“Is there a story? Always.”
I want to be radically transparent with you right now as I write this. I know this may not be “the norm,” or how most stories begin, but the story I’m about to invite you into is the very one that kept the little girl inside me—Little Cass—alive all these years. It’s the story I’ve carried quietly in my heart and soul, shaping it again and again so I could survive, stay safe, and one day sit here and write this to you. I share it now in the hope that it helps your own “little selves” feel seen, understood, and strong enough to keep going in this world.
When I was three years old, one of my earliest memories is watching my mother run past my brother Blake and me, rip the phone off the wall, collapse to her knees, and sob while begging our Rabbi on the other end to save us. At the same time, there was violent banging on the door. Moments later, eight police officers broke it down, grabbed my mother by the hair, slammed her face-first to the ground, and beat her. My six-year-old brother Blake jumped on their backs, biting them, and was thrown off. They dragged my mother out by her hair and shoved her into a cop car, leaving my brother and me alone on the front lawn. I still remember the neighbors watching. I still remember Blake and I holding hands for dear life. That was the first moment fear was programmed into my consciousness—the first time I was truly afraid to exist in this world.
As life went on, things didn’t get brighter. There was abuse everywhere—mental, physical, emotional. There was addiction, suffering, and darkness all around me. But inside, I built another world. Deep in my heart, soul, and mind, I created a place filled with hope, color, magic, and love—and I stayed there whenever I could.
When I was nine, my mom remarried and we moved into an environment completely different from anything I knew. My mother was consumed by her new relationship, Jason was sent away, my grandmother lived towns away, and my brother Blake—my best friend—was growing up and forming his own life. Suddenly, it was just me, trying to make sense of everything on my own. I became outgoing and loud, the life of the party, because I desperately wanted to be seen and loved—something I didn’t feel at home. Around age ten, I was taken to see a doctor and diagnosed with a learning disability, labeled with ADD and ADHD. I can tell you now, that wasn’t the truth. I wasn’t broken—I was starving to be acknowledged. Instead, I was prescribed Adderall, the drug that would eventually steal my soul.
When I entered high school, there was a moment that shifted everything. One day the cafeteria had sushi, and I decided I wanted to actually eat, so I didn’t take my Adderall. Sitting in biology class, laughing with my friend Manny, my teacher suddenly called me out into the hallway. Waiting there were both deans, my counselor, and my teacher. Confused and scared, I listened as my counselor said, “Cass, your teacher thinks you’re on drugs.”
My stomach dropped. I had never even smoked pot—I was a good kid. Through tears, I promised I wasn’t on drugs. My teacher said I was “too loud,” too different. Then my counselor asked if I’d taken my Adderall. When I said no, explaining I wanted to eat lunch, they all rolled their eyes in understanding. I was ordered to the nurse’s office to take it or I couldn’t return to class. I felt like a criminal. My mom came, angry, and pulled me out of school. That day, alone in my room, I cried for hours, realizing no one wanted me to simply be me.
That was the day I disappeared inward—fully retreating into the magical world I’d created as a child. I stayed there for fifteen years.
My addiction grew. I saw three doctors at once, taking around 180mg of Adderall daily. If there are 86,400 moments in a day, I sped through all of them, completely absent from my own life. I added Norco, Vicodin, Percocet—anything I could find. I flirted with the idea of heroin, but something about Jason always stopped me.
I chose toxic relationships and unconscious friendships, still searching for the love I’d never received. I wanted to be seen, heard, and loved—desperately.
On April 7, 2013, while working at a bar in downtown Chicago, my brother Blake called. Standing alone in the bathroom, he asked if I was by myself. Then he told me Jason had died from an overdose. I collapsed to my knees. For the first time in fifteen years, I felt everything. My heart shattered. The universe forced me to stop running and finally feel.
Soon after, my hand stopped working while at dinner with my mom. Watching the fork fall, I knew my body was breaking down. Terrified, I tried to get sober alone. I cried for hours on the floor surrounded by pills, reliving every unconscious choice. I realized I had been choosing loneliness my entire life.
Those weeks were dark. I tied bras around pipes, tried to choke myself, flushed pills while restraining my hands, stared at my balcony imagining ways to end it—yet couldn’t do it. Slowly, my inner voice shifted. Little Cass whispered, “You can do this. I love you. I’m still here.” I listened. The thoughts softened. I found love within myself for the first time.
But I wasn’t strong enough yet. Returning to work led to drinking, poor choices, and on November 11, 2013, driving 100 mph on I-94 while “Not Afraid” played, I crashed—flipping seven times, hitting a tree, and going airborne.
I spoke to Jason. He told me to go back—to share the truth so others would know they’re not alone.
I survived. I moved 3,000 miles away. Life didn’t get easier—but it got real. I learned to feel instead of numb.
NOWLEVELUP was born from this journey—first as affirmation clothing in Jason’s handwriting, then as a healing practice. It became a home for anyone who feels alone. A reminder that we are the creators of our stories, and we have the power to rewrite them.
I love you. I see you. I hear you. Keep going.
Please remember—you are not alone.
