My childhood home was across the field from these woods.
My name is Erin Brown.
I grew up in a rural Mississippi community named Bogue Chitto. Papaw and Mamaw Brown’s farm was next door while Papaw Clayton and Mamaw Shirley lived only ten miles away. Our family was tight knit on both sides, and I never dreamt of leaving.
The summer of my 16th birthday, life changed. My family answered a call to move to South Carolina and serve at a large church in the Upstate. We left our house fully furnished to help it sell, and made the trip east with our horses, dogs and a U-Haul trailer with only the essentials in tow. Papaw Clayton passed a week later after a four year battle with cancer. His last piece of advice to me was, “Don’t let people change you. Stay sweet.”
Twenty years later, I felt far from sweet. The date was November 2022. I moved into a friend’s barn apartment in North Carolina while recovering from alcohol addiction and going through—not my first—but second divorce. I had been the one to leave both times. Four months later, my heart horse of 24 years began to decline in his health, and I chose to euthanize him.
His name was Pacer. Other than Jesus, he was my longest constant, so letting him go was especially difficult. In the end, I realized how much I took him for granted.
I remember sitting on the tailgate of my truck while I watched a man bury Pacer and wondered to myself, “What is wrong with me?” The tears weren’t flowing. Family and friends kept checking in to make sure I was ok, and at the moment, I felt fine. The rest of the day, I went about business as usual until I got in the truck to drive home after singing at a Celebrate Recovery meeting.
A deep ache wrapped it’s fist around my heart and squeezed so hard I could barely breathe. Then the thought. “You can drink tonight.” I crumbled and pulled into CVS to grab a bottle of wine even though I’d just promised my recovery girls that I was good for the night and would stay sober. The grief I had tried to run from for so long caught up to me, and there was no avoiding it.
I drank that whole bottle of cabernet in one sitting, loathing myself and feeling held by God all at the same time. I wept harder than I ever had and prayed for the strength to embrace the pain rather than numb it.
Facing the grief began the real work of healing.
Flash back to December 2016 when this photo was taken. My family had been working together for seven years in ministry where we provided music as a means to fulfill our mission statement of “Loving People to Christ.”
I went into this season with pure intentions, but I constantly battled depression and anxiety. Alcohol was not a part of my life at this point. During the initial four years of serving, I was in my first troubled marriage and left in 2013. In spite of the chaos, I continued to give. Two years later, I remarried and thought everything would be fine even though I was far from healthy.
I smiled at everyone in public, but internally I was not well. Behind the scenes, I had a short fuse, obsessive tendencies, chronic tardiness and a constant feeling of being judged. The only time the weight would lift was on stage when I’d go into a zone where the faces and expectations faded away.
For a long time, that was the only place I felt at peace which kept me holding on.
Eventually the comfort on stage began to succumb to anxiety attacks which I attempted to hide, and by the end of 2017, I resigned. My family was devastated by my sudden decision to step down, and I was both relieved and completely consumed by guilt.
Instead of choosing to be still and take a long look at myself, I dove into a new career as a farrier. Working with horses had been a childhood dream, so the freedom to pursue that path kept me on the move, but shame always lurked in the quiet moments.
Six months into the shift, my second husband’s struggle with alcoholism resurfaced. I attempted to fight it, but the conflict was torture, so I made the selfish decision to begin drinking with him to keep peace. And at first, it was extremely enjoyable. We would work hard each day, then drink ourselves to sleep every night.
Over time, apathy gave way to anger and opened the door to a very dark four years. I took it out on the horses and had a reputation for being the little lady you didn’t want to mess with if your horse got on her wrong side.
The memories of how hardened I had become still sting. God put a kind woman in my life who ran a therapy program with her horses. The first time I lashed out at one of her mares, Maria invited me to stay for coffee and rather than shame me, she showed me love. She asked about my life and listened without judgement.
The months that followed, she helped me begin to identify the root of my anger and encouraged me to not give up in the process. I have her to thank for teaching me how to honor horses rather than project my emotions onto them.
Even though my relationship with horses improved, my dependency on alcohol grew worse. I knew my life was on a dangerous track, but the fear of the unknown terrified me more than the consequences of drinking.
One night in particular stands out as the turning point. I was sitting on my front steps downing my fourth glass of wine over a cigarette when I heard this question.
“Are you tired yet?”
Holy Spirit. His voice was the same as always. Peaceful.
“Yes.”
“Do you trust Me?”
“Yes.” I wondered if my answer was really honest.
“Will you follow Me?”
“I’m afraid of what that’s going to cost.”
“You have to make a choice. I will get you through this if you follow Me.”
Not long after that conversation, I watched this sunrise at the farm where I hoped to spend the rest of my life. It was comfortable there, but it also wasn’t safe. My greatest fears did come to pass. Things didn’t magically shift just because I surrendered. The following years brought some of my biggest battles.
The most terrifying step was to ask for help. It took me months to build up the courage to actually show my face in a support group when I began my recovery journey. My first attempt was to join an online community where I quietly gained the strength to reach for more. That’s why I’ve created this space to share some of the things that have helped me along the way.
I’m glad you’re here. You are not alone.