Kiera Gerety

There’s a version of recovery people like to romanticize.

It’s clean and soft. All mantras and morning routines. Crisp new journals, checked-off steps, smiling chip photos with cake. The kind that says look at me now, like the fall wasn’t brutal, like the crawl back didn’t crack every bone in your body.

But then there’s the other version.
The one we don’t talk about enough.
The kind where you’ve been here before.
The kind where you almost didn’t come back.

This book, Ink, Blood, and Prayer, isn’t for the neat stories.
It’s for the broken returns, those uneven paths that twist and turn through the shadows of doubt and despair.
The rage-stained prayers, those anguished cries that often go unheard, echoing in the silence of a weary heart.
The ones who relapsed after everyone already celebrated their comeback, feeling the weight of expectations suffocating their every step.
The ones who got clean again anyway, rising from the ashes of their struggles, resilient and unwavering in their pursuit of hope and redemption.
This is a testament to the raw and messy journey of healing, embracing the imperfections that make us human and celebrating the courage it takes to keep fighting against the odds.

The Truth Is, I Didn’t Think I’d Survive This Time

I had just relapsed, again.
Not in the slow, creeping way. Not in the “just one drink” kind of way.
In the full-burn-it-all-down, take-everything-I-can kind of way.
I wasn’t planning to make it out.

I spent five days strung out on cocaine. I couldn’t go multiple hours without a line. I was blowing lines off of the changing table in the handicapped stall at work.

The only reason this book exists is because I started writing again in the middle of that fire.
While I still hated myself.
While my body was still wrecked from what I’d done to it.
While I was still counting hours, not days.

Writing These Poems

Some of the poems in Ink, Blood, and Prayer were written from my bedroom floor, a place where I often found solace and clarity amid the chaos of my thoughts.

Others were scrawled in fury after hearing someone say, “But you had so much time,” a phrase that pierced through my heart and ignited an intense outpouring of emotion.

Some of them are so vulnerable I almost didn’t include them, as they expose the rawest parts of my soul, laying bare insecurities and fears that I usually keep hidden from the world.

Each piece represents a moment in time, capturing the essence of my struggles and triumphs, a testament to the fact that every emotion, whether joyous or painful, deserves to be expressed.

Why Am I Sharing This?

I decided to publish this because I knew someone out there might need them like I needed them. It struck me that sharing my experiences and insights could provide a lifeline for those who find themselves in similar situations.

By putting my thoughts into words, I aimed not just to express my feelings but also to create a sense of community and understanding. Every time I reflected on my journey, I realized how crucial it was to reach out and offer support, fostering connections with others who might feel isolated and overwhelmed. With this in mind, I hope to encourage others to find strength in vulnerability and spark a dialogue that can lead to healing and growth.

This Is Not a Success Story. It’s a Survival One.

I’m not writing from the top of the mountain. I’m not at Step Twelve.
I’m writing from the blood-soaked path between relapse and recovery, between guilt and grace.

There are poems in this book that scream.
Others whisper.
Some just sit in the silence of shame and wait.

This one still guts me every time I read it:

“I don’t need you to clap for me / I need you to believe I can be forgiven / even when I don’t believe it myself.”

If you’ve ever sat there—head in your hands, or in a church basement, or alone in your car at 3am—and wondered can I come back again?, this book is for you.

Not to fix you.
Not to save you.
But to sit beside you and say, me too.

You’re Allowed to Start Again. And Again. And Again.

I don’t care how many times you’ve relapsed.
I don’t care how long it’s been.
I don’t care if you’re crawling or limping or screaming through every second of sobriety.
You’re still here.
And that’s enough.

This book is for the messy ones.
The defiant ones.
The still-breathing ones.

It’s for anyone who’s ever felt like they ruined their second chance, and still got up anyway.

Because I did.
And because I’m still doing it.

If You’re Clawing Your Way Back: This Is for You

Ink, Blood, and Prayer comes out July 17th.
It’s a collection of poems written through relapse, rage, survival, and the first 90 days clean.
It’s spiritual but not sanitized.
Brutal and beautiful.
It’s not afraid of the dark, and neither are you.

If you’ve ever felt like your story didn’t fit the picture-perfect version of recovery, I wrote this for you.

And if you’re still here,
still breathing,
still reaching,

I’m with you.

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I’d Love to Hear from You

Tell me:

• How many times have you started again?
• What’s helped you keep coming back?
• What do you wish someone had told you the last time you relapsed?

Drop a comment, share this with someone who needs it, or email me your story. I read every one.

And if you haven’t preordered Ink, Blood, and Prayer yet, you can grab it here.
Let’s make space for the stories that don’t get told.