My Secrets Kept Me Sick. My Truth Set Me Free.

karenmrubinstein
Jun 15
6 min read

The Power of Owning Your Story and Your Voice

The Power of Owning Your Story and Your Voice

My invitation for our weekly Women in the Rooms recovery Zoom meeting yesterday was written in bold capital letters:

"THE TRUTH THAT SETS YOU FREE — SHEDDING THE SHAME & MOVING FORWARD."

Five hours after that meeting, I found myself sitting in a crowded tent in the pouring rain with nearly 1,500 of my people—alcoholics and addicts—at Alina Lodge (drug/alcohol rehab) in Blairstown, NJ. Onstage stood guest speaker Mackenzie Phillips, baring her soul and sharing her painful past. Her story. Her truth.

Just like the women in our meeting sharing their darkest secrets, Mackenzie reminded us that healing begins with honesty—and that when we speak the truth out loud, we not only free ourselves, we create space for others to do the same.

The message of honesty and shared truth were being shouted at me.

I don't believe in coincidences.

Not in recovery.

Not in God’s timing.

The Envelope in My Tote

When I showed up at Alina Lodge—I had a manila envelope tucked in my “Recover Loudly” tote, In the envelope was a packet of information about my online recovery community Women in the Rooms, my work as a transformational guide and also the first chapter of my new workbook -The RETURN (to Self) Method for healing our painful past and finding our true selves. Visualizing a small gathering of about 200 people at The Lodge, I drove the hour's ride with my husband Barry with my heart full of hope and my head full of dreams.

I didn’t know I was walking into something sacred.

I was going to the event with a mission: to pass along my Women in the Rooms materials and my new RETURN to Self workbook to higher ups at The Lodge and perhaps even meet Mackenzie Phillips. Maybe give her the information. Maybe just plant a seed.

But what I received was something much deeper.

Because this wasn’t about marketing. This was about remembering.

Part I: The Weight of Secrets

I didn’t grow up in a home where we told the truth.

We told stories.

We kept appearances.

And we kept secrets.

I was taught to smile while hiding bruises. To protect the image of a "perfect family" while carrying the burden of pain that had no name. Childhood trauma became my baseline. And silence became my survival strategy.

But secrets don’t stay quiet forever.

They grow in the dark.

They became PTSD.

Depression.

Night terrors.

Anxiety.

Dissociation.

Addiction.

They became a life that looked fine on the outside but was crumbling on the inside.

Later came more secrets:

An abusive teacher.

A predatory doctor.

A therapist I trusted—who crossed every line—and shattered me.

I called it an “affair” for years because that was easier than calling it what it really was:

abuse.

Therapy abuse.

And when that ended, I unraveled completely.

I drank to forget. I drank to disappear.I became the woman pouring wine in the dark, surrounded by ocean views I couldn’t see—because I didn’t think I deserved the light.

Part II: The Circle of Truth

It wasn’t until rehab that the real healing began.

Not when I put down the drink—but when I picked up the truth.

Each night, in the basement of the women’s house, we gathered in a sacred circle.

It was our recovery house's required 10 Step meeting. We had two groups for the 14 women in the house. One in a bedroom off the main floor by the kitchen, and my group down in the basement of the home in the rec room with a comfortable plush couch and throw pillows and cushions.

Several women lounging on the sofa, propped on cushions in a circle: no pretenses, no judgment. Just truth.

That’s where I first spoke aloud the things I swore I’d take to the grave.

That I was nearly trafficked at 23 while living alone in LA.That I’d been stalked by a serial killer.That the person I trusted most had exploited my vulnerability and left me shattered.

No one flinched. No one turned away.They nodded. They cried with me. They held it all.

That’s when I began to understand:

A secret shared is a burden halved.

In that sacred circle, I started to come home to myself.

Part III: Mackenzie’s Voice—And Mine

This weekend at Alina, Mackenzie Phillips took the stage. I sat less than 30 feet from her and clearly heard her first words she spoke into the mic:

“Hi, I’m Mack… and I’m an alcoholic.”

The tent erupted. Not in pity—but in recognition.

One of us.

She didn’t glamorize her story or hide from it. She didn’t tell everything—but she told enough. Enough to show that even childhood fame couldn’t protect her. Enough to show that PTSD doesn’t care who you are or what family you come from.

“I had to finally own my truth, and get off the fence, speak my truth, and walk free.” — Mackenzie Phillips

She stood there a beautiful woman now in her sixties—glowing, grounded, peaceful—and shared her scars.

It wasn’t her pain that moved me. It was her ownership of it.

Her voice was strong. Clear. Free.

And I saw myself in her.

Because I too have made peace.

I too have walked through the fire.

And I too now say:

“Hi, I’m Karen… and I am an alcoholic.”

Part IV: Women in the Rooms

On Saturday morning, just hours before hearing Mack speak, I held my own sacred circle—our Women in the Rooms Zoom meeting.

Our theme? Secrets.

And the stories that were shared… were not just shocking—they were holy.

Not because of what was said—but because of how bravely it was said.

Women who had never told a soul speaking their truth out loud—for the first time.

There's something that only alcoholics can share-a pain no one else can understand-and some of the stories I've heard have been wrenching. Some of the things I've been through have been gut wrenching too. So, when someone asks me if they can tell me something and they wonder if it's okay - bracing me that it might be shocking, I say to them:

“My shock left me after my second strip search.”

That’s not a joke. That's part of MY truth and it's also a line of permission.

To say: you’re safe here.

You won’t shock me.

You won’t be shamed.

Part V: Letting the Light In

This morning I took a walk around our complex of stately bricked townhomes and a beautiful courtyard/oasis of trees and vast tailored lawns and bushes. It was quiet except for the birds and the sound of my dog Frisco's nose in the air sniffing for rabbits. As I walked past my neighbors' windows i noticed the drawn blinds and tightly closed curtains. I wondered of the secrets tucked behind those shuttered windows and locked doors.

But when I turned the corner toward our end unit, pulling Frisco from his favorite bunny bush, I saw something different-a warm glow of light from our townhome.

Our windows were wide open.

Light spilling out.

Calleigh and Noelle - our two cats - sitting and waiting in two of the living room windows.

No hiding. I have nothing left to hide.

And that’s what recovery looks like to me now. That's what healthy living is:

No more hiding.

No more secrets.

Just light.

I tell my story out loud - Recover LOUDLY!- not for attention—but to give permission.

Because I’ve learned: