If you’re tired of small slips turning into big setbacks—and you want a real human in your corner—this is for you. The Messy Progress Transformation Packages include: • Weekly, 60-minute private sessions (video) • Unlimited secure messaging & voice-note support • Custom workbook and progress plan, built together • All my books shipped to you • Lifetime community + Substack access • Private replays, AI highlights (HIPAA compliant, by consent) 3 months: $3,997 (or 3 x $1,497) 6 months: $6,997 (or 6 x $1,297) Save $500 if you pay in full. No pressure. Just real, high-touch support that works mile by mile (or millimeter by millimeter). Ready? Book Your Free Discovery Call DM Me “MESSY” Comment “READY” below Full details: https://open.substack.com/pub/progressisprogress/p/introducing-the-messy-progress-transformation?r=5xcddw&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true — Belle

🔥 Badass Affirmation of the Day 🔥 I Slipped — And I’m Still Not Starting Over From Zero. Let’s stop the pretty lies. You had days, weeks, maybe months going strong… then one moment, one trigger, one weak night and you used again. Now the shame is screaming: “You failed. You’re back at day one. You’re a fraud. Why even try?” I’ve been exactly there — hating myself so hard I could barely look in the mirror. That voice is brutal. But it’s also a fucking liar. A relapse doesn’t erase everything you’ve already done. Every single day you stayed clean before that slip still counts. Every boundary you set, every craving you rode out, every millimeter you fought for — none of that disappeared. You’re not starting from zero. You’re starting from experience. From wisdom. From proof that you already know how to fight. Progress is progress — even after a setback. Mile or millimeter. Any forward motion is forward motion — and sometimes the most powerful forward motion is getting back up the very next day. Let’s get ugly-honest in the comments: What does the shame after a slip feel like for you? And what’s one small thing you’re doing today to get back in the fight — even if it feels pathetic or late? No judgment here. Just real people who’ve been knocked down and still refuse to stay down. Your share might be the exact reason someone else doesn’t give up tonight. I see you. I’ve been you. I’ve relapsed and I’ve gotten back up more times than I can count. And I’m still here. If you’re in that dark spot right now and the shame feels louder than the hope, you don’t have to crawl out alone. Join our amazing Messy Progress Community https://www.skool.com/progress-is-progress-coaching-3648/about

heart on the line. I feel it every time I hit “publish” on my Substack. Today, I’m not hiding it: I have 30 days left. Thirty days to keep the lights on, to keep writing, to keep believing that this wild, messy thing I’m building—my newsletter, my SKOOL community, my recovery coaching—matters enough to risk everything. I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing it because this is what it really feels like to try. Not fake-it-till-you-make-it try. Not “inspirational quote” try. The kind of try where you wake up terrified, but still show up. Because progress is progress, even when you’re scared out of your mind. If you know my story, you know I’ve crawled out of worse. I’ve rebuilt from nothing, and every time, fear was there. And every time, I learned: showing up scared is still showing up. That’s the truth behind everything I do—this blog, this community, this work. Progress isn’t pretty or perfect. It’s just honest. So this is me, putting it out there. If you need something real—if you want to see what it looks like to risk everything for something that matters—come read, join the SKOOL community, reach out for recovery coaching, or just share this. Maybe you need these words. Maybe you know someone who does. I don’t know what happens in 30 days. But I know I’m not giving up. As long as I have words, I’ll keep building something that matters. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being in this with me. Progress is progress, even when it’s scary, even when it’s slow, even when you have no idea what comes next. https://www.skool.com/progress-is-progress-coaching-3648/about If you’re ready for something real, join me: https://progressisprogress.substack.com/p/the-fear-of-publishing-the-fear-of?r=5xcddw

At 18 I was sleeping in my boyfriend’s parents’ laundry room in Minocqua — twin bed jammed between a dresser, overflowing hampers, and cat boxes that made the whole room smell sour. I worked part-time, partied downtown with the tourists, and carried constant stomach-knot anxiety from the cheating and drama while he sat in juvie. Then an old chat-room guy from when I was 15 started messaging: “Come see me. I’d never treat you like that.” So I packed a duffel bag with everything I owned (including my ratty baby blanket I refused to leave behind), got dropped at Hardee’s at 5 a.m. in the dark and freezing cold, and climbed onto a Greyhound that smelled like stale cigarettes and spilled soda. Two-and-a-half days later I stepped off in Binghamton, butterflies and pure terror in my chest. I married him at the courthouse on January 23rd while my stomach screamed “What the hell are you doing?” Eighteen months later I was back on another Greyhound heading home — equal parts relief and defeat. That impulsive runaway trip taught me something I still live by: You can’t outrun your pain. It just buys the same ticket and follows you. Dysfunction doesn’t disappear because you change zip codes. If you’ve ever tried to run from a bad situation only to find the same mess waiting on the other end… I see you. Drop one small thing you’ve learned about stopping the run in the comments. Or come talk about it live in Messy Progress Recovery on Skool today — no judgment, just real talk. 👉 Join the group here: https://www.skool.com/progress-is-progress-coaching-3648/about This kind of messy, honest story is exactly why I write Messy Progress Recovery on Substack. Real recovery isn’t clean or perfect — it’s progress, one imperfect step at a time. 👉 Read more raw stories + get practical tools for staying sober in the chaos: https://progressisprogress.substack.com Let’s stop running and start building something real — together.

No BS—if you’re reading this, chances are you or someone you love has been through the hell of addiction. And you know the worst part? It’s not the withdrawals, the broken promises, or those gut-wrenching moments on the bathroom floor. It’s the shame. The kind that soaks into your bones and makes you believe every awful thing you’ve ever heard—or told yourself. But here’s the truth: fuck the shame. Seriously. You don’t need that poisonous garbage holding you back anymore. I’m not sugarcoating it. I’m an addict. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I’ve woken up in strange places with even stranger people. I’ve done things that should’ve written me off for good. But you know what? I’m still here. I’m still a person, no matter what I’ve done. And I deserve to be happy, to love and be loved, to leave something better than I found it in this life. You can’t change your past. That ship sailed. But you CAN change your NOW. And your now is the next decision you make. Step toward the light or back into the dark—that’s yours every day. Two years ago, I wrote those words and people listened. Since then, my world cracked wide open. I got married. My husband adopted my two kids. We sat in a courtroom where a judge told us how amazing we are. Full circle. I used to stand in front of judges begging for mercy. Now, I stand there hearing I’m more than my past. That our family—built from chaos, hope, and hard work—is something to celebrate. I can’t even begin to say what that meant for my husband, who’s also walked the hard road. We cried. The judge cried. I left my safe clinical job to start Progress is Progress—because I was sick of one-size-fits-all recovery bullshit. I wanted to be the person I needed when I was clawing my way out. Now, I get to do that every day. I’m not just talking to those in the trenches. I see the families too—the ones up at night waiting for the phone to ring, who love us even when we’re impossible to love. I see you. I know the loneliness, the helplessness. But there is hope. There are full-circle moments. Days you’ll hear the gavel and a judge call you amazing. That’s real.