In person, Monica has a sweet, straightforward presence. She speaks like someone in a new season, learning things about herself and the world for the first time. After a difficult childhood and an adulthood of coping mechanisms, she’s arrived at a place of peace. Her hard experiences aren’t forgotten — instead, she’s letting them inform her work, encouraging people in tough circumstances that there is hope. Here is her story.
When I look back on my life, I had times where it looked like I had it all, but I always wanted something different. I could never be satisfied; I was always so uncomfortable in my own skin.
These days, I'm a bit of a homebody. I like my hummingbird feeder, I love house plants. I like to cook. I love spending time with my grandchildren. I just like being me now.
Missing foundations
I was born in Vancouver, to a single mom. My mom married and we moved to Calgary, where my three younger siblings were born. My stepfather was physically abusive, and by the time my youngest sister was born, he’d started raising his hand to us. My mom took me and my siblings and we snuck out in the middle of the night.
We moved in with my uncle and aunt in Vancouver, who were very strict: when my mom found a place in Vancouver, I had to stay with my relatives, and I learned to not be seen or heard. By the time I was six, I was taking the bus on my own to visit my mom. I grew up very independent, and I didn’t think that I needed any help — but you know, I was pretty vulnerable.
I got a boyfriend when I was 13, and he was also physically abusive. I ended up having to leave the province to get away from him, and this laid more of the groundwork for my struggles later on. When I returned to Vancouver as a young adult, I got a job as a cocktail waitress, and that’s where I met my husband. We moved out to Port Coquitlam, and things were pretty good — I had our two sons and I managed to get along okay. But because of my younger experiences, I didn’t have the tools I needed to function in an adult world. I looked okay on the outside, but inside I was a mess.
No longer coping
Because I was in the bar industry, drinking and partying were all the thing. Drugs were part of the workplace environment too, and so I started to become a weekend warrior. I did pretty good at hiding my habits for a long, long time. My marriage wasn’t doing so well; I eventually got out of the bar industry and got a job as a travel agent, but things just kept on getting worse and worse. Drugs became my coping mechanism.
This went on for decades. Then, my oldest son turned 18 and left home. My dog died. My marriage fell apart. Everything began to crumble: I lost my savings, my car, my career, my housing. I took up with an old boyfriend and ended up in a tent out in Langley. I was not good.
Seeking out help
For a while I moved in with my mom, but eventually she’d had enough of me too. About a week after she kicked me out, I was using drugs with a friend and I said, “I’ve had enough of this.” I was in such despair, I felt such hopelessness. I could not believe that my life had come to this. The friend I was with said, “If you really want help, go to UGM.”
At that point, I had no money, but I had a bus pass. I got on the skytrain and made my way to UGM in the Downtown Eastside. When I showed up, the Outreach Worker told me I was at a men’s shelter and I just burst into tears. I said, “Look, I really need help.” They were really good — they got me into a shelter, and met with me again to get me some clothes and some food. They set me up with a Case Manager, and everything I did felt like it was being directed — it was like I’d prayed and something other than me was guiding my body.
I showed up for detox, and then I spent a month in stabilization at The Sanctuary. Everybody was really gentle with me, and it felt like such a relief.
All those years I'd been trying to do all this stuff all on my own, and it felt so good to let somebody else take care of me for a bit.
Home for the first time
When I was first at The Sanctuary, I was so emotional. I’d cry all the time. I was thin and fragile. The staff would say, “Would it be okay if we prayed with you?” And they’d pray with me — I didn’t think much of it at the time. But I started to read this devotional called Life With God in Recovery, and everything I was reading applied to me. It was a little creepy, how much I saw myself in that booklet.
One day at The Sanctuary, I overheard someone talking about Lydia Home in Mission. I’d been unsure about my next step into recovery, and a home sounded like the right setting for me. I applied and moved to Mission.
The warmth and caring of Lydia Home was so different from anything I was used to. I had my own little room, and everything was so good: home-cooked meals, morning devotions, counselling once a week. I took classes like “Codependent No More” and “Healing the Inner Child,” I started going to church, and I attended fellowship meetings for people seeking recovery. My life just started to change.
I started becoming quite spiritual, and I could see all the ways that God was opening doors or closing doors, providing the type of guidance that I needed.
Grace in recovery
After seven months at Lydia Home, I put in an application for a unit at the new Women & Families Centre. I was one of the first people to move in.
Relapse is part of my story — I thought, “One last time couldn’t hurt, right?” but going back to drugs just opened up the floodgates. One day I just realized, “What am I doing?” and I was praying and listening to praise music and I knew what I had to do. I had to talk to the staff and let them know. It wasn’t easy. I told them I had a plan — they allowed me to go back to Lydia Home, and they held my apartment for me. They showed me mercy, you know.
And what I think was completely instrumental was that UGM gave me safety. I’d never felt safe.
When I returned to The Sanctuary Transitional Housing Program, I started school: The Sanctuary offers these amazing opportunities like the Peer Leadership Program and different work programs.
I had this perfect little apartment, and it just helped me get back on my feet, get my mind and my heart, right. Nobody was saying, "Come on, get to work. You're old enough, you should know better." I was treated with dignity and respect. I just embraced everything. I lived there for two years.
Finding balance
These days, I’m doing well. I got a job at a recovery club doing outreach, so I’m giving back. I’ve been provided for. I was baptized. I live in New Westminster now, and I’m enjoying regular life.
My relationships with my family have been restored. It’s taken time to rebuild that trust, but I can see my grandchildren. I just love them so much.
My life has gone on what I think is an amazing trajectory. If somebody would have told me that this would be my life, that I could find a new way of life without drugs and start working on myself and be happy and complete, I would never have believed them. My life doesn't look anything like it did before. It's different, but it's better.
Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” — Luke 24:31–32
In the Gospel of Luke, there is a story about two of Jesus’s followers who are walking to a village called Emmaus. The followers are journeying from Jerusalem, where they’ve just seen their leader and friend hung on a cross. It’s a time of immense confusion and grief.
While they walk this painful road, a man joins them. The followers tell him the crucifixion story, and they discuss scripture together. It isn’t until the man breaks bread with them over their evening meal that they realize: the man is Jesus, alive once more. They’d been travelling with their saviour the whole time.
For people experiencing poverty, homelessness, and addiction in our communities, this story is one they are living firsthand. Many of our neighbours are walking an incredibly hard road—they have struggled, lost loved ones, and found their hopes disappointed. Like the followers on the road to Emmaus, things have not turned out how they planned.
It isn’t until people can sit down at a meal — one prepared for them in love — that they are able to look up for a moment and realize they are not alone.
That’s why we do what we do here at Union Gospel Mission. Because when our neighbours can experience the care and love of God, it can change their entire story. Walking with Jesus, they can choose a new road.
This Easter, we’re astounded once again at the resurrection work God is doing in the lives of people in our communities. In this season of renewed hope, I am praying that you will be surprised by the wonder of God journeying with you. As you continue to remember your neighbours, may you find comfort in knowing that no matter how hard our road, we never walk alone.
In faith and hope,
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