This is about the time my life really started going downhill.

I was either about to turn fourteen or had just turned fourteen when I arrived in Alaska to live with my dad and stepmom. Although the events themselves are clear, the timeline can get fuzzy sometimes. Trauma will do that. I had left the island in second grade and returned roughly six years later. Because I had missed so much school while living in Florida, I had been held back and was forced to repeat seventh grade. As a result, I started school a year older than most of the other students.

I didn’t know many people anymore. I had left when I was so young that returning felt less like coming home and more like starting over somewhere new that happened to look familiar. To make matters worse, the few people I did know were now a grade ahead of me, making it obvious that I had been held back. In middle school, that was enough to make people assume you were stupid and leave the door wide open for bullying.

When my dad picked me up from the airport, I was a little surprised that his wife, Marisol, wasn’t with him. I didn’t think much of it, though. He had been with her for quite a while, and I had met her several times before. She wasn’t a stranger. They had started dating before we moved to Florida, and they had even come to visit us while we lived there.

I will never forget that trip. At the time, it just seemed like an uncomfortable incident. Looking back, I realize it was probably the first glimpse I ever got of who she really was. My sister and I were staying with our mom when they came to visit. They picked us up, and we drove to Orlando to spend a week visiting various amusement parks. For the most part, it was a great trip. Then one night, everything changed, seemingly out of nowhere.

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I started sobriety with a credit score in the 300’s. It now hangs out around 790.

I’m not giving financial advice, I’m just sharing my journey.

I got Credit Karma to track. I kept my phone number personal and unlisted for years- used a pay as you go plan. I won’t go into detail, but if creditors don’t contact you, your debts do fall off your report in 5 to 7 years. If they contact you, the time starts over. (This does not apply to student loans or a few other things)

I got denied for a traditional credit card, so I opened an account with a credit union, saved up $200., and applied for a secured credit card. They keep your money as collateral for a year, until you prove you can be trusted to pay your bill. I used the card to buy gas and paid it off every single month- no matter what. After a year, they released my money back to me and approved me for a real credit card, which bumped my credit significantly.

I paid off a lot of my smaller debts, and lived very frugally. I continued using about 20% of my credit, and paying it off monthly. I soon got approved for an Alaska Airlines card, and started doing the same thing. This card earned me miles, which enabled me to see my kids more.

As the years went by, the larger medical debts started falling off the report, and things like my car insurance being paid on time, and my (very old and used) vehicle as an asset started showing up and impacting my score. Staying consistent and living within my means paid off.

Within about 5 years my score had risen to the high 600’s, and they kept upping my credit limit on my cards (which I don’t utilize). I have about three credit cards now, with a ridiculous limit, but I am meticulously checking the balances- I use them for everything, and pay them off before the interest hits.

Within a couple more years, I was up to the high 700’s, and this last year I was able to purchase a home with my credit and income alone.

I was purposeful, dedicated, and patient. I made a plan, I took steps, and stayed consistent.

Again, not giving financial advice. No one taught me about this stuff growing up, and I feel like there’s such a taboo around finances. It’s so important and I don’t know why people don’t talk about it more.

I’m not rich by any means. I have massive student loan debt, and a really old house that basically eats money. But I’m so much further than I used to be.

She feels remorse, eventually, and regrets her actions, but lacks the emotional regulation and impulse control to stop herself from reacting. She even crawled into bed with me late in the night, after hitting me, waking me up whimpering “I’m so sorry mama. I’m so sorry.” She’s not a bad kid. She’s a sick kid, and she needs help. So yes, I was able to keep myself from responding to her violence with violence. I keep the same tone whether she’s screaming or talking. But it’s not without great effort and great cost to my nervous system. It’s an adjustment, and we knew it would be. Thankfully I have great support and a wellness plan in place as I navigate caring for my daughter and getting her set up with the services she needs. I’m so happy to have her home, and will say that it’s been more good than bad, but when it’s hard it’s really hard.

Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers, and continue to educate yourself on autism spectrum disorder. I’m not sharing this for sympathy or kudos, I am just trying to keep in line with my promise to be open and authentic with my life, in the hopes it helps others. 💜

Update!

Since getting her into therapy and getting her on medication, it’s like a miracle has taken place. She has been formally diagnosed with OCD and Schizoaffective on top of her Level 3 Autism and has started on a low dose of Fluoxetine in the morning and a low dose of Risperidone at bedtime.

I have gotten a lot of pushback from people in her life who hold outdated views on mental health and medication. I even had Adult Protective Services called on me for alleged mistreatment. But I fully stand by my decision. The ironic thing is, the APS investigations are done through my employer. I have been very open about my past and everything I’ve overcome, as well as my struggles with my daughter and my personal life. In fact, she is a patient there and works with the DD and Behavioral Health teams simultaneously, and they collaborate with her medical provider. Although the investigator was thorough, professional, and did their due diligence, it was almost comical. These people know me. We’re colleagues and work together, we do wellness groups together and collaborate regularly. They hear me talk about the ups and downs with my daughter. They’ve seen my bruises and black eyes, and helped me to navigate the system to get her the help she needs. In the past, I was afraid of the system and they were easily used against me. Now I’m a part of the system and have nothing to hide. My door is open 24/7 to anyone on her care team or anyone who is tasked with investigating her well being. My credentials speak for themselves, as does my home, and my daughter’s progress.

My daughter has gone from never wanting to leave her dark bedroom, screaming if anyone came in or tried to turn on the lights, to spending most of her day downstairs, engaging with family. She went from never wanting to go anywhere, to asking to go for walks, to stores, and to engage in activities outside of the house. She will even come hang out in the back yard while I’m doing yard work sometimes, and lend a hand (though she prefers to supervise). She went from screaming, biting herself, and hitting herself constantly to being willing to compromise and negotiate, and use her words instead of violence. I can actually take her out in public now without the chronic fear that she will explode and hurt someone or herself. She went from laying on the floor at the doctors office screaming about only getting one lollipop instead of the whole container, to taking one, saying thank you, and talking about how thankful and grateful she is.

She is full of smiles, laughter, and conversation. She’s becoming more confident and thoughtful too, and gets a lot of joy out of life. She’s still got autism, and she still has her struggles, but her quality of life has been drastically improved and is continuing to improve. She even sleeps on a consistent schedule now too, and has a bedtime and wake up routine. She never used to really sleep, she would just stay up all hours of the night in her room, and randomly fall out for a couple hours here and there.

Shes always been smart and funny, but now she’s well rested, able to think more clearly, and not living in a state of panic and overwhelm. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for her.

I am personally on the same dose of fluoxetine that she takes, and it was a game changer for my anxiety and irritability. I’ve also been on the same dose of Risperadone she’s on (at bedtime), and know that although it can have a calming effect, it won’t turn her into a zombie or change who she is at her core.

She still loves to do art work. She still loves to watch movies and YouTube. She still really wants to ride an elephant. Her world is just a lot bigger now, and I’m grateful.

I have always loved her, and now I get to love watching her grow and love her life. I get to experience life with her, and not just near her, waiting for her next meltdown.

I just wish everyone could see her progress and be happy for her instead of seeing what they want to see and making it about themselves. But that’s not my problem. My focus is my daughter, and making sure she has the best life possible.

Chapter 1

I honestly believed my life was pretty normal until I attended an outpatient treatment program. One of our assignments was to create a timeline of our lives and read it aloud to the group. The purpose was to figure out the circumstances that led us from Point A- birth, to Point B-treatment.I wrote down some bullet points, told my story, and didn’t expect much. I was the first one to go, so I had no frame of reference. I certainly didn’t expect the dropped jaws and shocked expressions staring back at me from around the circle. I didn’t expect comments like, “How are you out living life and not institutionalized or something?”

Apparently, people who go through the things I went through don’t typically turn out so “normal.” I guess I never really took the time to compare my story to anyone else’s. Even now, I try not to. I know plenty of people have had it worse than me, and plenty have had it better. Over the years, I’ve been encouraged to share my story because, apparently, it has the potential to help other people. That’s the goal here. If nothing else, it has the potential to be entertaining, so there’s that.

Life has pretty much been like living on a never-ending episode of Jerry Springer since the day I was born. I grew up in extreme poverty on a tiny island in the Gulf of Alaska. When I was just a baby, my mom asked my dad for a divorce. My dad responded by burning the house down. He went to prison, leaving my mom to care for three children on her own, homeless and struggling to survive. My mom actually had four children, but my oldest brother had been kidnapped by his father at a very young age and didn’t come back into the picture until much later. I digress slightly, but that information will become important later.

This story is about me, and I’ll do my best to keep the focus there, but I think it’s important to provide a little background about my parents.

My father, Ray, was the oldest of six children. His mother was fourteen years old when she gave birth to him, and his father was her stepbrother. Throughout my childhood, my grandparents had an on-again, off-again relationship. I always heard rumors that my grandfather had been a pimp. Whether that’s true or not, I honestly don’t know. He drove a taxi and constantly surrounded himself with younger women who, looking back, seemed to have obvious addictions and questionable morals. My first exposure to pornography came from the stacks of magazines he kept in his bathroom. They were everywhere, ranging from softcore to hardcore. Objectifying women was the norm. No one ever thought to put them away before children came over.

My mother, Diane, was the third of what I believe were six children. She was raised in extreme poverty by severe alcoholics.I never met my grandfather. Apparently, he died in some sort of alcohol-related incident long before I was born. My grandmother was an interesting woman. She was a musician who traveled around playing piano and singing in bars. She’d been married multiple times, and most of my childhood memories of her involve alcohol. She used to take me to bars with her, let me sip her drinks, and have me dance on tabletops to entertain her friends. Honestly, it was a blast.

The point of bringing all this up isn’t to tear anyone down. It’s to provide context for the chaos and dysfunction my parents were raised in. Knowing even this small snapshot of their lives, it’s probably not surprising that I didn’t realize how abnormal my own childhood was. To me, chaos and dysfunction were normal. Anything less seemed fictional—something you read about in books or watched on television.

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There are a lot of downsides to passivity and passive aggression too: stuffing emotions, physical and mental health issues, insecurities, lack of self confidence, regret, bitterness, resentments, etc. When you’re passive or passive aggressive you’re essentially saying: Your needs, your wants, your thoughts, and your feelings are more important than mine.

When you’re assertive, however, the only downside is that unhealthy people may take it as an attack. We only have control over ourselves, no one else, and we are not responsible for other people’s feelings. The line between aggression and assertiveness can be a fine one, but as long as you’re acting and not reacting, and saying what you need to say in a respectful manner, you’re essentially saying: Your needs, your wants, your thoughts, and your feelings are equally as important as my wants, my needs, my thoughts, and my feelings.

Sometimes the truth can hurt, but as long as it’s not being used as a weapon with the intention of harming others, it’s not typically an act of aggression. There’s a lot to be said for picking your battles, as well as choosing the right time and place, which includes a lot of trial and error.

Being assertive is a part of healthy communication and healthy communication is a necessary part of healthy relationships.

At the end of the day, it’s not about people pleasing, and it’s not about having power and control over others, it’s about being true to ourselves.

Say what you mean, mean what you say, don’t say it mean.

I already have 12 chapters written, but many of them still need editing, and there’s still more writing to do. I’m hoping that a weekly deadline and a little accountability will help me keep the momentum going and finally get this book finished.

To keep myself accountable and motivated, I’ve decided to start sharing one chapter per week on Substack for my paid subscribers.

I offer a couple of subscription options, including $8 per month or $80 per year. I’ll continue posting free content for subscribers who choose the free option as well. I know times are tough for all of us, and sometimes we just don’t have the extra cash to be frivolous with.

The chapters I share won’t be the final published versions, but they’ll be close. You’ll essentially get a behind-the-scenes look at the book as it comes together. If you’d rather wait until the finished book is released, that’s completely okay too.

This is a fun way to keep me writing, stay motivated, and thank the people who have supported my work and invested in my writing along the way. I’m excited to finally start sharing my story with the world.

No. I …

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I am sorry to the version of myself who carried that shame for so many years, because it was never mine to carry.

What kind of person does something like that to another human being? Someone half their size, someone they claim to love? My offense was being exhausted from caring for the kids and not wanting to have sex.

The abuse was not an isolated incident. It was a pattern. And every time I tried to get help, tell the truth, or leave, I was met with blame, excuses, minimization, or pressure to stay quiet because people didn’t want to hear about it.

Eventually, I started believing what I was being told. I believed I was the problem. I believed that if I were a better wife, a better mother, more patient, more understanding, more attractive, more accommodating, then the abuse would stop.

But it never stopped.

What took me years to understand was that it didn’t matter what I did. I could have done everything perfectly, and it still wouldn’t have been enough. The expectations constantly changed. The goalposts constantly moved. It was like trying to hit a target that someone deliberately kept moving.

There was no pleasing him because pleasing me was never the goal. The goal was to justify the abuse, the cheating, the lies, and the control. Whenever reality threatened that narrative, the standards changed so that I would always be at fault.

That is one of the hardest truths about abuse: it teaches you to search for a solution to a problem you did not create. It teaches you to believe that if you can just be better, the abuse will end. But abuse isn’t caused by a victim’s failures. It’s caused by an abuser’s choices.

When people tried to silence me, dismiss my experiences, or suggest I was responsible for what happened, I internalized those messages. They reinforced the belief that I was worthless. Healing required unlearning those lies and recognizing that abuse is a choice made by the person who commits it, not something caused by the person who endures it.

Today, I no longer carry responsibility for someone else’s actions. I speak about these experiences because silence protects abuse, not survivors.

Meanwhile, I’ve fought like hell to remain in their lives and play an active role, in the limited capacity I was allowed.

There was a time where his mom tried to force them to have a relationship with him, and he only wanted to use the relationship as a way to manipulate her. They didn’t want a relationship with him, especially my oldest, but that didn’t matter.

Meanwhile, I had to fight like hell for every visit, every phone call, every interaction… and I remained humble and grateful. I had to. But I also remained angry, and I used that anger as motivation to accomplish great things

Here’s the thing, we all do the best we can with the tools we have. But at the end of the day, we get to make a choice- we can stay stuck, applying old rules to new situations, or we can do the hard work and learn new tools and methods.

I’m currently on leave from work. I am going to dedicate every rainy day to working on my book. I have a story to tell and I deserve to be heard. It isn’t about revenge. It isn’t about looking good- trust me, I fully own my mistakes and poor choices. It’s about telling my story and hopefully helping other people overcome their own obstacles in life.

Stay tuned.

And Rosie, get started on that foreword please. ;)

I am writing this letter in regard to Alex Klemzak, whom I have known for approximately 25 years. Over those years, I have had the unique perspective of witnessing both his struggles and his extraordinary personal growth.

Alex and I shared experiences during periods of active addiction, and even during some of the most difficult chapters of his life, I always knew him to be someone with a fundamentally good heart. Despite the challenges he faced, he consistently showed compassion, loyalty, and care for others. I saw in him qualities that were often overshadowed by addiction but never truly absent.

Over the last several years, I have had the privilege of watching him completely transform his life. After committing himself to recovery, he successfully completed a year-long treatment program and then chose to remain for an additional year to serve others by working within that same program. This decision alone speaks volumes about his character, humility, and commitment to helping others find the same hope and healing he fought hard to achieve.

Since then, he has continued to dedicate himself to service and community. He serves on the board of a nonprofit organization focused on reentry support, helping individuals rebuild their lives after incarceration and other hardships. He chairs a weekly NA meeting, providing guidance, accountability, and encouragement to others in recovery. He is also deeply involved in his church community and consistently seeks ways to give back and support others.

In my opinion, Alex is a remarkable example of what genuine change, accountability, and redemption can look like. He has not only maintained his recovery but has transformed his lived experience into meaningful service for others. The person he is today is dependable, compassionate, community-minded, and deeply committed to living with integrity.

I can say without hesitation that I believe Alex is a person of strong moral character who strives every day to make a positive impact on the lives of those around him. He truly makes the world a better place. I am proud to know him and honored to offer my wholehearted support.

Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions or require any additional information.

Sincerely,

Zola M. Morris MSW, QMHP-R, CADC-R, CSWA

Jail Diversion Coordinator and Therapist

I’m working on it.

Actually upping my therapy to 2x a week for awhile. A lot of unresolved trauma came up from my trip to Kodiak and stepping back into being a full time parent, and all of this with recent drama.

For a long time the only thing that kept me going was the thought of you guys getting older and no one else being able to control our relationships. I genuinely believed you guys would want to live with me or at the very least spend more time with me. You guys aren’t doing anything wrong by living your lives and figuring out who you are, but it is still very hard for me. This is on me, not on any of you.

I’m having to readjust my purpose, and not personalize it, but it’s hard. It makes me feel bad about myself. I know there’s a lot of extenuating circumstance, but my emotional part of my brain is currently beating out the logical.

I’m not telling you all this to make you feel bad. I’m just trying to be open, honest, and to model vulnerability. And also model that when there’s a problem, we talk about it and we get help. You and your sisters aren’t responsible for my feelings, but my feelings are still valid.

I wish my own mother would have been more vulnerable with me before she died. I wish she would have shown me it’s ok to feel, and it’s ok to communicate. That it’s ok to get help. I’m not mad at her because I know she did the best she could with the tools she had, but I’m trying to be the Mom that I needed.

I finished grad school just as my husband entered one of the worst manic episodes I’ve ever seen him experience, which led to him severely neglecting his already compromised physical health. At the same time, I was traveling back and forth between Idaho and South Dakota to help with my children while already feeling completely maxed out.

In the middle of all of that, I left a job I had worked at for four years, turned down a position I thought I would be taking, accepted a new opportunity in Oregon, bought my first home, and moved my family. The move itself was overwhelming, but just two days after arriving, Adam began showing symptoms that looked like a stroke. The day before I started my new job, he was life-flighted out of state for emergency surgery.

On my second day at work, he underwent surgery, coded on the operating table, and had to be revived. While trying to learn an entirely new role, I was simultaneously receiving text updates from doctors and trying to hold everything together.

After surgery, Adam spent time in both the hospital and rehab. When I was finally able to bring him home a month later, he still required constant care and hospital infusions seven days a week. At the same time, I was working full-time, trying to settle into a new home and town, learning a new position, and caring for three dogs (including a puppy that wasn’t potty trained and a geriatric cancer patient).

I had some help for a couple of weeks when a friend came to stay, and I’m endlessly grateful for that support, but eventually it was all on me again.

Then my dog died.

Then our pipes backed up throughout the house because of tree roots.

Then Adam had another manic episode.

Then came Alaska—a trip that brought up a tremendous amount of trauma, grief, exhaustion, and self-doubt. I returned to work for two days before turning around to pick up my kids. While I was away, Adam’s mania escalated again. I was so overwhelmed with work and parenting that I didn’t fully realize the extent of it until I discovered a large stash of electronics and impulsive purchases. I had to draw a hard line and set a boundary: prioritize your mental health or leave. Thankfully, he listened, connected with his doctor, and slowly stabilized, but it was a process.

At the same time, I’ve been trying to be “super mom” for Taryn; helping her through violent outbursts, navigating services and supports, getting her connected to activities, and making sure her needs are met every step of the way.

All of this has also happened alongside three major death anniversaries in just three months: my mom, my dad, and my big brother, the person who took me in as a child and helped raise me.

And all of this has been happening quietly behind the scenes while I continue to work in an incredibly high-stress, emotionally taxing profession where I see and hear things daily that would break a lot of people.

To put it simply: I’m burnt out.

After speaking with my supervisor, HR, my therapist, and my primary care physician, we came up with a plan. I’m taking a temporary leave of absence from work to focus on my well-being and my family.

Although I’ve only been in my current role for about nine months, I’ve worked in this field for five years without stopping, on top of graduate school, internships, nonprofit work, and everything else. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that caring for others doesn’t exempt me from needing care too.

I’ve been approved for ten weeks, though I genuinely don’t think I’ll need that long. My goal is to return by the end of June.

The good news is that Adam is doing really well now. He’s stable, healthy, and showing up as an incredible partner. Taryn is also thriving. Her self-harm and violent behaviors have dramatically decreased, she’s eating healthier, exercising, sleeping better, and building healthy routines.

Now that they’re okay, it’s time to focus on me.

I care deeply about the work I do and have big plans for the Jail Diversion Program. I’m excited to come back refreshed, grounded, and ready to fully invest in making things happen.

If I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that feels guilty admitting I need a break. I worry about letting my team or clients down. But I also know that isn’t true. This is exactly the advice I would give to my clients, my children, or anyone I love in my position.

And I give pretty good advice.

So, I’m finally taking it.

I want to lead by example and show that it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to rest. And it’s okay to take care of yourself before you completely run yourself into the ground.

You can’t pour from an empty cup.

And mine is beyond empty.

When people talk about addiction, they often focus on the wreckage. The chaos, the shame, the loss. And yes, there was plenty of that in my story. But what I want to talk about isn’t just the destruction, it’s the rebuilding. The way recovery has this quiet, stubborn way of bringing you back to life, piece by piece.

When I was in active addiction, I wasn’t living. I was surviving, barely. I was doing whatever it took to avoid the pain and shame that had built up over decades. Some of you here may understand that kind of pain, the kind you carry so long it starts to feel like who you are. For me, addiction was never about choosing drugs; it was about not knowing how to live and not feeling worthy of a good life.

And the truth is, this community saw me during that chapter. Kodiak is a small place, people notice, people talk, people judge. They whisper, they worry, they hope you’ll get it together. Some turn away, and some quietly root for you to make it. I used to believe everyone had written me off, and many did. But looking back, I can see how many people were silently hoping I would find my way back.

My turning point wasn’t dramatic. There was no single moment that changed everything. It was quieter than that. Just me, exhausted, angry, finally willing to face the truth that if I didn’t change something, I was going to let everyone in my life that had hurt me and let me down win. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have answers. I just had the smallest spark, a faint belief that maybe I was meant for more than surviving. Maybe I hadn’t survived all I had just to become another statistic.

That spark led me into recovery. And recovery gave me back myself. But it wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t clean. It was messy, uncomfortable, humbling, and full of days when I questioned whether I was capable of doing it at all. But one day became two. Two became a week. A week became a month. And slowly, I began to rebuild. Not to become the old version of me, but someone new, because let’s face it, if the old version of me was so great I probably wouldn’t have fallen so far in the first place.

In those early days, the people who showed up mattered more than anything. The ones who didn’t expect perfection. The ones who were willing to sit in the discomfort with me. The ones who reminded me that healing doesn’t mean erasing your past. It means owning it, learning from it, and choosing to move forward anyway.

Through recovery, I didn’t just get sober. I rebuilt a life from the ground up. I went back to school when I had nothing but a GED, fear, and a lot to prove. I earned degrees in sociology and criminology, completed my Master of Social Work, and did it all with honors! I became a Qualified Mental Health Professional and a Certified Alcohol and Drug Counselor. My job title is the Jail Diversion Coordinator and Therapist for Union County, Oregon.

Today, I work inside and outside the jail. I have full access to meet with incarcerated individuals, assess their needs, and help plan for reentry back into the community. I sit across from people in orange jumpsuits, the same jumpsuits I once wore, behind locked doors, and help them map out a future. Sometimes when no one else believes they have one. I don’t give up on people, because I know what it’s like to be given up on.

And I don’t take that access lightly. Because I know what it means to be on the other side of that door. I know how rare it is for someone with my past to be trusted with that level of responsibility. That trust wasn’t given to me, it was earned, one decision at a time.

“Insert joke about walking into jail without handcuffs for the first time”

I share my story in that work not to center myself, but to remind people that recovery isn’t just a theory or a statistic. It’s real. It’s difficult. And it’s worth it.

One of the most important things I’ve learned is this: people don’t heal in isolation. They heal in connection. Shame thrives in silence, and stigma keeps people stuck. But honesty, compassion, and community create space for change.

Recovery isn’t about perfection. It’s about progress. It’s about learning how to fall and still get back up. It’s about living life on life’s terms. One day, one choice, one breath at a time.

Recovery gave me a life I never thought I’d have. It gave me purpose, community, and a sense of belonging I didn’t even realize I was missing. It gave me my family back. It gave me myself and this beautiful life I am grateful to live.

And standing here now, in the same place that once witnessed my brokenness, being able to show up in recovery, coming up on 12 years… that kind of full-circle healing is hard to put into words.

So if anyone listening is still in it, still struggling, still unsure whether change is possible, please hear this: you are worth the effort it takes to rebuild your life. You are not defined by your worst day. You are defined by your willingness to try again.

And to everyone who supports people on this journey - family members, professionals, friends, community, thank you for continuing to show up. Your compassion matters more than you know.

Because every story of recovery is proof that hope is real, and that healing is possible.

Thank you.

Dear Members of the Board,

I am writing to provide context for the criminal history disclosed in my application and to affirm my rehabilitation and current fitness to practice as a licensed social worker. 

Between the ages of 16 and 25, I was in a long-term abusive relationship with the father of my children. These experiences were rooted in unresolved childhood trauma that left me vulnerable to coercive dynamics and unhealthy coping patterns. During that time, I incurred several misdemeanor convictions related to domestic incidents. In most cases, I entered no-contest pleas to resolve matters quickly so I could return to my children rather than risk prolonged separation or leaving them in an unsafe environment.

After leaving that relationship, unaddressed trauma contributed to a period of substance use as a maladaptive coping strategy, which led to another unhealthy and abusive relationship. While these factors help explain the circumstances, I take full and unequivocal responsibility for my actions during those years. My past experiences provide context, but they do not excuse my behavior.

My last arrest occurred in late 2013, more than eleven years ago.

Since that time, I have taken extensive and sustained steps to change my life, including:

• Completing a dual-diagnosis residential treatment program in Soldotna, Alaska, followed by an Intensive Outpatient Program in Kodiak, Alaska.

• Maintaining continuous sobriety since March 5, 2014.

• Engaging consistently in therapy for complex PTSD, with an ongoing commitment to personal insight, accountability, and growth.

• Building a stable and ethical professional career in the helping professions with no disciplinary actions or complaints. I can provide letters of recommendation from all former supervisors upon request.

• Using my lived experience to support individuals experiencing domestic violence, addiction, and trauma, while maintaining strong boundaries, rigorous self-awareness, and regular clinical supervision.

I want to note that the exact timeline of some events from that period is difficult to fully reconstruct due to the combined impact of PTSD and active substance use at the time. Additionally, the incidents occurred more than a decade ago in rural Alaska, where accessing older records has proven challenging. I remain committed to providing any documentation that can be located and am willing to assist in any way the Board requires.

My history has ultimately become one of my greatest clinical strengths. It allows me to recognize subtle signs of coercion, relapse risk, and trauma responses; to model long-term recovery; and to offer genuine hope to clients who feel hopeless. Every aspect of my work is grounded in ethics, accountability, and a profound respect for the vulnerability of the people we serve. If I’m being fully transparent, my involvement in the justice system taught me nothing. That’s why I am so honored to be in the position I’m currently in, where I go to the jail three days a week and provide counseling, groups, assessments, and general case management to incarcerated individuals. I wish those resources had been available to me back then.

I understand and respect the Board’s duty to ensure public safety and professional integrity. I welcome any additional questions, records, or character references you may need.

Thank you for considering my application. I am deeply committed to upholding the standards of our profession and serving my community with integrity and empathy. I know what it’s like to need help and have no one be there, and I strive to make sure others don’t have to experience that. I also know what it’s like to need help and have someone be there, and I feel compelled to pay it forward in honor of those who helped me when I was down. I believe licensure as a social worker will enable me to meet that goal at an impactful level. 

Sincerely,

Zola Morris, MSW, QMHP-R, CADC-R

I’m honestly over it. I have found true love, success beyond my wildest dreams, and happiness. I have accomplished so much, but sometimes I think back and it still hurts. The way you “rescued me,” and gave me false hope for the thing I wanted most- a husband who loved me, a provider, someone who would help me be the mom and wife I always wanted to be. You got through my walls, made promises, made plans, made me feel worthy, and then discarded me and threw me under a bus so you could save face to everyone around you. You lied to everyone, probably even yourself, and said I was crazy.

You brought home drugs. YOU. I hadn’t used in weeks and you brought them home. You got me high, you used me for sex, and then got angry at yourself and took it out on me. I think you were afraid, insecure, and full of shame.

After years of trauma, I reacted the only way I knew how. I raged out. My PTSD kicked in and I couldn’t handle it. You had promised to get me help if I couldn’t stop, and then when I stopped and we were so close to having it all, you brought drugs home. You left me with your daughter to “go get toilet paper,” and came home with meth. I wish I would have said no. I wish I would have taken your daughter to my room and cuddled instead of putting her to bed and going to your room.

I was so close to getting my kids back, but I couldn’t say no, and then I couldn’t stop. Come to find out later on that you’d cheated- slept with your ex, even though you’d promised to be monogamous. I still can’t believe you called the cops on me after screaming at me and putting me down to the point where I lost it, threw a cup, and knocked over a lamp. I had left. I wasn’t even home when you called. Then after I got out and had nowhere to go, you called them again when I came to try and get my stuff.

You gave me drugs, you used me for your own gratification, you turned evil, you had me arrested twice in 48 hours, and I never said a word against you. I could have told the truth in court, even told CPS, but years of trauma kicked in and I said nothing. To me, being arrested meant my life and my kids lives were in danger- because I had spent 10 years in a relationship where I was brainwashed and threatened that my kids would be killed if I told the truth- I was trained after a lifetime of trauma to protect my abusers. And that’s what you became to me, my abuser; and that’s what I became to you too. I’m not innocent in all of it. I went out of my way to drive you crazy. I was so angry and hurt, and just messed up, I started sacrificing myself to hurt you, because I was hurting. I let you have control of my self-worth. I tried so hard to stay away, too, but for some reason I couldn’t. I don’t know if it was love- I think now it was the idea of what we could have been.

More than anything in the world, I wanted safety, and I wanted a family. I didn’t ask you to move me in- in fact, you talked me into it. You promised to help me get my kids back. You even helped me with a lawyer. You told me that you wanted a big family and that you could see us married someday. You made me feel safe for the first time in decades. But when things got serious, you self sabotaged, and then I did too. Everyone blamed me- even you, and I stayed silent. Even after everything, the telling everyone I was crazy, ignoring the fact that we were having sex all the time for years after. Ignoring the fact that you would call me if you couldn’t find drugs, even if I was sober. Ignoring all the times you fucked with my head and heart, using me for sex and validation, knowing it would hurt me. I needed a friend, and instead I got used and cast away. But then I would see a glimmer of the kindness, the man I moved in with, that made me feel safe. It was like a drug- I would do anything for the next hit, but then it left me feeling crazy, ashamed, and full of doubt and self loathing.

We could have had it all. I was all in. I would have stayed home with the kids, and had a happy blended family. I would have gotten help, and we could have been happy, but I guess God had other plans.

I have no idea where you are or what you’re doing anymore, but I truly hope you found whatever was missing in your heart, and that you’ve found peace. I am not fully to blame, you fucked me over, hard. You hurt me physically, mentally, and emotionally, and abused the legal system in your attempts to make yourself look like a victim. It hurt. It hurt my heart and messed me up. It left me feeling unworthy and made me hate myself. That’s why I burned it all to the ground so hard. I was in pain and wanted to destroy anything associated with that pain, and for that, I am so sorry.

I should have just left. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t stay away. I am also sorry that I didn’t just tell the truth. I stayed silent about what was really going on- I lied to the cops, I lied to CPS, I protected you when I should have been honest and got you help. Even now, I’m telling the abridged version. You knew I wasn’t crazy, but you led everyone to believe I was. I was traumatized and on drugs. But honestly,

None of that matters anymore.

I still remember when I told you I was going to go to college. You laughed at me. Now I have multiple degrees, with honors, and a whole bunch of letters behind my name. I’ve dedicated my life to helping other people, and I’m good at it. I’m safe now. I love myself. I have a family that loves me- my husband and my kids. I have friends and colleagues that love and respect me. I’ve been sober for over 11 years. My life is not what I expected, but it is amazing. Sometimes though, I look back and think what life would have been like if we would have gotten my kids and had a blended family- so much love… I missed out on so much of my kids childhoods to fix myself and build this beautiful life, and I sometimes grieve for it. But I’m also so grateful for it all- for the ups, the downs, all of it. Because I am so grateful for my life now. I’m so grateful for my relationship with my kids. I’m so grateful to be able to say I didn’t rely on anyone to give me what I have. I’m grateful for the fact that I worked my ass off and earned everything I have.

It’s crazy it took a jury trial to finally end it. You do realize, some of that was intentional- I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stay away, so I didn’t just burn the bridge, I blew it up. That jury trial was the end. It was the turning point- I was angry and fed up. I felt vindicated when you took the stand and almost got held in contempt. I still sometimes feel like it was worth the week in jail to see it.

I quit using drugs because of that trial, and I’ve been sober ever since. It was the spite that got me clean. I was finally done. I left the island right after, with $60. to my name and a backpack on my back. I started over from scratch and built an amazing life.

I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry for allowing us to hurt each other for so long. I shouldn’t have put my happiness in your hands. I should have gotten help sooner. I shouldn’t have tried to take the easy way out. I terrorized you, and I’m sorry.

Last but not least, I forgive you. I know you were hurting from your own shit. I know you were fighting your own battles. I know you had your own trauma you were trying to work through. It doesn’t excuse it, but it does explain it. I forgive you for your part, and I am sorry for mine. I wish you nothing but happiness and peace.

Sincerely,

Zola Morris, MSW

To the Governor of Alaska and the Clemency Board,

I am writing this not to erase my past, but to honor the person I’ve fought to become in spite of it.

Over a decade ago, I pleaded guilty to multiple misdemeanor charges. I did so not because I was guilty of everything I was accused of, but because I was scared, abused, and desperate to get back to my children. I was not in a position to fight. I was in survival mode, trapped in a system and a relationship that both made me feel powerless. All I wanted was to go home and hold my babies.

What followed were years of pain, healing, and rebuilding. I got sober. I went to therapy. I worked through my trauma. I found support in 12-step communities. I returned to school and earned both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I now work with people who are in the same kind of pain I once was—many of them incarcerated or struggling with addiction. I bring my service/therapy dog to work. I lead with compassion. I serve on nonprofit boards. I show up, every day, to be the person I needed back then. I’m now the Jail Diversion Coordinator and Therapist for an organization in Eastern Oregon.

I am not asking for a pardon because I want to pretend my past never happened. I’m asking because I have worked relentlessly to rise from it, and I am proud of who I’ve become. I have rebuilt my life with integrity and purpose. But more than anything, I am asking for my heart. To be able to say, with confidence and peace, that the state sees who I am today.

A pardon would not just open doors professionally—it would be a public recognition that people can change. That surviving abuse and incarceration does not define a person forever. That we are more than the worst days of our lives.

Thank you for considering this request, and for hearing my story.

With humility and hope,

Zola Morris, MSW

He’s been gone, hospitalized, for 18 days now. I feel powerless and overwhelmed. I miss him. I see how much he does that helps me in my daily life and the burden he lifts. We have had problems the last couple years. I’ve been in grad school- assignments, internships, full time job, non profit boards, and he’s just been at home, barely able to participate in my life. Resentments built on both ends, but his support and encouragement never wavered.

He neglected his health, both mental and physical, wallowed in his depression, and now he’s so sick that he may not come back from it.

I can’t afford to leave and go stay with him. I just bought a home and started a new job this month. The dogs also play a part. One is dying from cancer, the other is a puppy, and of course, my poodle- I’m afraid to leave them. My fear of driving alone also plays a part, but the smallest part- I’ll do it.

I went to see my kids and was gone two weeks- I was back three days before he was flown to a hospital in another state. Those three days were spent fighting and saying things that had never been said in our ten years together. And now he’s so sick he might die. I wish he would have accepted my help. I wish he would have taken better care of himself. I wish he was here. But I’m powerless.

I’m just moving forward. I know I didn’t cause this. I know I did everything I could to help him. Mentally, emotionally, and physically. I poured from an empty cup. I’ve done all I can, it’s up to him.

I just want my person back, but the only control I have is over myself and how I respond to all of this. I’m up and down, but I’m using my tools.

I recognize I’m not perfect and have made a lot of bad choices and mistakes. Not recognizing how creepy it was that a senior in high school was hitting on me when I was in 8th grade, and pursued and groomed me for years until it was legal was the first in a long line of mistakes. I thought I was so cool because the super hot star athlete was into me, a lowly trailer park kid with a fucked up home life. I was a child with no confidence or self esteem, and was looking for love, affection, and validation anywhere I could find it. Prime target for a predator.

Here’s the thing, other people don’t define your self worth. If someone puts so much time and effort into convincing you that you’re not worthy or capable, it’s a lie. You are worthy of happiness and you can do the hard fucking things. You learned the lies about yourself, you can unlearn them. It will be uncomfortable as heck and will take a lot of practice and reinforcement, but it can be done. When you learn better, you do better. So ask yourself, are you really the problem, or are you just in a toxic, chaotic, and dysfunctional environment that is keeping you in a state of survival mode, and unable to thrive as a result?

What you allow is what will continue, and what you allow is what you (on some level) believe you deserve. When you learn better, you do better.

For me, one of the most important steps was seeing a psychiatrist for my medication. It made a big difference to work with someone who really understands mental health meds. I take them every day, same time, just like brushing my teeth. It’s part of my routine now, and that consistency helps keep me grounded.

Therapy is a big part of my self-care too. I go every other week and do it virtually, which makes it easier and more comfortable. There’s something about being in your own space that makes it feel safer to process heavy things.

I also do things that nurture my body, like getting a massage every three weeks. It helps release the stress I carry physically. And at least twice a month, I give myself a full “do nothing” day; no obligations, no expectations. I shut off my phone and binge-watch light, comforting shows or scroll through TikTok (after tweaking the algorithm to make it less emotionally draining). It’s not lazy. It’s recovery.

A happy light has also been helpful, especially during those gloomy days that seem to drag on forever. They’re easy to find online and can really boost your mood if you’re sensitive to the dark.

Connection matters too. I check in with my core people and talk openly about what’s going on in my life. Just saying things out loud can lift some of the weight. I refuse to suffer in silence anymore, but I also realize that it’s not fair to make other people responsible for my problems.

I try to maintain a few feel-good routines too, like getting my hair done every few months. It’s not about vanity; it’s about feeling human and cared for.

I’ve also learned to say “no” when I don’t have the mental space. Boundaries are self-care, and they matter.