Saint of the Second Try

And third. And twenty-fucking-ninth. And you know what? We’re not counting anymore.

People talk about second chances like they’re rare. Like they come wrapped in clarity and golden light and everyone involved is just so grateful to start again. That’s cute. But if you’ve ever truly screwed up – burned bridges, hurt people, lied to yourself daily while smiling in selfies – you know the second try doesn’t come with fanfare. It comes quietly. Sometimes it shows up on a Wednesday morning when your hangover feels more like grief. Sometimes it knocks when you’re lying on the floor, not metaphorically.

I am a Saint of the Second Try.

Not because I nailed it the second time. Not even close. But because I kept coming back. Because I kept choosing again, even when I was embarrassed, raw and sick of my own bullshit. I didn’t get a clean restart. I got dragged by the universe with one eyebrow half-done and a voice in my head saying, “Seriously? Again?”

Yes. Again.

Now – hold up. Before anyone rolls their eyes at the word saint, let me say this clearly: I’m not holy. I’m not trying to pretend I’m some sinless little dove who healed once and now floats around burning sage and handing out forgiveness like candy. I believe in God. I believe He saved me more than once – especially that day the car hit me and another one ran over my body. Especially in those quiet, brutal moments when I wanted to disappear and somehow still woke up.

But even with that faith, I’m not claiming sainthood. I’ve sinned. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself. I’ve said cruel things in nice tones and nice things in cruel ones. I’ve made selfish decisions. I’ve numbed, lied, run. And still? I know I’m not a bad person.

I’m caring. I’m deeply empathetic. I’ve always tried to show up for people – even when I couldn’t show up for myself. And maybe that’s why I used the word “saint.” Not because I think I’m holy but because I think there’s something sacred in surviving. Something sacred in the trying. Something saint-like in the way we forgive ourselves again and again, even when the world wants us to stay buried under shame.

Because healing doesn’t happen all at once. It’s not this cinematic transformation where you look in the mirror one day and go, “Oh, I’m better now.” No. It’s slower. Dumber. Uglier.

It’s walking back into rooms you once stormed out of. It’s saying “I’m sorry” and meaning it. It’s drinking coffee instead of vodka and still shaking. It’s letting people see you – really see you – without the filter, the sarcasm, the armor. It’s relapsing emotionally, spiritually or literally… and still choosing to try.

Again.

People talk about “the rock bottom” like it’s this glamorous wake-up call. My rock bottom didn’t look like that. Mine looked like crying on hardwood floors with a wine bottle in a water bottle, telling a man I barely knew, “Yeah, I do wanna go through it together.” Spoiler: we did not get through anything. He was fresh out of jail and I was fresh out of reasons. It was not romance. It was a trauma echo.

But still – after all that – I got up.

And I’m not here to shame the fall. I’m here to praise the rising. Even when it’s uneven. Even when it’s barely a crawl.

Because guess what? You don’t become holy by being perfect. You become holy by surviving what should’ve ended you.

So yeah, I’m the Saint of the Second Try.
I bless the burned bridges, the cracked voice, the shaky hands texting, “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

I bless the missteps, the detours, the late bloomers and the quiet comebacks.

So if you’re reading this and thinking: But I already messed it up.
You didn’t. You’re here. Which means you’ve still got another try in you.