead of pushing it away, I left it, though it didn’t stay as long as it once did. I took a breath and felt my dog snuggle up to me. I watched the rays of morning sunlight stretch across the room. And in that silence, I sensed God’s presence. Healing doesn’t always look like forward motion. Sometimes it occurs in pauses or in simply feeling held.
This became for me a living experience of Step Eleven. It reminded me that deepening conscious contact with God isn’t something to achieve but, rather, something to allow to happen. My inner child, who learned long ago to prove her worth by doing, is still learning that she is already seen and loved in God’s care. Recovery invites me to notice my inner child’s fear, hold her with compassion, and let her rest instead of scrambling for control.
I began to sense that God was working in hidden ways. During that time, I created the song “Begin Again,” which reflects this realization: I don’t have to be constantly doing to be healed. The Blessed Mother is near. God is present in the ordinary. And when I forget this and slip back into old patterns, I can try to begin again. The song is a reflection of that insight.
I’m feeling much better physically now. I have a lot to look forward to, including becoming a grandma. But this slower season has become a mirror for my entire recovery journey. It has shown me that I don’t need to earn my belonging, healing, or God’s love. Even when I’m not doing anything, I’m being held by God. And when my adult-child fears rise, and I feel powerless, inadequate, or unsure, I can pause, breathe, and return to being aware of God’s embrace.
The process we make in recovery isn’t always visible. Sometimes the deepest healing happens when nothing seems to be going on, and we simply dare to rest, trust, and accept God’s grace, one moment at a time.
Chloe is a Catholic adult child in recovery who integrates her faith and healing journey through creative expression. On her YouTube channel, Songs for Little Souls here, she shares music created with AI and human artistry for prayerful reflection. Each song grows from her own journey and is offered for anyone seeking a prayerful experience while listening to faithful Catholic music.