My name is Lauren Walker Cook. Growing up, church was a central part of my life—it's where I found my faith and my community. The church that I go to now Dixie, I grew up there from preschool, nursery, children’s, youth, teaching, singing, leading till now. My mom was raised in a Christ-centered home and brought those values into our family, while my dad had a rougher background. When they met and married, there were struggles, including issues with alcohol. But my mom and I prayed for my dad’s salvation, and eventually, I witnessed God answer those prayers.

Even though I grew up in a religious environment, my understanding of God and faith didn’t fully sink in until later. I knew about Jesus and believed in God from an early age, but the depth of grace and the concept of my own sin took time to grasp. I didn’t understand my own sin. I walked the aisle. I walked it several times. I wanted him. I knew that he had made me for him. I struggle to pinpoint the moment I was truly saved or when I fully surrendered to Him. I consider it a gift that I never doubted God’s existence, even during the times I strayed.

As a teenager, I was torn between church and the allure of the world. I would attend youth group and participate in church events, but I also felt the pull of partying and fitting in. Somewhere along the way, I began feeling ashamed of who I was. I’d always been a soft-hearted, energetic person, caring deeply about others, but I started to think people liked me better when I was different, more wild. This shame crept in, and I felt like I had to numb it, turning to parties and substances to mask my insecurities.

There were other layers to my struggles, too. Some painful experiences from my childhood left me feeling vulnerable and searching for love and validation in all the wrong places. I sought comfort in relationships, in partying, trying to create new memories to overwrite the painful ones. This approach didn’t bring real peace, though, and I felt trapped in a lifestyle of trying to escape.

Eventually, my party lifestyle caught up with me. I became addicted to drugs and missed so much school that I ended up dropping out in 11th grade. I told myself there was no way I was repeating that grade, so I quit school and sank further into my habits. I somehow kept things functional on the surface—attending cosmetology school, getting my GED, and even showing up at church occasionally. But my addiction was taking a toll. I remember a pivotal moment when I was around 17 or 18. I was on my way to work, paranoid and exhausted, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I called my mom, telling her I was done with that lifestyle. I got clean on my own, just out of sheer desperation.

Soon after, I reconnected with my now ex-husband, Jack Walker. We had known each other since childhood—I’d even had a crush on him since kindergarten! As we started seeing each other, I was still dabbling with substances, convincing myself that smoking weed and taking a few pills was better than harder drugs. Deep down, though, I knew I was still in the wrong.

Our relationship progressed and before we knew it, I was pregnant. We got married and had a daughter. I gave up the weed, but he continued to smoke even though I wanted him to quit. He would hide it, and I find it, and we’d fight. Finally, the last time I found the drugs, I gave up fighting. I was tired of the lies and the paranoia. I thought, “Fine, let’s just do it.” So, I went back to it. And from that point, we didn’t stop. Eventually, I moved on to pills, and it became a routine. I was a functioning addict.

When I got pregnant with my son, though, everything changed. I was really hooked on pain pills, but the moment I found out, I got clean. I’ll always be thankful that God burdened me with the responsibility to protect my unborn child, even though I didn’t care about what it was doing to me. I knew it could harm him, and that was enough. So, I got clean, going through the withdrawals while also dealing with pregnancy sickness. Somehow, I managed.

After my son’s birth, I felt like our family was complete. I remember leaving the hospital and telling Jack how complete everything felt. But medically, I’d been through a lot. I had a hysterectomy due to recurring cysts and complications, and I was put on medications. At the same time, I was self-medicating. There was so much going on that I was just… medicated.

Eventually, I started taking pills again, even when I didn’t need them anymore. I was teaching, doing hair, taking care of my kids, going to church, and still popping pills. It became this hidden, functioning chaos. No one really noticed—at least they didn’t say anything. I’d wait until I was alone to take them, and somehow, I kept up appearances.

But things caught up with me. Taking 20, 30 pills a day, building an immunity—it was bound to crash. I started getting depressed, stopped working, and even had to stop driving. I’d developed seizures and these terrible migraines, which only led to more pills. I was spiraling, unable to function without some kind of drug to get me through each day.

I needed something for everything: energy to walk to the mailbox, motivation to cook. Pills became my lifeline. At the same time, all the trauma and unresolved pain from my past—the abuse I’d buried—it started surfacing. I was angry, overwhelmed, and unable to process it all.

I’d been through some serious ups and downs with my husband, Jack. He was home by the time we met; he’d been injured in Iraq back in 2005 and was in the middle of transitioning out of the military. He always told me, “I wish you’d known me before Iraq,” and it broke my heart every time. The effects of war had changed him, and we were both struggling, tangled up in our own trauma and PTSD. Life had become a storm, with us both trying to love each other while drowning. We had children too—innocent bystanders caught in the chaos. I regret so much of what happened, yet I thank God every day for protecting them, even in our darkest times.

During that period, I went through a lot, including several affairs. Jack knew about them; I’d confessed to one, and eventually, he found out about the others. We both had secrets, things we kept hidden, and moments of betrayal that drove us apart. I moved in with my parents for a while, dealing with my own PTSD, buried memories of abuse, and a lot of anger.

I tried to seek help in Jackson, Mississippi, at a treatment facility that claimed to specialize in PTSD, but it didn’t do much for me. Instead, I met people who were using, and connections for drugs became my takeaway from that place. I wanted help, but I still wanted control. I wasn’t ready to surrender or face the depth of my issues. Shortly afterward, I went to another rehab in Clearwater, Florida, called Twelve Oaks. They allowed replacement meds, and although the intention was to help me get off the substances, it didn’t truly address the underlying trauma. They placed me in a PTSD group, where I found myself among other military members and survivors of abuse. Even then, I see now how God was starting to work on me, gently peeling back layers of hurt and shame I’d shoved down for so long.

The therapist there required us to revisit our worst experiences, to write them down and tell the group from start to finish. I went first, standing in front of a room filled with people I hardly knew, crying as I relived the memories. I wasn’t grounded; I felt lost, even though they had us keep one foot on the floor to remind us we were safe and present. Despite how hard it was, sharing my story seemed to give others the courage to open up, and in that, I found a glimpse of strength and grace.

I left Twelve Oaks after 26 days—insurance wouldn’t cover any longer. And though I’d been through something transformative, I still went back to my old ways. My parents came to pick me up, and on the drive home, I was already planning to refill my prescriptions. I tried to stay clean for a while, but the cycle continued, spiraling deeper. One day, my parents found me passed out with my kids there, and after that, I wasn’t allowed to drive them anymore. That reality hit me hard; I was losing my children, and it was because of choices I’d made.

My life started unraveling. I’d float from one odd job to another, constantly trying to find work that didn’t require a drug test. I was barely hanging on, with no money, no stability. Eventually, everything came crashing down, and in utter hopelessness, I attempted suicide. I’d tried once before when I was younger, but this time, I was convinced everyone would be better off without me. I wrote letters to my family, took Jack’s sleeping pills, and lay down, ready to let go. But as I lay there, a part of me called out for life. I made it to my parents’ door, calling for help. I remember my mom’s voice, begging my dad to drive carefully so they could get me to the hospital.

That night, as I waited for help, I made a promise to God—not a deal, just a commitment—that I would never again try to take the life He had given me. I spent a couple of days in the hospital before being transferred to Pine Grove, a mental health facility. It was there, in a place meant for people at their lowest, that I picked up a Bible and found a tiny glimmer of hope.

But the struggle didn’t end there. I was still addicted, still smoking weed, and still chasing pills. Desperation drove me to trade my wedding ring, a sixteen-thousand-dollar symbol of a marriage that was crumbling. It was the last straw, a painful decision I’ll never forget. I knew trading that ring meant hurting Jack, and it finalized the end of our relationship. I drove to Jackson, got a stash of pills in exchange for the ring, and lost myself in another haze.

There I was, bouncing from one hotel to another, scraping together enough to survive, all the while sinking deeper. It was as if I was caught in a never-ending storm, struggling for air but too weighed down by my choices to break free.

I knew I had to get rid of the pills. I told my friend to meet people to get rid of them, but I kept some hidden in my bra—nobody knew they were there, and I felt they were safest with me. We got in her car to get something to eat, and I impulsively left my stash on her couch, covering them with a pillow. I thought we’d be back shortly, but before I knew it, we were swarmed by police cars with guns drawn. There I was, in the driver’s seat with no shoes, clutching a cigarette in the rain. They pulled me out, separated us, and took me to the police station, where I finally told them everything. I didn’t deny the pills were mine, and I even told them about her security cameras and how they’d show me leaving the stash behind.

Sitting in jail, I started to feel a strange sense of relief. This was the culmination of everything, and I realized I couldn’t run anymore. For the first time, I truly surrendered to God. I didn’t feel like it was just a “jailhouse thing”; it was genuine. There was no more hiding, no more looking over my shoulder. Everyone knew the truth. Being in that cell with no phone, no familiar faces, and no distractions, I felt like I could hear God clearly for the first time in my life.

In that isolation, I found comfort in the Word of God. I remembered all those times my mom and grandma tried to get me to church or share wisdom with me, times I’d brushed off. Now, with nothing to hide behind, I craved scripture, and it was like the words came alive. I was scared of the uncertainty, but I knew this was the beginning of something new. Even the small things I used to take for granted—food on a plate, clean clothes—now felt like blessings. One woman even shared her bra with me because they don’t give you one in jail. That simple act of kindness was like God’s love reaching out to me.

After about a month, I learned about a rehab program called Home of Grace from another girl in jail. I told my parents about it and started praying. I didn’t want an 18-month program; that seemed too long. But God softened my heart, and eventually, my attorney—a gentle, God-fearing man who looked so much like Jesus it was almost funny—helped get my bond condition changed so I could go there.

The day my parents picked me up was emotional. I hadn’t seen them since my arrest; we only had limited communication, so I’d told them not to drive two hours just to talk through a screen for 10 minutes. When they finally took me to Home of Grace, I was ready to soak up everything. Unlike past rehabs, I dug into God’s Word with everything I had. I stayed focused, knowing this was a life-changing gift, an opportunity I couldn’t waste.

By the time I finished the program, I was six months clean, off cigarettes, and even free from seizure meds that had caused me issues in the past. Moving in with my parents, I started rebuilding my life, one step at a time. I eventually found work at a funeral home, a job I’d always wanted but couldn’t have handled before. Now, I had peace, a solid foundation in faith, and a life that felt brand new.

It's hard to believe that this April marks ten years since I was arrested and since I got sober. Looking back, I see two very different people in that time. My son Sean was just starting kindergarten, and Jaden was in second grade when I was arrested. They’re only two and a half years apart, so they don’t remember too much, but my actions affected them deeply. I can’t erase those memories of them witnessing my poor choices and the fights between Jack and myself. Those moments are what I truly wish I could change.

While I don’t regret everything in my past, I regret the pain I caused others. I was hard-headed and desperately trying to fill a void outside of Christ. Yet, through it all, I recognize that God allowed me to experience these things, and I survived. That’s His grace. Many people don’t get that chance, and I acknowledge how blessed I am.

I often think about how I chose everything but Him until my life unraveled. I forfeited so much grace by not living for Him earlier, and I regret not dedicating my life to Him from the start.

In my journey now, I love encouraging young people who are in college. It’s so inspiring to see them pursuing God at an age when many, including myself, weren't focused on that. I tell them they’re saving themselves from a lot of darkness and heartache by making that choice early on.

We are all prone to wander, and despite having experienced His grace, I still find myself turning to foolish things. It’s frustrating because I know better. While I don’t beat myself up over it, I try to remain broken over what He’s given me and done for me.

Returning to the places where I once struggled was intimidating. The recovery community often says to change your people, places, and things, but God had a different plan for me. He brought me back to those same environments, which I initially feared. But in that process, He humbled me and allowed me to see how He was working in the hearts of others.

I remember the first time I returned to my church. It was a humbling experience to lead small children in worship after everything I had gone through. Not long before, I had been struggling and felt unworthy. I treasure those moments because I get to share with them how God changed my life.

I even went back to the same jail I had sworn I’d never return to, but this time it was to share a message of hope. I got to reconnect with the same people and show them the change that God made in my life. I understand now why He brought me back—it was to sow seeds of faith in others.