This First Person column is written by Emily Ranft, who lives in Orillia, Ont. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
It was the day before my scheduled abortion.
My partner was in jail and I was gardening at the community church, trying to do something to move through time and relieve my debilitating anxiety. I was trapped in the cycle of addiction to multiple substances and living out a slow form of suicide. For me, pregnancy wasn’t joyous news but another painful situation I needed to escape.
I was scared to get the procedure, but it felt like my only option. I was at my lowest point. I didn’t have a job or a home and spent many nights wandering the streets, running away from my family.
But as I pulled weeds, something shifted within me. The thought was as sudden as a gentle breeze surrounding me. It started as a feeling and expanded into a vision of getting sober, going back to school, getting a job and providing a life for my baby.
For years, I tried everything to get better, but always found myself in the same desperate place. The psychiatric floor became a revolving door. I tried detox, rehab, therapy and 12-step programs. I gave up on institutions. But at that moment, I unexpectedly had a belief in myself as tangible as the wind.
My family initially resisted my decision to continue with the pregnancy, and how could I blame them? I still think of my mother’s heartache and the years she desperately advocated for my wellness. My family insisted that there was no way I could have a baby. But once they saw my resolve, my parents and I set up a nursery in their home despite their skepticism.
After that moment in the garden, I got sober and it felt like someone woke me from a nightmare. Counting the weeks, going to appointments and feeling my body change gave me this excitement I hadn’t felt for a long time. It changed me and started me on a journey of healing.
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When my son was born, I took on a new identity — one that felt unfamiliar, but that took me out of myself and placed me in a position of caring and service.
During the pandemic, when my son Cedar was only four months old, I went back to school online to complete my undergrad in English literature. There were times when all I wanted to do was sleep, but I had these memories looming over me — the shame of being that sick girl on the streets or in a secured hospital room. No matter how hard things were, these thoughts propelled me to dig deep and graduate.
Change didn’t happen in an instant, and I would be lying if I said I had overcome my addictions. I still think about drugs and alcohol to this day — five years later.
After I got my bachelor’s, I decided to go to teachers’ college. If you were to ask my elementary school teachers, I would likely be the last person they’d expect to become a teacher. I was energetic and disruptive and didn’t do well in school. I hated it.
During my first placement, I was scared to enter the school. I felt like I didn’t belong — people like me aren’t teachers, I thought to myself. Every time the phone rang in the classroom, I thought it was the principal calling to say I couldn’t be there. For so long I felt being someone who used substances was my part of identity that I worried I couldn’t possibly hold a position in the professional world.
But change did happen — with baby steps. My partner and I stayed together. He served his time, stopped using drugs, went to college to learn plumbing and is now an apprentice. We welcomed another son at the beginning of the second year of my teaching degree. I went back to school less than a week after giving birth because of this profound determination. I brought Simon with me and nursed my baby in class.
I stumbled into education serendipitously, but now learning feels so fundamental to my well-being and integral to my recovery. Education has given me the growth and power to visualize and reach my goals. I feel inspired to empower students and help them cultivate their own knowledge and voice. Instead of feeling like I don’t belong, I feel honoured and grateful to be in this position. I see education as a gift for what it has given to me and I hope to share this with others.
As I walk into a school, filled with nervousness and excitement for my new job as a supply teacher, I find it hard to imagine where I came from and sometimes question how I got here. But I believe the pursuits of new goals and their challenges that gave me something better than getting high.
These experiences have shaped who I am. I share this story to offer hope and to resist the stigma of addiction and mental illness because no one is untouched by its impact. I believe people can heal with unconditional support and having a sense of connection and purpose. I now have a lot more compassion for others but also an unshakeable belief in myself and the inspiration to cultivate this feeling of hope in others.
My partner and I rent a home and have a vegetable garden in the backyard. I feel like the prodigal child because when I was in that church garden, I had nothing.
Today, I see flowers among the weeds.
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