The Road to Recovery: My Story

07/26/2026

Part 37⬇️

The Foundation and the Selfless Choice

To understand how far I’ve come, you have to understand where I started. People often assume that because I ended up in a cell, I must have come from nothing. But the truth is, I grew up with a solid foundation.

My parents weren't rich, but they weren't poor either; honestly, I grew up a little better than most kids. I had everything I needed and then some. We traveled all the time—seeing the world and making memories. I was a French immersion student, a path I stayed on through high school. I had the world at my feet, a second language, and a bright future.

But as I hit Grade 12, life changed forever.

I got pregnant at 16 and had my daughter, Haleigh, when I was 17. I was a child having a child with a 25-year-old man. If that happened in this day and age, he would be up on charges—but back then, the world looked at things differently. Today, that man has very little to do with my daughter, leaving the weight on the family that actually stayed.

Because I was still just a kid myself, I knew I wasn't ready to give her the life she deserved on my own. My mom stepped up to raise her, and looking back, that was ultimately the best decision I’d ever make for that little girl.

You don't wake up one day and decide to lose your way. It’s a slow fade. But even in the middle of my own shift, I loved my daughter enough to put her needs before my own. That foundation my parents gave me—the one that allowed me to make that choice—is the same foundation I’m standing on today as I rebuild my future.

[STAY TUNED FOR PART 38]
Drop a "❤️" if you’ve ever had to make a hard choice for the people you love.

07/14/2026

Update on where to catch my latest posts!
Hi everyone! I’ve had a lot of messages lately asking about new posts, and I really appreciate you all checking in.

I want to let you know that while I’m keeping the "Road to Recovery" page open and active, my main focus right now is sharing daily updates over on my primary profile, Sarah AP. If you’re looking for my most current content, that is definitely the place to be!

I’d love for you to head over and follow/add me at Sarah AP so you don't miss anything while I'm focusing my efforts there. I’m still here, and I'm looking forward to connecting with you all in both places as things grow!



https://www.facebook.com/Sarrahhhhhh?mibextid=wwXIfr https://www.facebook.com/Sarrahhhhhh?mibextid=wwXIfr

07/14/2026

Part 36⬇️
The Road to Recovery ❤️‍🩹📖

The Shadow in the Aisle

The "Stigma Tax" doesn't just happen with people who know my past. Sometimes, it happens with complete strangers who don't know a single thing about me.

I was in the Dollarama on Wyse Road in Dartmouth, NS recently, just trying to pick up a few things. I’m a grown woman, a professional in the trades, walking around with my wallet in my hand. But within minutes, I realized I wasn't just another customer. I was being hunted.

I wasn’t just being "watched"—I was being stared at, stopped, and followed by a floor walker. It got to the point where I was so uncomfortable I was almost in tears. I literally forgot what I even went into the store for.

When I spoke to the manager, the response was, "He’s just doing his job."

I understand retail theft is real. I understand security has a role. But there is a massive line between doing a job and singling someone out until they feel sub-human. There is a difference between security and harassment.

I’ve noticed a pattern, not just here but back at the shelters in St. John’s too. A lot of times, the people hired for these security roles handle situations very differently than what we are used to. As a Canadian citizen, I expect to be treated with basic respect in my own community. When you are in this country, that respect should go both ways.

Whether it's because of how I look, the clothes I wear after a shift, or just a "vibe" they think they’re picking up, being followed like a criminal makes the walls feel like they’re closing in. It triggers every bit of anxiety from my past and makes me feel like no matter how much I change, the world will always try to put me back in a box.

I’m 23 months clean. I work hard for every cent I spend. I shouldn't have to defend my right to walk down an aisle without a shadow over my shoulder.
Respect is earned, but basic dignity should be a given.

I know I’m not the only one this has happened to. I know there are others in Dartmouth who have felt that same shadow over their shoulder. It shouldn’t be allowed, and we shouldn’t have to "prove" we belong in a store while we are just trying to live our lives.

PLEASE SHARE THIS. This happened right here in our very own city, in our very own backyard—Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. People need to be made aware of how the staff at the Wyse Road Dollarama is treating the public. We deserve to shop without being harassed.

[STAY TUNED FOR PART 37]

Have you ever felt targeted or followed while just trying to live your life? It’s time we talk about how "security" can cross the line into harassment. Drop a "🚫" if you’re tired of being judged before you even speak.

07/09/2026

📖 THE ROAD TO RECOVERY❤️📖

Part 35

The Stigma Tax

The "after" isn't always glamorous. Sometimes, the hardest part of changing your life isn't the 10-hour shifts or the physical labor—it’s dealing with people who refuse to let you forget where you came from.
I’ve been out here every day, pouring concrete and doing the work. But life still throws curveballs.
Lately, I’ve been reminded that no matter how much you change your life, some people are just waiting for a moment to use your history as a weapon.
I’ve had my past thrown in my face this week. I’ve been labeled with the same old words the second things weren't perfect.
That right there? That’s the Stigma Tax.
It doesn't matter that I’ve been clean for 23 months. It doesn't matter that I’m at work every morning before the sun. Certain people will reach right back into the "old" me to try and make me feel small today. They don't want to see the person who graduated from the trades or the woman who is a crane
apprentice; they only want to see the version of me they can look down on.
This is the reality of recovery that people don't talk about. You can change your heart and your hustle, but you can't change a closed mind.
It’s been severely stressful, but here is the difference: The old Sarah would have let those labels break her. The woman I am today? I’m keeping my head up. I’m living my truth, protecting my peace, and showing up for my life. You can try to label me, but you can't take the growth I’ve earned in the mud.

[STAY TUNED FOR PART 36]

To anyone who has had their past used against them: Their labels are a reflection of them, not you. Drop a "💪" if you’re still standing tall!


👊

07/07/2026

THE ROAD TO RECOVERY

Part 34⬇️

Chemical Handcuffs: The 11-Month Fog

After that night I was swarmed by eight cop cars, the hammer finally came down. No bail. A 15-month sentence. I would ultimately serve 11 months straight behind those walls. With 7-8 months of that time on remand.

But if you asked me then what was happening, I couldn’t have told you.
The system doesn’t just want you "compliant" by following rules—they want you sedated. They want you quiet. They want you to be a ghost in jail blue sweats so you’re easier to manage.

They didn't just lock my door; they locked my brain. They had me on a cocktail that would level a grown man. I was taking:
• Clonazepam (6mg a day): That’s 2mg three times a day. A heavy dose.
• "Happy Houses": The heavy muscle relaxants they hand out to keep everyone limp.
• Biphentin: My ADHD meds thrown into the mix.
• Clonidine: Three times a day to keep my system suppressed.
• Trazodone & Zopiclone: The nightly "knockout" punch to make sure I was gone.
• Morphine 15s: Twice a day for two weeks after my hernia surgery.

I wasn't "serving time." I was a zombie.
I remember Mark telling me after the fact that when he would talk me anytime after the 6:30 PM med pass, I wouldn't make sense. I was gone. The girl he loved was buried under a mountain of prescription pills designed to keep me from feeling, thinking, or reacting.

The scariest part? I lost chunks of my own life.
After I was released, Mark and I were walking down the road and passed a girl. She stopped me, talking to me like we were old friends. She knew my name, my stories, my life.

I had been in jail with her for months, and I had absolutely no idea who she was. Think about that. I lived in a cage with someone, ate with them, talked to them every day, and the drugs they fed me were so strong they wiped my memory clean.
That’s not "correction." That’s chemical storage.
They didn't want to help me get to the root of my addiction; they just wanted to dope me up so I was "easy" to handle. They trade your sobriety for their convenience.

When people ask why I’m so protective of my peace now—why I choose the hard work in the mud over the "easy" way out—it’s because I remember the fog. I remember being a ghost. I remember being a number. Something’s I will never forget.

Im just shy of 2 years clean, and for the first time in years, I can actually remember the faces of the people I talk to. I own my mind again. And I’m never giving it back to the system.

[STAY TUNED FOR PART 35]

They’d rather see you sedated than successful. Drop a "🚫" if you’re done letting the system numb your soul. Share this to expose the "medication" culture in our
jails. Have you ever had your medication altered in someway shape or form( cut off from your medication, switched to an alternate medication) in the correctional system? Comment 💊below if you ever experienced something similar would love to hear your experience.

07/06/2026

📖 THE ROAD TO RECOVERY

Part 33⬇️

The Price of "Compliance"

I’ve been quiet for a few days.
Life is busy when you’re building a future instead of running from a past.
But let’s get back to the truth.

In Part 31, I told you jail was an adult daycare.
But the real danger wasn't the boredom—it was the brainwashing. The system doesn’t want you to be strong; it wants you to be "compliant."

They want you to sit in that plastic chair, bead your earrings, and wait for a caseworker to tell you when you’re allowed to breathe.
For years, I played their game.
I thought being "good" in jail meant I was getting better.
I was wrong.
Being "good" in jail just meant I was getting better at being a prisoner.

Every time I was released, I walked out with the same empty pockets and the same broken mindset.
I was "compliant," but I wasn't healed. I was "processed," but I wasn't changed.

That’s why the revolving door kept spinning.
They release you into the same world, with the same triggers, expecting a different result.
But the system isn't set up for your success—it’s set up for your return.

Every empty bed is lost revenue for them.
Every success story is one less "customer" in their daycare.

It wasn't until I looked at that box of pencil crayons and realized I was 33 years old that the fire finally lit.
I didn't want to be a well-behaved inmate.
I wanted to be a free woman.

[STAY TUNED FOR PART 34]

Drop a "💯" if you’re tired of being a number in someone else's system. Share this to show the world that "compliance" isn't the same thing as recovery.

07/06/2026

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