85. Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes: A Reflection on Recovery & Renewal

There’s a phrase you hear often in recovery circles: “If nothing changes, nothing changes.”  At first, it sounds like one of those self-help mantras that’s easy to dismiss—just another slogan tacked to a wall.  The deeper I go into this recovery journey, the more I realize how much weight those five words carry.  They cut right to the heart of what it takes to reclaim a life lost to addiction.  It’s remarkably simple yet very profound.  If I do what I’ve always done, I’ll get the same heartbreaking results.  I'll stay destroyed if I cling to the patterns that have destroyed me time and time again.  Trust me on this one.  I’ve lived it.  I’ve been trapped in the cycle, and I’ve tasted the consequences of refusing to change.

When I first entered treatment in 2018, I was desperate for things to be different, but I didn’t fully understand what that would require.  I thought detoxing would be enough—that all I needed was to clear the drugs from my system, and the rest would fall into place.  I wasn’t ready to face the deeper truths about what had brought me to the edge.  I wasn’t ready to let go of the parts of me that were clinging to chaos and self-destruction.  Here’s the hard truth: detox is just the beginning.  You can’t stop there and expect miracles to start happening.  After the physical pain passes, you’re left staring at the wreckage of your life, at the wreckage you created, and that’s where the real work begins—the slow, painful process of change.  Real change.  I’m not talking about surface-level adjustments but soul-deep transformation.

In early recovery, I desperately feared change.  I told myself I didn’t, but I was lying.  Change meant letting go of everything familiar, even the things that hurt me.  Change meant stepping into the unknown, and there’s nothing more terrifying than the unknown when you’ve spent years numbing every uncomfortable feeling.  It felt safer to stay in the misery I knew than to risk something new, something uncertain.

But nothing changes if nothing changes.

I learned that lesson the hard way.  I thought I could coast after my first treatment.  I thought I had it figured out.  I thought I was “fixed.”  Then the relapse hit.  One slip became a slide in what felt like the blink of an eye; everything I’d worked for in treatment unraveled.  I found myself right back where I’d started—or maybe even further down.  The shame was suffocating.  The disappointment in myself cut deeper than anything anyone else could have said or done.  What broke me wasn’t just the relapse.  It was the realization that I’d fooled myself into thinking I could hold on to parts of my old life and still stay sober.  I hadn’t changed enough.  I hadn’t committed fully to the hard work.

When I walked into detox a few years later, I was stripped down to nothing.  I was physically sick, emotionally wrecked, and spiritually bankrupt.  I didn’t know if I could do it again.  I didn’t know if I had the strength to face the mountain of work ahead of me, but I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t go back.  If I went back, it would kill me.  Maybe not right away, but eventually.

This time, I listened more.  I humbled myself.  I stopped trying to control everything and accepted help.  I showed up to every group session even when my body ached and my mind begged me to stay in bed.  I was honest in my reflections, even when the truth made me feel raw and exposed.  I dug into the parts of myself I had tried to hide for so long—the deep wounds, the buried grief, the shame I carried from years of letting people down.  Most of all, I leaned into change.  I embraced it, even when it felt like walking into a storm without an umbrella.

I’ve learned that change doesn’t happen in a single, sweeping moment.  It’s a series of small, deliberate choices—showing up for myself every day, even when it’s hard.  It’s reaching out for help when I want to isolate.  It’s choosing honesty over denial, connection over escape, and hope over despair.  Change is uncomfortable.  It’s often messy, painful, and slow, but it’s also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced because on the other side of it is freedom.  I’m not the same person I was when I first walked into treatment.  I don’t say that to boast, because it’s not the result of my own brilliance or strength.  It’s the result of surrender—of trusting the process, trusting my counselors, and trusting that the pain of transformation is worth it.  And it is.

Recovery has given me a second chance at life.  It’s given me the chance to rebuild relationships I thought were lost forever.  It’s given me the chance to look in the mirror without shame.  Most of all, it’s given me hope—a fragile but powerful thing I never thought I’d have again.

“If nothing changes, nothing changes.”  It’s not just a slogan.  It’s a challenge.  It’s a call to action.  It’s a reminder that staying the same is a death sentence for someone like me.  If I want to live—not just survive, but truly live—I have to keep changing.  I have to keep growing.  I’m still on this journey.  I’m still learning, still stumbling, still finding my way.  But I know one thing for sure: I’m not going back.  Change is hard, but it’s worth it.  Every single day, it’s worth it.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

84. A Thousand-Pound Phone: The Weight of Asking for Help

Sometimes, a phone can feel like a thousand-pound weight.  It sits there, just inches away, yet the act of picking it up and dialing a number can feel impossible.  When someone is suffering in active addiction, reaching out for help isn’t just difficult—it feels insurmountable.  For years, I believed that asking for help was a weakness.  I thought it meant I wasn’t strong enough to handle my problems on my own, that it was an admission of failure, but I know now that the ability to ask for help is one of the greatest strengths a person can have.

Addiction is a disease that thrives in isolation.  It convinces us that we are alone, that no one could possibly understand our struggle, and that we are beyond saving.  It warps our thinking, making us believe that reaching out for help would only bring judgment, rejection, or disappointment.  The shame of our actions, our failures, and our struggles builds a wall around us, making it even harder to let anyone in.  The idea of exposing our pain, our weakness, and our failures to another person feels unbearable.

For a long time, I lived in that mindset.  I was trapped in my own addiction, unable to see a way out.  I told myself I could handle it, that I could stop whenever I wanted to, and that I didn’t need anyone else, but deep down, I was terrified.  Every time I hit rock bottom, every time I swore I would change, I found myself right back in the same place, and still, I refused to ask for help.  It wasn’t just about pride—it was about fear.  Fear of being seen as weak, fear of admitting that I wasn’t in control, fear of what would come next if I did reach out.

There were moments when I wanted to pick up the phone, and I thought about calling someone—anyone—and telling them that I couldn’t do it on my own.  The human mind is extremely powerful, and my mind always found a reason not to.  What if they don’t understand? What if they judge me?  What if they don’t pick up?  The weight of those questions kept my hands frozen and kept the phone untouched.  I convinced myself that suffering in silence was the better option because at least then I wasn’t burdening anyone else with my problems.

The truth is that suffering in silence is exactly what addiction wants.  It feeds on secrecy, shame, and isolation.  It tells us that we’re better off alone, that no one could possibly help us, and the longer we believe that the deeper we sink.  Looking back now, I see how much damage that belief caused me.  It kept me trapped in a cycle of destruction, refusing to reach for the very thing that could have saved me.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point.  I couldn’t keep up the facade anymore.  I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.  I had tried every excuse, every rationalization, and every lie I could tell myself.  None of it was working.  I knew that if I didn’t do something differently, I wasn’t going to make it.  So, with shaking hands and a racing heart, I finally picked up the phone.  It felt like the hardest thing I had ever done, but it also turned out to be the most important.  When I finally asked for help, I didn’t find judgment—I found understanding.  I didn’t find rejection—I found support.  I wasn’t met with anger or disappointment—I was met with people who wanted to see me get better and who were willing to walk with me through my recovery.  I had spent so long convincing myself that I had to do it alone that I never stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, people wanted to help me.  The truth is that asking for help is not a weakness.  It takes incredible strength to admit that we need others, to put aside our pride and fear, and to reach out. It takes courage to say, “I can’t do this alone.”  Once I finally understood that, my entire perspective changed.  Recovery isn’t about going it alone—it’s about community, about connection, and about allowing others to lift us up when we can’t stand on our own.

That’s not to say it became easy.  Even after making that first call, I still struggled with the idea of relying on others.  I had spent so long pretending to be strong and pretending I had it all together that it felt unnatural to let people see my vulnerability, but the more I allowed myself to lean on others, the more I realized how much I had been missing.  There is a profound strength in allowing yourself to be helped, in admitting that you don’t have all the answers, and in trusting others enough to let them in.

I think about all the times I sat staring at my phone, all the moments I came so close to reaching out but didn’t.  I wonder how different things might have been if I had understood sooner what I know now.  I also know that I can’t change the past.  What I can do is share my experience, so that maybe someone else who is struggling and who is staring at their own phone, feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, might find the strength to pick it up.  If I could say one thing to anyone who is suffering in silence, it would be this: You are NOT alone.  You do not have to fight this battle by yourself.  There are people who care, who want to help, and who will stand by you no matter how many times you fall.  The hardest step is the first one—but once you take it, you will realize that you were never as alone as you thought, and that, in itself, is the beginning of healing.  Asking for help was the hardest thing I ever did, but it was also the best decision I ever made.  If you’re struggling right now and you feel trapped in that same cycle, I want you to know that you have that strength too. You just have to take that first step and pick up the phone.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

83. Lessons from a Jail Cell

The last time I was in jail is a memory etched deeply into my mind, a turning point that, though profound, did not result in an immediate change for me.  It began one fateful afternoon when my reckless decisions came to a head.  I crashed into a parked car, and when the police arrived, they discovered I was in possession of 550 Xanax pills.  I was charged with a class B felony of criminal possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, along with driving while intoxicated (DWI) and leaving the scene of an accident.  The gravity of those charges didn’t fully hit me until I was processed at the police station, standing under the fluorescent lights, being fingerprinted and photographed for my mugshot.  That evening, I was arraigned in court.  The judge’s stern words were a blur as my mind raced through the events from earlier in the day.  Shortly after, I was transported to Orange County Jail, where I would end up spending Easter of 2019.  It wasn’t just the humiliation of incarceration that awaited me; I was also about to face the brutal physical toll of detoxing cold turkey—a term used to describe abruptly stopping the use of substances without any medical tapering or substitutes.

Upon arriving at the jail, I was sent to the medical ward, where I was placed in a single cell to detox.  The cell was barren, containing only a metal cot, a toilet, and a sink.  They gave me a thin blanket, a set of jail-issued clothes, a few toiletries, and a handbook containing the rules of the jail.  I was not allowed anything else.  I spent 23 and a half hours a day locked in that small, cold cell.  The only time I was let out was for a 30-minute window to take a shower and make a phone call.  On some days, even that half-hour was taken from me because the guards were busy dealing with other prisoners.  I remember staring at the walls for hours, counting the holes in the concrete blocks to pass the time.  It was maddening because time seemed to stand still for hours on end.

The detox itself was a cold turkey withdrawal.  It was pure agony.  My body rebelled against me, desperate for the substances it had grown dependent on.  I was drenched in sweat, my blanket soaked through and offering no comfort.  Despite shivering uncontrollably, I couldn’t get warm.  The showers barely got above lukewarm, adding to the discomfort.  Every muscle in my body ached, and the nausea was relentless.  My head pounded as if it were in a vice, and sleep was nearly impossible.  Every moment felt like an eternity.

The food was another ordeal.  The trays they slid through the slot in the door contained meals that were barely edible. Everything seemed to resemble potato salad—a pale, mushy concoction with a nauseating smell that I can still recall vividly.  I was barely able to eat anything they served.  Most days I only ate a single slice of bread that I washed down with tap water.

Amid this bleak environment, one guard stood out to me.  While most of the staff treated inmates with indifference or disdain, this particular guard—I never learned his name—showed me an unexpected kindness.  One day, during a brief interaction, he said something that has stuck with me ever since: “The only difference between me and you is that you got caught.”  His words hit me hard.  They reminded me of the thin line separating those who end up in jail from those who don’t.  He treated me like an equal, not just another inmate, and that small gesture of humanity meant more than I can express.

Spending Easter in jail was a sobering experience.  It was a day that should have been filled with family, hope, and renewal, but instead, I spent it isolated and reflecting on the choices that had brought me there.  For most people, an experience like this would serve as a wake-up call, a lesson learned the hard way.  And while I wish I could say that it did for me, the truth is far more complicated.

Not long after my release, I returned to the same destructive patterns. The pull of addiction proved too powerful, and I found myself unable to break free.  The disease of addiction doesn’t care about your intentions or the lessons you’ve learned; it consumes your thoughts, your willpower, and your ability to see a way out.  It wasn’t long before I landed in a nearly identical situation, repeating the same mistakes despite knowing where they would lead.

Looking back, my time in jail should have been enough to scare me straight.  The isolation, the physical pain of detox, and the loss of freedom were things I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but addiction is a relentless force, one that doesn’t yield to logic or fear.  It took many more mistakes, losses, and moments of despair before I truly began to fight for my recovery.  For those who have never experienced addiction, it can be difficult to understand why someone would continue down such a destructive path after facing such severe consequences, but addiction is not a choice; it’s a disease, one that hijacks your brain and convinces you that you need the very thing that’s destroying you. It’s a battle that requires not just willpower but also support, treatment, and an unrelenting commitment to change.

My time in Orange County Jail is a chapter of my life that I’ll never forget.  It’s a stark reminder of the depths I’ve been to and the pain I’ve endured.  While it didn’t immediately change my path, it planted a seed of awareness that would eventually grow into the determination to seek a better life. Today, I’m still fighting that battle, one day at a time, and I’m determined to use my experiences to help others who are struggling with the same demons.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that recovery is possible, but it’s a journey that requires patience, resilience, and an unwavering belief in the possibility of change.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

82. Letters That Saved Me: A Lifeline in My Darkest Hour

This past week, as I was organizing my closet, I stumbled upon a box that stopped me in my tracks.  It was tucked away in a corner, its edges worn and its lid slightly askew, as if it had been waiting for me to find it.  Inside were nearly one hundred letters, each written during one of the darkest times in my life: my stay at The Odyssey House rehab this past summer.  These weren’t just pieces of paper.  They were lifelines—tangible reminders of hope, connection, and humanity at a time when I felt like I was drowning.

I remember the first letter I received.  It was from my best friend’s mom; someone I’d known for years but never truly spoken to in a meaningful way.  Her words were like a warm hand on my shoulder, grounding me when everything else felt chaotic.  She shared excerpts from the Bible and her unwavering belief that I had the strength to overcome the battle I was fighting.  That letter sparked something in me—a small flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness of my early days in rehab.

Then the letters began pouring in.  Some were from my readers—people who had followed my column and reached out to tell me that my words had touched their lives in ways I couldn’t have imagined.  They spoke of their own struggles, their triumphs, and their belief that I could find my way back to the person I wanted to be.  Many of these people were strangers, faceless names who felt like friends when I read their heartfelt words.  They didn’t know me personally, but they believed in me.  That belief was something I desperately needed, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

Others were from people I had never heard of, complete strangers who had learned about my situation through friends of friends or community groups.  These letters were filled with words of encouragement, Bible verses, poems, and simple notes that said, “I’m rooting for you.”  Some included little gifts—cookies, handmade bookmarks, or even pictures of some of the soccer players I coach.  Each one was a reminder that I wasn’t alone, even when it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on me.

At The Odyssey House, I was at one of the lowest points in my life.  I had relapsed after nearly four years of sobriety.  I felt like I had let everyone down—my family, my friends, my readers, and myself.  I was battling intense feelings of shame and guilt, emotions so heavy they threatened to crush any hope I had left.  And yet, almost every day, I would sit in my room, open a letter, and feel a little less alone.  These letters became part of my routine.  In the quiet hours of the evening, when the restlessness of withdrawal crept in, I would reach for the box on my bedside table.  Each envelope held a new story, a new piece of encouragement.  Some nights, I’d tear up as I read, overwhelmed by the kindness of people who took the time to write to me.  Other nights, I’d laugh at a funny anecdote or a quirky doodle someone included.  Those letters didn’t just distract me from the pain; they reminded me that there was still good in the world and that maybe—just maybe—I could be part of it again.

Even now, with nearly eight months of sobriety behind me, those letters continue to hold power.  On hard days, I revisit them.  I run my fingers over the inked words, rereading the messages that carried me through some of the toughest moments of my life.  The letters remind me of how far I’ve come, but they also remind me of the responsibility I carry to honor the faith so many people placed in me. They serve as a testament to the fact that, no matter how broken we feel, there are people who see our worth and want to help us piece ourselves back together.  What moves me most about these letters is how they represent the best of humanity—people reaching out to someone they might never meet, offering their time, their words, and their love without expecting anything in return.  They didn’t fix me; that work had to come from within, but they gave me the strength to believe that I was worth fixing, and that was the first step.

Today, that box isn’t just a collection of letters—it’s a treasure chest of resilience and hope.  It’s proof that small acts of kindness can ripple outward, touching lives in ways we may never fully understand.  It’s a reminder that connection, even with strangers, can be one of the most powerful tools we have in the face of adversity.  As I reflect on those letters, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the words that lifted me when I couldn’t lift myself, for the people who reminded me that I mattered, and for the lessons they taught me about the importance of community and compassion.  I don’t know where I’d be today without those letters, but I do know that they helped me find the strength to keep going when giving up felt so much easier.

To everyone who wrote to me—my family, my best friend’s mom, my readers, and the strangers who chose to care—thank you.  Your words were more than ink on paper.  They were hope, love, and life itself.  I promise to carry them with me, always.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

81. Grief, Guilt, & Grace: My Return to My Best Friend’s Gravesite

The drive to the cemetery felt endless.  Each mile stretched out, heavy with good memories my best friend and I had shared over the years. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than they needed to, my knuckles pale against my skin.  A part of me had always known this moment would come, but I had convinced myself I wasn’t ready—maybe I never would be.  Returning to my best friend’s gravesite for the first time since his passing was something I had avoided for too long-seven months to be exact.  The weight of grief mixed with guilt made it easier to stay away, to pretend that not going meant I wasn’t really running.

He had passed away in May 2024, and now, in January 2025, I was finally facing what I had spent months avoiding. In the months since his death, my life had been a spiral, one I was only just beginning to climb out of.  Addiction had stolen so much from me, turning the world into a haze where loss and love blurred together in the fog of my using.  I had numbed myself against the pain of losing him, convincing myself that as long as I kept moving—kept using—I wouldn’t have to face it. Now, sober and forced to feel everything I had once tried to escape, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. His absence had never left me, and neither had the guilt of surviving when he hadn’t.

As I pulled into the cemetery, my heart pounded against my ribs.  I sat in the car, gripping the keys in my lap, staring out at the rows of headstones.  The air felt thick, pressing in on me as if the universe itself knew how heavy this moment was.  For minutes—maybe longer—I couldn’t make myself move. I had pictured this day so many times, rehearsed what I would say, how I would stand before his grave and somehow make things right.  Now that I was here, nothing felt right at all.

Finally, I forced myself out of the car.  My legs felt unsteady beneath me as I walked toward the spot I had avoided for so long.  The winter wind bit at my skin, the leaves rustling softly around me.  And then, there it was—his name carved into a metal plate, the finality of it stealing the air from my lungs. I had imagined this moment for months, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of standing there, sober, with nothing but my raw emotions to carry me through.

For a long time, I couldn’t speak.  I traced the letters of his name with my fingers, feeling the coldness of the plate beneath my touch.  My mind flooded with memories—his laughter, our late-night talks, and the shenanigans we got into as kids.  He had been my brother in every way that mattered, the one person who had always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking.  The words felt hollow, inadequate.  Sorry wasn’t enough to undo the years of self-destruction, the times I had chosen a pill or a bottle over facing this loss.  It wasn’t enough to erase the nights I had drowned my grief in substances, convincing myself it was easier that way.  But “I’m sorry,” was all I had at that very moment.

Tears burned my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks.  I let them fall.  For the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to fight it.  I let myself feel every ounce of the pain I had been running from.  I let it crash over me like a wave I knew I couldn’t outrun.  At that moment, something shifted.

I wasn’t just mourning him—I was mourning the person I had been, the years I had lost to addiction, the version of myself he had loved and believed in.  I had spent so long punishing myself for surviving, convincing myself that I wasn’t worthy of healing, of happiness, of a second chance but, standing there, I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to believe before: He wouldn’t have wanted that for me.  He had always wanted more for me.  He had seen something in me even when I couldn’t see it myself.  I truly believe that if he were here, he wouldn’t be telling me to drown in guilt—he would be telling me to live. To fight.  To keep going.

I took a deep breath, wiping my eyes.  The wind had died down, the air around me still and quiet.  I knelt beside his grave, tracing the words one last time before I finally found the courage to say what I had really come here to say.

“I’m gonna be okay.”

It wasn’t a promise, not in the way I used to make them.  It wasn’t a desperate vow that I would break the moment things got too hard.  It was a truth I was finally ready to accept.  I was still here. Still fighting. And that had to mean something.  As I stood up, I felt lighter.  The pain was still there, the grief still present, but it no longer felt like it was crushing me.  Instead, it felt like something I could carry—not as a burden, but as a part of me.  It was a reminder of the love we had shared, the memories that were mine to keep.

Walking back to my car, I didn’t feel like I was running away anymore.  I had faced what I had feared for so long, and somehow, I had survived it.  More than that, I had found something I hadn’t expected—peace.  As I started the engine, I glanced back one last time.  The setting sun cast a golden light over the cemetery, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t saying goodbye.  I was saying, “See you later.”  As I drove away, I knew I would keep going—not just for me, but for him.  He had believed in me and now, finally, I was learning to believe in myself, too.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

I.L.M.O.C.G. <3

80. New Year’s Resolutions from an Addict in Early Recovery

The dawn of a new year is a beacon of hope, a clean slate, and a chance to redefine ourselves.  For me, as an addict in early recovery, it is also a moment to confront the ghosts of my past while carving a path toward a brighter future.  New Year’s resolutions carry a deeper meaning—they are not just goals; they are lifelines tethering me to my commitment to sobriety and a renewed sense of purpose.  As I stand at the crossroads of reflection and hope, here are ten resolutions that embody my journey as an addict in early recovery.

1.     To Remain Sober, One Day at a Time
This resolution is the cornerstone of my existence.  Sobriety is not an achievement but a daily choice, a battle I must fight each morning when I open my eyes.  Each day I remain sober is a testament to my strength and the unwavering support of those who believe in me.  I resolve to honor that belief, to fight through the cravings, the triggers, and the moments of doubt.  Sobriety is my anchor; I will cling to it with all I have.

2.     To Mend Broken Relationships
My addiction left a trail of destruction, severing bonds with family, friends, and loved ones who once held me dear.  This year, I resolve to rebuild those bridges.  It will not be easy; some wounds run deep, and trust takes time to restore.  I will show up, apologize, and prove through my actions that I am not the person I once was.  Forgiveness is not owed, but I will try my best to earn it through consistency and love.

3.     To Embrace Vulnerability
Addiction thrived in my silence, in the lies I told to protect myself from judgment.  Vulnerability is where healing begins.  This year, I resolve to continue being honest about my struggles and to share my story with others who may be battling their own demons.  In doing so, I hope to inspire others and remind myself that I am not alone.  Vulnerability is strength, and I will wear it proudly.

4.     To Prioritize My Mental Health
Recovery is more than abstinence; it’s a holistic journey of mind, body, and soul.  My mental health, once neglected, must now be nurtured.  I resolve to seek therapy when I need it and to surround myself with people who uplift me.  Depression and anxiety are shadows I’ve carried, but this year, I will work tirelessly to keep them at bay.

5.     To Give Back
The support of others saved my life.  This year, I want to pay it forward. Whether it’s mentoring someone new to recovery, volunteering, or simply being a listening ear, I resolve to give back to the community that helped me find my way.  Service is a powerful reminder that I am part of something greater, and it keeps me grounded in gratitude.

6.     To Strengthen My Physical Health
My body has endured the ravages of substance abuse, and it deserves healing.  This year, I resolve to nourish it with healthy food, exercise, and adequate rest.  It’s not about vanity but about reclaiming the vitality that addiction stole from me.  Every step, every meal, every night of restful sleep is a victory over the self-destruction I once chose.

7.     To Rediscover Joy
Addiction robbed me of my ability to feel true joy.  It dulled my senses and stole the beauty of life’s simplest pleasures.  This year, I resolve to rediscover what makes my heart sing.  Whether it’s coaching soccer, writing, or spending quality time with my family, I will seek out joy in its purest forms.  Recovery is not just about surviving; it’s about learning to live again.

8.     To Cultivate Gratitude
Gratitude is a light that cuts through the darkness of shame and regret. This year, I resolve to practice it daily.  I will keep a journal, jotting down the moments and people I am thankful for. Gratitude shifts my focus from what I’ve lost to what I’ve gained.  It reminds me that, despite my struggles, life is still a gift worth cherishing.

9. To Set Boundaries
Recovery requires a space where I can heal without interference from toxic influences.  This year, I resolve to set and maintain boundaries.  I will distance myself from people and situations that threaten my sobriety, even if it’s painful.  Self-preservation is not selfish; it is essential for growth.  My recovery is sacred, and I will guard it fiercely.

10. To Believe in Myself
Perhaps the hardest resolution of all is to believe that I am worthy of a better life.  Addiction thrived on my self-doubt and insecurities, but this year, I resolve to silence those voices.  I am not my mistakes.  I am a work in progress, deserving of love, peace, and happiness.  I resolve to forgive myself and to trust that no matter how daunting the road ahead may seem, I have the strength to walk it.

These resolutions are more than words on a page; they are promises to myself and the world around me.  I know the journey will not be linear.  There will be setbacks, tears, and moments when the weight of it all feels unbearable.  I also know that I am not alone.  I have the support of my family, my community, and the unwavering belief that change is possible.  This New Year, I will step forward with courage, hope, and determination to become the best version of myself—not just for me, but for everyone who never stopped believing in me.  The path to recovery is not easy, but it is worth every step.  As I stand on the precipice of this new year, I resolve to walk it with my head held high and my heart full of hope.  I am more than my past, more than my addiction—I am a survivor, and this is my time to shine.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

79. The Weight of Integrity

Integrity is a word we often throw around lightly as if it were a simple thing to embody.  We think of it as honesty, doing the right thing when no one is looking, and staying true to our word.  But what happens when the foundation of your life is shaken to its core—when the very values you once held sacred become blurred in the chaos of addiction?  I’ve wrestled with this question in ways I wish I hadn’t, and yet, I’m here to tell you that even in the darkest moments, integrity can be a light worth fighting for.

I wasn’t always the person who currently writes this column today.  There was a time when I believed I had my life together, a time when I wore integrity like a badge of honor.  I coached youth soccer, inspiring kids to be their best selves on and off the field.  I had a platform where my words could reach hearts and minds.  I gave a TEDxGoshen Talk about the struggles and triumphs of recovery, standing on a stage as a symbol of resilience.  But behind all those achievements, there were cracks in my armor—cracks that widened when I relapsed after nearly four years of sobriety.

Relapse is a word that doesn’t just sting—it cuts.  It feels like every promise I made, every ounce of trust I’d earned, was shattered in an instant.  I thought of the people I had let down: my family, my friends, my boss, my counselor who always believed in me, and even the readers of this very column who had cheered me on from afar.  Most of all, I thought of myself—the version of me who had clawed my way out of the pit of addiction only to stumble back in.  The shame was suffocating.  But integrity isn’t about perfection.  It isn’t about never falling.  It’s about what you do after the fall.

When I checked myself into detox, I was met with the harsh realities of withdrawal—nausea, sleepless nights, an appetite that vanished like a ghost.  The physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional weight I carried.  Sitting in those group sessions, surrounded by people who knew the depths of my struggle, I started to understand that integrity isn’t a destination.  It’s a daily practice, a commitment to yourself and others, even when it feels impossible.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to face is how my addiction eroded my ability to be honest—with myself and with those I love.  Addiction is a liar.  It whispers that one more drink, one more hit, or one more pill will make the pain go away.  It tells you that you can stop whenever you want, that no one will notice, that you’re still in control.  In believing those lies, I betrayed the very essence of integrity.  I became someone I didn’t recognize—someone who broke promises, someone who hid the truth, and someone who hurt the people who mattered most.

Rebuilding integrity after addiction is like piecing together a shattered mirror.  Each shard is a truth you must face, a conversation you must have, a wound you must heal.  It’s apologizing to your family for the nights they stayed up wondering if you were safe.  It’s looking into the eyes of the kids you coach and knowing that they deserve a role model who practices what they preach.  It’s writing this column with the raw honesty that scares me because I know someone out there needs to hear it.

One of the moments that brought me back to myself was a simple yet profound realization: integrity isn’t about never falling; it’s about rising again, stronger and more self-aware.  It’s about owning your mistakes and making amends, not just with words but with actions.  It’s about choosing to fight for the person you want to be every single day—even when it feels like the odds are stacked against you.

I think about my dog, Bumpy, who has been a source of unconditional love through it all.  Animals don’t care about your accolades or your failures—they care about the energy you bring into their lives.  Bumpy reminds me of the pure, unspoken bond that integrity creates: a trust that doesn’t need words, only presence and consistency.  This might sound crazy but if I can strive to be the person my dog thinks I am, then I know I’m on the right path.

To anyone reading this who feels like they’ve lost their way, know this: integrity isn’t something you’re born with or something you lose forever when you make a mistake.  It’s something you build, brick by brick, moment by moment.  It’s in the apology you offer when you’ve wronged someone.  It’s in the effort you put into being better today than you were yesterday.  It’s in the courage to face yourself honestly, no matter how painful it might be.

I’m still rebuilding. There are days when the weight of it all feels unbearable and when the shame tries to creep back in and tell me I’m not worthy of redemption. Then I remember the people who have stood by me, the kids who look up to me, and the readers who believe in second chances. I remember that integrity isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being real. And so, I keep going. I keep writing. I keep showing up to coaching and to life. Integrity isn’t just about the promises you make to others—it’s about the promises you keep to yourself. And I promise, no matter how hard it gets, to never stop fighting for the person I know I can be.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

78. Journals from Rehab With a Sober Reflection

During my time in rehab, I committed to keeping a daily journal—a space where I could pour out my thoughts, struggles, and reflections as I faced the challenges of recovery head-on.  Writing became a vital outlet for me, helping me process the rollercoaster of emotions that came with detox and healing.  These passages reflect the highs and lows of my journey, from the depths of withdrawal to moments of clarity and growth.  Each entry is a raw reflection of my battle with addiction and my determination to rebuild my life.  Please keep in mind that I was fresh off a relapse when these entries were written, so my thoughts may not be as clear or organized as usual.  What you’ll find here is raw, honest, and deeply personal—my unfiltered experience of trying to piece my life back together.

Day 4 – Rehab (05/31/2024)

I’m trying to write this out, but the words feel heavy, like dragging my heart across the page.  Today was harder than I expected.  There’s a constant noise in my head—a sharp ache of guilt and shame. Every corner of my mind reminds me of the times I let people down: my family, my friends, the kids I coach, and even Bumpy.  I keep replaying those moments like a bad movie I can’t turn off.

In group today, someone said something that hit me like a punch to the gut: “We’re not just recovering for ourselves.  We’re rebuilding trust, one brick at a time.”  It made me realize how far I still have to go.  I know I’ve taken steps forward, but the road ahead feels endless.  Sometimes it’s hard to imagine ever earning that trust back and even harder to imagine forgiving myself.

I miss my old self—the one who could laugh freely, the one who wasn’t drowning in this fog.  But then I wonder if that person ever really existed.  Maybe I’ve always been running, hiding, numbing.  The truth hurts in ways I wasn’t ready for.

But there’s this tiny flicker of hope.  It’s quiet, almost fragile, but it’s there. I felt it today during my one-on-one with my counselor, Tawanda.  She told me, “The fact that you’re here, fighting, means something.  Don’t forget that.”  I want to believe her, but believing feels dangerous, like hope might shatter me if it slips away.

Tonight, I’ll pray for strength.  Not just to stay sober, but to face the parts of myself I’ve been too afraid to look at.  I’ll pray to hold on to the small things—writing, soccer, my dog’s wagging tail, my family’s love—even if I don’t feel like I deserve them yet.

For now, that’s enough. It has to be.

My Reflection (While Sober Today)

Reading this again after so much time feels like stepping back into a storm I barely survived.  It’s strange how distant that version of me feels, and yet, the pain I wrote about is still so vivid.  I can almost smell the sterile rehab walls and hear the hum of the fluorescent lights.

I want to hug that person, the me who wrote this, and tell them they were stronger than they thought.  That flicker of hope I wrote about wasn’t fragile; it was the beginning of something unbreakable.  I’ve rebuilt so much since then—my relationships, my career, my faith in myself.  It wasn’t easy.  It still isn’t some days.  But that little prayer for strength?  It worked.

Looking back, I see someone who wasn’t broken, just bruised.  Someone who hadn’t yet learned that forgiveness isn’t a gift you wait for; it’s something you give to yourself, piece by piece.  And trust?  It comes back too, slowly, like the tide.

I’m proud of that person. They fought to be here today. And if I could, I’d tell them this: You’re a work in progress. You’re on the right path.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

77. Time Stolen by Addiction

Addiction is a thief.  It takes from us so many precious things: our health, relationships, dreams, and sometimes even our lives.  Among the most devastating losses, however, is time.  Time is irreplaceable—a resource that, once gone, can never be recovered.  Addiction robs us of the days, months, and years that we could have spent building meaningful connections, chasing our aspirations, or simply living life fully present.  Today, I want to focus on the time addiction stole from me: the time I could have spent with my family, my friends, or bettering myself instead of losing countless hours sitting in a bar, chasing a high that never truly satisfied.

One of the cruelest realities of addiction is how it separates you from the people who matter most. During the years I spent in addiction, I missed out on countless moments with my family and friends—moments I will never get back.  Instead of being present for them, I was lost in the haze of alcohol and drugs, isolating myself in bars or darkened rooms where my only companions were my next drink or hit.  I remember times when my family tried to reach out to me, hoping to connect or check in on how I was doing.  They’d invite me to family gatherings, celebrations, or even just a quiet dinner at home.  But too often, I made excuses or didn’t show up.  When I did, I wasn’t really there.  My mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with when I could slip away to drink or use.  My addiction turned me into a ghost of myself, and the people I loved most were left to grieve the person I used to be, even though I was still alive.

My friends, too, drifted away.  I wasn’t the kind of friend anyone could rely on.  Plans were canceled, birthdays were forgotten, and promises were broken.  I chose substances over meaningful relationships time and time again.  It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much it hurt them to watch me spiral, powerless to pull me back.  Some of them tried, but addiction is selfish.  It blinds you to the pain you’re causing others, even when they’re pleading with you to stop.  The laughter, the late-night talks, the shared experiences I could have had with my friends—all of it was stolen by my addiction.

Addiction doesn’t just take you away from others; it also robs you of the opportunity to grow and build the life you deserve.  Looking back, I can see so many years where I could have been working toward something meaningful.  I could have been developing a career, furthering my education, or chasing dreams that once seemed so vivid.  Instead, I wasted those years sitting in bars, numbing myself to the world and letting time slip away like sand through my fingers.  I’ve always had ambitions, but addiction has a way of silencing them.  When I was deep in the cycle, I told myself there was no point in trying to achieve anything.  Why bother when I couldn’t even get through a day without drinking or using?  So, I stopped dreaming.  I stopped believing in myself.  Instead of taking steps forward, I stood still—or worse, I moved backward.

There were days when I’d think about going back to school, picking up a new skill, or pursuing a passion.  But those thoughts were fleeting, drowned out by the immediate need to feed my addiction.  The time I could have spent learning, growing, and striving for a better future was instead wasted in a haze of self-destruction.  I’ll never know what I could have achieved during those lost years, and that’s a grief I carry with me every day.  The realization of how much time I lost to addiction is one of the hardest truths I’ve had to face.  Time is the one thing we can never get back. We can rebuild relationships, repair our health, and even rediscover our dreams, but we can never reclaim the hours, days, and years we spent lost in addiction.  That knowledge weighs very heavily on me.  I think about the memories I missed out on—family vacations I wasn’t a part of, milestones I didn’t celebrate, and quiet moments I could have shared with loved ones.  I think about the opportunities I let slip away, the potential I never lived up to, and the person I might have become if I had spent those years differently.  The regret can be overwhelming, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.

But regret, as painful as it is, also fuels my determination to move forward.  I can’t change the past, but I can choose how I spend my time now.  I can make amends to the people I’ve hurt and rebuild the relationships I’ve damaged.  I can chase the dreams I abandoned and create new ones.  I can live each day with intention, making the most of the time I have left.

As I reflect on the time addiction stole from me, I’m reminded of something a counselor once told me: “It’s never too late to start over.” While I can’t reclaim the time I’ve lost, I can honor it by making better choices moving forward.  Each sober day is an opportunity to create memories with my family, reconnect with old friends, and work toward the future I want.  Recovery has taught me to value time in a way I never did before.  I no longer take it for granted.  Instead of spending hours in a bar, I now spend them coaching youth soccer, writing my column, or simply being present with the people I care about.  These moments of clarity and connection are a gift—one I will never let addiction take from me again.

Addiction steals many things, but the loss of time is perhaps the most profound.  It robs us of the chance to be with our loved ones, to grow as individuals, and to live a life of purpose.  For me, the time I lost to addiction is a constant reminder of what’s at stake.  But it’s also a powerful motivator to make the most of the time I have now.  While I can’t undo the past, I can choose to live fully in the present, cherishing every moment and working tirelessly to create a better future.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

76. A Thanksgiving of Renewal & Gratitude

Thanksgiving has always been a time to reflect on the blessings in our lives—a chance to pause amid the rush of everyday responsibilities and reconnect with family, friends, and the values we hold dear.  This year, however, Thanksgiving carries an even deeper meaning for me.  After walking the difficult road of addiction and finding my way back to sobriety, I see this holiday as more than a day of celebration.  It is a powerful reminder of the second chances life offers and the importance of embracing them with gratitude and purpose.

For many years, the joy of Thanksgiving was overshadowed by the struggles of addiction.  While my family gathered around the table, exchanging smiles and laughter, I often felt disconnected—physically present but emotionally absent.  Addiction has a way of isolating you, even when you’re surrounded by love.  It strips away your ability to be truly present, replacing connection with guilt and a gnawing sense of inadequacy.

This year, things are different.  After my relapse earlier this year, I had to face some hard truths about myself and my recovery journey.  By checking myself into detox and rehab at Bon Secours Hospital, I made a choice to fight for my life.  It wasn’t easy—detox was brutal, and the emotional work of rehab challenged me in ways I never expected.  But slowly, I began to rebuild, one day at a time.  Then, as I prepared to celebrate Thanksgiving, I was filled with gratitude not only for the progress I’ve made but for the chance to begin again.

This past Thanksgiving marked the first time in months that I could sit at the table fully present and genuinely grateful.  Sobriety has given me clarity, allowing me to appreciate the moments that once slipped by unnoticed.  I no longer take for granted the warmth of my family’s laughter, the familiar smells of a home-cooked meal, or the simple pleasure of being included in the traditions that bind us together.

This holiday was special because it represents more than a celebration—it is a testament to resilience and the power of second chances.  I now understand that Thanksgiving isn’t about perfection; it’s about showing up, being present, and appreciating the opportunity to grow and heal. For me, this means cherishing every moment with the people who stood by me through my darkest days and finding hope in the promise of a brighter future.

Gratitude is a cornerstone of my recovery.  In the past, I often overlooked the small blessings in my life, consumed by the chaos of addiction.  Now, I make it a daily practice to acknowledge and appreciate the good in my life, no matter how small it may seem.  This past Thanksgiving, my gratitude felt boundless.

I am deeply thankful for my family, whose unwavering support has been a lifeline throughout my journey.  Their patience and understanding remind me that love truly is unconditional.  I’m also grateful for the professionals who guided me through this difficult process, particularly my counselor, David.  His wisdom and encouragement helped me believe in my ability to recover, even when I doubted myself.

I am grateful for the opportunity to continue coaching youth soccer—a job that allows me to inspire and guide others, just as I’ve been inspired and guided.  Seeing the determination and joy in the faces of my players reminds me of the importance of resilience and teamwork.

Finally, I am grateful for the chance to share my story.  Whether through my column in the Independent Republican or the TED Talk I gave on addiction and recovery, I’ve found purpose in using my experiences to help others.  Each word I write and each story I tell is a step toward healing—not just for myself but for anyone who may be struggling in silence.

This Thanksgiving, I want to create a new tradition rooted in gratitude and reflection.  As I sit down to enjoy the meal with my family, I plan to take a moment to share what I’m most thankful for this year. Beyond that, I want to use this day as a reminder to carry gratitude into every day of my life.

Gratitude isn’t just about acknowledging the good times; it’s about finding the silver lining in the challenges we face.  It’s about recognizing that even our darkest moments can lead to growth and transformation.  This past Thanksgiving, I reminded myself that recovery is not a destination but a journey—and every step, no matter how small, is worth celebrating.

While Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on the past and give thanks for the present, it’s also an opportunity to look ahead.  Sobriety has taught me that life is filled with possibilities, even after setbacks.  I may not know exactly what the future holds, but I am committed to approaching it with hope and determination.  I will savor the food, the laughter, and the love that fills the room this Thanksgiving.  But more importantly, I will carry with me the lessons I’ve learned in recovery: that gratitude is a powerful tool, that connection is essential, and that every day offers a chance to start anew.  This Thanksgiving is more than a holiday; it is a celebration of resilience, renewal, and gratitude.  After years of struggling with addiction, I am finally able to approach this day with a clear mind and an open heart.  Sobriety has given me a second chance at life, and for that, I am profoundly thankful.

As I sit at the table with my family this year, I will cherish the moments that once felt out of reach.  I will honor the journey that brought me here and look forward to the future with hope.  Most importantly, I will remind myself that gratitude is not confined to one day a year—it is a way of life, a daily practice that keeps me grounded and inspired.

This past Thanksgiving is special not because it marks the end of my struggles but because it symbolizes the beginning of a new chapter.  And for that, I am deeply, endlessly grateful.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

75. The Storm of Detox

Detoxing from alcohol and drugs is not just a process—it’s a battle waged in both body and soul.  As I sit here reflecting on my last stay in rehab, I am struck by the sheer intensity of those first days.  Detox is raw.  It’s unrelenting.  And yet, somewhere amidst the chaos, there is the faintest whisper of hope.

When I checked myself into Bon Secours, I was teetering on the edge of something dangerous.  I had relapsed after months of sobriety, a stretch that felt like a lifetime achievement.  The shame that washed over me in those moments of relapse was suffocating.  I felt like I had let down my family, my friends, and everyone who had rooted for me. Most of all, I had let myself down.

By the time I arrived at Bon Secours, I was exhausted—not just physically but emotionally, and spiritually.  The decision to stay beyond detox and commit to rehab came reluctantly at first.  I wanted to believe I could fix this quickly, shake off the physical withdrawal, and get back to life.  But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the truth.  I needed more than a bandage.  I needed to face the wreckage I had created and the storm raging inside me.

The physical toll of detox hit almost immediately.  My body, deprived of the substances it had grown dependent on, rebelled in full force.  The nausea was relentless, twisting my stomach into knots that no amount of water or small bites of food could soothe.  Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by restless tossing and turning on the stiff rehab mattress.  My muscles ached, my head pounded and sweat poured from my skin as though trying to expel every ounce of poison I’d ever consumed.

But it wasn’t just the physical agony—it was the mind games.  Every moment stretched endlessly, filled with a gnawing emptiness and an ache for the substances I knew had been killing me.  There were flashes of regret so intense that they brought me to tears.  I thought about my family, about Bumpy—my loyal, four-legged friend—about the kids I coach, and even about the readers who still supported my writing.  I’d convinced myself I’d failed them all.  Guilt and shame were my constant companions, whispering in my ear that I’d never get it right, that I’d never be worthy of the life I’d once dreamed of.

Then there were the moments of panic—the realization that I was completely out of control, my future hanging in the balance.  This wasn’t just a physical detox; it was an emotional purging of every painful memory and decision that had led me here.  I thought of my counselor, David, and how he always reminded me to take one step at a time.  But in those moments, even the smallest step felt insurmountable.

Despite the chaos, I pushed myself to attend group sessions.  I was determined not to let my exhaustion and pain become excuses to disengage.  I’d learned the hard way that isolation was my enemy.  Listening to others share their stories reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this fight.  We were all battling our demons, trying to make sense of the messes we’d made.  There was a strange comfort in the shared vulnerability of those rooms, even when I could barely muster the strength to speak.

Detox also forced me to confront my fears head-on.  I was terrified of failing again, of rebuilding my life only to watch it crumble under the weight of addiction.  For the first time, I started to realize that fear could be a motivator instead of a deterrent.  The thought of losing everything—my family, my job, my passions—kept me grounded in the present moment, however painful it was.

What kept me going through those dark days was the smallest glimmer of hope, the belief that this pain would not last forever.  I began to see detox not just as an ordeal but as a necessary first step. The withdrawal symptoms, the sleepless nights, the relentless hunger for something I could no longer have—they were all part of the process of healing.  Every bead of sweat, every tear shed, was evidence that I was still fighting.

I also clung to the memories of what sobriety felt like, however brief it had been.  I thought about my work coaching youth soccer and the sense of purpose it gave me.  I thought about the columns I wrote for the Independent Republican and the readers who reached out with words of encouragement.  I thought about Wendy, who continued to believe in me even when I struggled to believe in myself.  These were the pieces of my life I wanted to rebuild, the reasons I needed to keep going.

By the time the worst of the physical symptoms began to ease, I felt like I had been through a war. Detox stripped me bare, exposing every wound and every flaw, but it also left me with a deeper understanding of my own strength.  It’s not the kind of strength that roars or charges forward.  It’s quieter, more resilient—the kind that simply refuses to give up, even when every part of you wants to.

Looking back now, I realize that detox wasn’t just about removing alcohol and drugs from my system; it was about facing myself.  It was about sitting with the discomfort, the pain, the regrets, and choosing to keep going anyway.  It was about finding hope in the smallest moments and holding onto it with everything I had.

I’m still a work in progress, but I’m learning to embrace that. Sobriety isn’t a destination; it’s a journey, one that begins with the storm of detox and continues with each step forward. And even on the hardest days, I remind myself that I am worth the fight.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

74. From Fear to Hope

The day I checked into my very first rehab is a day etched into my memory with painful precision.  It was a cold evening in late winter.  The truth is, the cold I felt was not only external—it was within me, a sharp and gnawing ache that gripped my chest and refused to let go.  I felt like I had reached the edge of a cliff and was staring into an abyss, unsure if I was ready to leap into the unknown or fall backward into the life that had broken me so thoroughly.

Stepping into the facility, the air smelled sterile, tinged with a blend of antiseptic and the faint scent of old furniture.  The walls were painted a shade that was meant to be calming but felt anything but that.  Every step I took felt heavy as if I were walking through water with weights strapped to my ankles.  The noise around me was dull—voices mingled with the distant clatter of medical equipment—but it all seemed muffled like I was hearing it from underwater.  Fear wrapped around my mind, insistent and suffocating.  It was a fear born of a thousand failed promises to myself, of the countless mornings waking up to a tide of regret and the steady erosion of trust from those who loved me.  But that day, there was something else that lingered underneath the fear, something softer and barely perceptible.  It was the faintest glimmer of hope, fragile as ever.  It was that hope, small as it was, that carried me to the check-in desk.

The moment the counselor came out to greet me, I felt exposed.  It was as though she could see every piece of me that was fractured and aching.  She introduced herself as Kelsey, a tall woman with kind eyes. There was something about her that made me feel seen—not as an addict, not as a collection of failures, but as a human being worthy of compassion.  Even though I didn’t believe it myself at that moment, her presence seemed to carry a promise that I might one day feel whole again.

Kelsey walked me through the intake process, her voice even and calm. She spoke in a way that was both gentle and assured, explaining each step without a hint of judgment.  My emotions were a storm, swirling between deep shame and profound sadness.  Every question she asked felt like it scraped away another layer of my defenses, leaving me raw and exposed.  When she asked me why I was there, the response caught in my throat.  The simple question opened a dam, and before I could stop myself, the truth tumbled out in a rush of broken sentences and choked sobs.  I told her about the nights that seemed endless, the self-loathing that gnawed at me in the morning, and the friends and family who had finally reached their breaking point. Kelsey didn’t interrupt or rush me. She let me fall apart, piece by piece.

By the time I finished, I was exhausted, more from emotion than from anything else.  Kelsey sat quietly for a moment, letting my words settle between us.  “You’re not alone,” she finally said.  “It’s okay to be scared, but you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

The relief I felt in that moment was so intense that it felt like pain.  It was the first time someone had told me it was okay to feel the way I did, that I wasn’t irreparably damaged or beyond redemption. That moment marked the beginning of my journey, not just through recovery, but toward understanding that I was worth fighting for.

As the days passed, rehab became a battleground of emotions.  There were days where hope seemed impossible, where withdrawal had me writhing with nausea and cold sweats, where my mind screamed for the familiar numbing comfort of substances.  But there was also David, who was my counselor assigned to me after my initial weeks in rehab, who became an integral part of my recovery journey.  To this day, he remains my counselor, a steadfast figure through every stumble and triumph.  David’s approach was different; he combined unwavering accountability with a warmth that spoke to the heart of who I was beyond my addiction.  His insights cut through the fog of my guilt and shame, offering perspectives that helped me see that my past did not have to dictate my future.  Even now, years later, David is still a source of wisdom and guidance, someone I can turn to when recovery feels uncertain or when life becomes heavy.  His enduring presence reminds me of the importance of connection and trust in the journey of healing. David was there in some of the group therapy sessions, his eyes catching mine when I faltered as if to remind me silently that I could get through it.  When my thoughts turned to self-doubt and shame, his words “You’re not alone,” would echo in my mind.

Even after my first stint in rehab ended, when life outside its walls proved more challenging than I had anticipated, David remained a figure I turned to.  Over the years, our relationship evolved from counselor and patient to friends.  He continued to check in on me, to remind me of the progress I’d made and the strength I carried within. On days when I stumbled and the weight of recovery seemed unbearable, David was there with a phone call that seemed perfectly timed, as if he could sense when I needed it most.

Today, David is more than a reminder of the darkest chapter of my life; he is a beacon that represents resilience and unconditional support. The connection forged on that first rehab stint, when I was a shattered version of myself, has become a cornerstone of my recovery.  His presence in my life is a testament to the fact that people do change and that redemption is not only possible but tangible.

Reflecting on that first day, I now understand that fear can be the birthplace of courage.  David taught me that recovery is not linear; it’s a path filled with setbacks and small victories.  He showed me that being brave isn’t the absence of fear but choosing to move forward despite it. To this day, his unwavering support reminds me that while I might not always be strong, I am never alone.  Dave might not fully realize this, but he truly saved my life.  I owe him everything, and I can't overstate how fortunate I am that he was my first counselor.  His guidance and unwavering support during the darkest moments of my journey shaped who I am today.  Without his compassion, wisdom, and belief in me when I struggled to believe in myself, I don’t know if I’d be where I am now.  For all he’s done and continues to do, I am forever grateful. Dave's impact is something I'll carry with me for the rest of my life.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

73. The Power of Kindness

As the United States navigates the 2024 presidential election, the significance of kindness takes on new dimensions.  The discourse around elections is often charged, amplifying divisions and heightening stress among communities.  For individuals in recovery, an environment marked by hostility and polarization can be especially triggering, as it may worsen feelings of anxiety and instability.  This makes it all the more essential to prioritize kindness, both in personal interactions and public dialogue.  Emphasizing empathy and understanding during such a politically intense period can create a more supportive atmosphere that aids those in recovery.  Kindness during election seasons fosters resilience by reinforcing the sense that compassion, even amid disagreement, is possible and vital.  It encourages communities to focus on shared humanity rather than differences, supporting a collective path forward that is inclusive and healing.

Kindness is often underestimated in its potential to transform lives, especially in the context of recovery from substance abuse disorders. Recovery is not solely a physical process but an emotional and psychological journey that requires immense resilience, support, and self-compassion.  At the heart of recovery lies the nurturing force of kindness—toward oneself and others—that plays a crucial role in rebuilding one's life.  The impact of kindness extends beyond individual acts; it fosters healing, strengthens connections, and builds a support system that encourages growth.

One of the most significant challenges individuals face during recovery is dealing with guilt and shame associated with their past behaviors. Substance abuse often leaves a person feeling unworthy or overwhelmed with regret.  Here, self-kindness becomes essential. Practicing self-kindness involves acknowledging one's mistakes without harsh judgment, allowing for a healthier response to setbacks.  Self-compassion doesn’t dismiss accountability; rather, it creates an environment where recovery can flourish by treating oneself with the same empathy one would extend to a friend.  By approaching recovery with a mindset that acknowledges imperfection as part of growth, individuals build resilience.  Learning to forgive oneself is often the first step toward long-lasting change.

Kindness not only fosters inner peace but also strengthens relationships and builds community.  The journey of recovery is made lighter when shared with others who offer understanding and compassion.  Acts of kindness—whether offering a listening ear, words of encouragement, or simple gestures of support—help create a network of support and care.  This network provides emotional and psychological reinforcement during difficult times.  Participating in support groups or community activities where kindness is exchanged among peers can be transformative.  Studies have shown that people recovering from substance abuse who feel connected to a community are more likely to maintain sobriety.  Feeling understood and valued through acts of kindness from others reinforces the belief that recovery is achievable.  The reciprocal nature of kindness—both giving and receiving—creates a cycle that strengthens social bonds and contributes to a sense of belonging.

Recovery can sometimes feel overwhelming, particularly during moments when the future appears uncertain.  In these moments, engaging in acts of kindness toward others can be a powerful motivator.  Volunteering or helping others can help to reduce stress and increase feelings of purpose.  This aligns with the recovery principle of "getting out of one's head," as service shifts the focus from personal struggles to shared humanity.  Engaging in community service allows individuals to channel their energy into something positive.  For those in recovery, knowing that their actions are making a tangible difference in others' lives can be both empowering and healing. These acts reinforce the belief that they are capable of good, contributing to the rebuilding of a positive self-image.

The environment in which recovery takes place can significantly impact progress.  Surrounding oneself with supportive and kind individuals fosters a sense of safety and encouragement.  This positive environment counters the isolation that often accompanies substance abuse.  Recovery centers that prioritize kindness in their approach—through supportive counseling, empathetic staff, and peer-driven programs—create a nurturing atmosphere where healing can occur more effectively.

In recovery, kindness to oneself is not a one-time event but a continuous practice.  This practice might involve setting small, realistic goals, celebrating progress, or engaging in self-care activities. Even when setbacks occur, treating oneself with patience and understanding rather than harsh judgment makes it easier to get back on track.

Mindfulness practices such as meditation and journaling can help reinforce self-kindness.  These tools encourage reflection without self-criticism, enabling individuals to acknowledge their emotions and experiences in a non-judgmental way.  By learning to accept where they are in their journey, people in recovery build a foundation of inner strength that supports long-term healing.

A significant barrier to recovery is the stigma associated with substance abuse.  Acts of kindness from the broader community can challenge this stigma by promoting empathy and understanding. Education and advocacy efforts that emphasize kindness help reshape the narrative around addiction from one of a moral failing to one of a chronic condition that requires support and compassion.  When society approaches addiction recovery with kindness, it encourages individuals to seek help without fear of judgment.  Creating public spaces, much like The Goshen Independent Republican, that promote open conversations and compassionate care fosters an inclusive environment where those in recovery feel seen and supported.

The role of kindness in recovery from substance abuse disorders cannot be overstated.  Kindness encourages self-compassion, strengthens community bonds, motivates service, and fosters environments conducive to healing.  For those navigating the challenges of recovery, acts of kindness—whether extended to oneself or others—can be a guiding light.  Embracing kindness in all its forms paves the way for sustained recovery, building not just a life free from substance abuse but one filled with purpose, connection, and hope.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

72. The Importance of Stepping Outside of Your Comfort Zone

On June 8th, 2023 I gave a TED Talk in the Goshen High School.  Giving a TED Talk was something I never imagined myself doing, especially about a topic as personal as my struggles with substance abuse and the hard-won journey of recovery.  Standing on that stage, looking out at a sea of family, friends, and strangers, I felt exposed, vulnerable, and intensely self-conscious.  For most of my life, I had been reserved when it came to sharing deeply personal stories, especially ones that revealed my darkest moments.  Yet, there I was, sharing the hardest parts of myself with an audience in hopes that my story could make a difference.  This experience not only pushed me far beyond the bounds of my comfort zone but it also reminded me of the importance of challenging ourselves to grow, even when it feels uncomfortable.

For many years, I tried to hide my struggles with addiction.  I believed that keeping my personal life private would protect me from judgment or stigma.  I feared being defined solely by my addiction rather than by who I am as a person.  When I was approached to speak about my recovery, my first reaction was to decline.  My instinct was to avoid the spotlight, to keep my journey confined to those closest to me.  I worried that sharing my story on such a public platform would leave me vulnerable to criticism and misjudgment.  However, as I reflected on the impact that my experiences might have on others, I began to see how stepping out of my comfort zone and embracing this opportunity could potentially inspire someone facing similar battles.

Preparing for the TED Talk was, in itself, a journey.  I had to confront the uncomfortable emotions and memories that accompanied my story. Recounting the lowest points of my addiction felt like reopening wounds that I had worked so hard to heal.  However, this exercise in vulnerability also brought me to a deeper understanding of my resilience and growth.  It reminded me of how far I had come, not just in recovery but in reclaiming my life.  Sharing my story helped me find a sense of purpose within my struggles; I wasn’t just speaking for myself but also for others who might feel isolated in their battles with addiction.  This experience reaffirmed that, while comfort zones provide a sense of security, true growth often happens when we step outside them.

There is an undeniable importance to stepping outside our comfort zones throughout life and giving this TED Talk underscored that truth for me.  Staying within the boundaries of what feels safe can keep us from discovering our true potential.  Growth is seldom comfortable, but it’s in the discomfort where we learn, adapt, and expand.  This principle is particularly vital in recovery, where routines and habits are often shaken up as we work to redefine our lives.  By embracing the unknown and confronting our fears, we equip ourselves with the strength to handle future challenges.

One of the most compelling reasons to challenge ourselves to step out of our comfort zones is that it builds resilience.  Facing my fears head-on and sharing my story with a room full of people gave me a newfound strength.  I realized that if I could open up about my struggles with addiction in front of anyone, I could handle whatever came my way.  Resilience is an essential quality, particularly in recovery, because setbacks and challenges are inevitable.  Building this mental and emotional toughness enables us to navigate life’s uncertainties with a sense of confidence and resolve.  In my case, the TED Talk became a moment of empowerment, transforming my vulnerability into a source of strength.

Stepping outside of one’s comfort zone also fosters empathy and connection.  By sharing my story publicly, I connected with people I might not have otherwise.  My story resonated with others who had struggled with addiction, as well as with those who had friends or family members going through similar experiences.  This sense of connection was both humbling and uplifting, reminding me of the power of shared humanity.  Often, we believe that our struggles isolate us when, in reality, they can bring us closer to others who have gone through similar trials.  My TED Talk served as a bridge, bringing people together to acknowledge and support one another.

Another critical aspect of venturing beyond our comfort zones is that it challenges us to redefine our self-perceptions.  For much of my life, I viewed myself as a private person, reluctant to open up about my experiences.  Taking the stage to speak about my recovery journey shattered that self-imposed boundary.  I saw myself in a new light, as someone capable of courage and openness, and this realization allowed me to redefine who I am.  Self-discovery is an ongoing process, and pushing ourselves into new experiences helps us see parts of ourselves that we may not have known existed otherwise.  For me, giving this TED Talk was a step towards a fuller, more authentic version of myself.

Ultimately, stepping out of our comfort zones is an opportunity to contribute something meaningful to the world.  When we face our fears, we often do so for reasons greater than ourselves.  For me, this meant sharing my story in hopes that it might inspire or help others.  Whether it reached someone currently struggling with addiction, a family member looking for hope, or anyone in need of encouragement to face their own challenges, my TED Talk was a way to give back.  This experience reinforced my belief that our most challenging experiences can often serve as a guiding light for others.  By stepping beyond our comfort zones, we can make a positive impact on the lives of others, creating ripples of change that extend far beyond ourselves.

Giving a TED Talk on my recovery journey was one of the most challenging and transformative experiences of my life.  It pushed me to confront my fears, embrace vulnerability, and share a part of myself I had always guarded.  This experience not only helped me grow as an individual but also reminded me of the importance of pushing beyond comfort zones.  Life’s greatest rewards often lie beyond the edges of what feels familiar, and by taking those leaps, we become stronger, more empathetic, and more connected to those around us.  While stepping out of our comfort zones may be difficult, it is a vital part of growth, resilience, and living a life of purpose.

If you're interested in watching my TEDxGoshen Talk, you can find it here on my website.  Simply click the "TEDxGoshen" tab at the top of the page, and it will take you directly to the video.  I hope you find it meaningful—thank you for watching!

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

71. How Coaching Youth Soccer Has Strengthened My Recovery

I’ve been fortunate enough to coach youth soccer since 2018. Coaching youth soccer is more than just a job for me; it’s a profession that brings purpose and joy into my daily life.  Working with young athletes and watching them develop their skills, both on and off the field, is deeply rewarding.  I spend my days creating training sessions, strategizing for games, and fostering an environment that values teamwork, resilience, and respect.  Each day, I’m not only teaching them the fundamentals of soccer but also instilling life lessons that they can carry with them beyond the field.  Knowing that I play a role in their growth and development gives me a sense of pride and fulfillment that fuels my passion for coaching.

Engaging in coaching youth soccer has provided me with a renewed sense of purpose, stability, and accountability in my recovery from substance abuse.  In many ways, guiding young players has offered a sense of redemption and personal growth that I hadn’t anticipated. The unique demands of coaching—requiring patience, empathy, dedication, and a focus on improvement—have become instrumental in my sobriety journey.  Working with young athletes has deepened my resolve, helped me build resilience, and allowed me to forge a stronger, more compassionate version of myself.

One of my biggest challenges in early recovery was re-establishing a healthy structure.  Addictive behaviors often lead to chaotic routines, where life becomes centered around alcohol and drugs while everything else gets neglected.  Recovery, on the other hand, relies heavily on creating new, healthier habits.  Coaching youth soccer has given me a steady routine that I look forward to, providing the kind of structure necessary to keep my recovery on track.  Regular practices, team meetings, and match days require discipline, consistency, and the ability to plan ahead—all qualities that contribute to the development of a reliable structure in my life.

This routine, however, is about more than just scheduling; it’s also about embracing accountability. As a coach, I am not just responsible for showing up, but also for setting an example for my players. Knowing that a team of young athletes is looking up to me keeps me grounded and reinforces the importance of staying committed to my own recovery.  They rely on me not just for soccer guidance but as someone they can trust, learn from, and be inspired by.  This sense of responsibility has become an anchor that reminds me daily of why I need to stay on this path of sobriety.

Self-worth can be one of the first casualties of addiction, as it often leads to self-destructive behaviors, guilt, and feelings of unworthiness. Recovery is a journey of re-establishing one’s self-respect, and coaching has played an essential role in that process for me.  Each time I step onto the field with my players, I have an opportunity to contribute something meaningful to their lives. Witnessing their growth, celebrating their successes, and helping them navigate challenges has given me a renewed sense of purpose.

Moreover, coaching is an inherently selfless activity; it’s about helping others become the best version of themselves.  This shift away from focusing on my struggles and instead investing in the growth of others has provided me with a different perspective on my own healing.  By empowering young athletes, I am indirectly empowering myself, building a foundation of self-worth rooted in positive contributions rather than past mistakes.

Youth soccer, much like recovery, is filled with highs and lows.  Just as players encounter defeats, injuries, and personal setbacks, I too face challenges in maintaining my sobriety and working through the scars of my past.  In coaching my players to handle these setbacks gracefully and bounce back with renewed determination, I am constantly reminded of the importance of resilience in my own life. Teaching resilience has been a healing experience for me.  I emphasize to my players that mistakes are part of growth, that setbacks are temporary, and that each game is an opportunity to improve.  These lessons aren’t just for them; they’re daily reminders to myself that recovery is a journey of perseverance.  Watching my players grow through challenges, and knowing I’ve played a part in helping them stay positive, has reinforced my belief in my own ability to overcome.

Addiction is often characterized by isolation, whereas recovery flourishes in connection.  Coaching youth soccer has brought me into contact with parents, other coaches, and, of course, the players themselves.  Together, we form a small community built on trust, mutual goals, and support.  The parents, particularly, have become a network of allies in my journey.  They understand the commitment I’m making to their children and offer encouragement in subtle yet significant ways.

The players, too, have unexpectedly become a community of support. Their eagerness, their joy for the game, and their inherent positivity serve as a reminder that life is still full of good things.  I have come to value these connections as part of a larger support system that extends beyond the field, and I know these relationships are vital for my ongoing commitment to sobriety.

In my recovery, I’ve wrestled with feelings of guilt and self-doubt. Coaching youth soccer has helped me address these issues in a healthier way.  When I see my players make mistakes or struggle, I approach them with kindness and constructive feedback.  This has been a revelation to me—if I can show such compassion to others, perhaps I can learn to extend the same kindness to myself.  Learning to forgive myself, allow for mistakes, and celebrate small victories are lessons I’ve started to internalize through coaching.  These kids remind me that growth isn’t a linear path but a series of attempts, adjustments, and continuous improvement.  As a coach, I have to remind myself that I’m on the same path, and I, too, deserve patience and understanding as I navigate my own struggles.

Sobriety can be daunting, but coaching has reintroduced moments of pure joy into my life.  Seeing a player achieve a skill they’ve been working on or watching the team celebrate a hard-fought win provides a rush of happiness that is hard to describe.  These small moments of triumph, laughter, and camaraderie are reminders of life’s simple pleasures.  In those moments, I realize how far I’ve come.  I no longer seek fleeting highs from alcohol and drugs, but rather, I find fulfillment in the joy of others and in the satisfaction of a job well done. Coaching youth soccer has shown me that recovery isn’t just about abstaining from something; it’s about rediscovering the many things that make life rich and meaningful.

Coaching has become more than just an activity—it’s a mission that has redefined my identity and my goals. It’s a role that requires me to be patient, present, and committed, reinforcing my dedication to staying sober. By investing in my players, I am investing in my own growth and recovery. Each practice, each game, and each conversation is a reminder that I have the power to not only change my own life but also positively impact others. Through coaching, I have found a renewed purpose that sustains my commitment to recovery. These young athletes may never know how much they’ve helped me on this journey, but their impact on my life is profound. In guiding them, I am guiding myself—toward resilience, self-worth, and a future free from the chains of addiction.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

70. Rediscovering Connection

Recovery is a journey filled with twists and turns, each one challenging us to grow in ways we never thought possible.  For so long, I found myself confined by my self-imposed boundaries, wary of stepping outside the safety of my carefully constructed world.  Just this past week, I did something that forced me to stretch those boundaries—something so simple, yet profound.  I went out to eat with a lady that I hadn’t seen since high school.

That afternoon, I found myself at a table with Kelly.  We went to high school together.  She was one year younger than me.  We were friendly in high school however, we never hung out together.  She had reached out after seeing a post I’d shared about my recovery journey.  Her message was filled with warmth and curiosity, and she suggested we catch up.  I hesitated again—the same anxieties bubbling to the surface.  Our lunch was different in tone but just as meaningful.  Her eyes lit up as she described the people she’d met and the perspectives she’d gained since high school.  Her openness inspired me, and I found myself sharing parts of my journey I hadn’t spoken about in a long time. We talked about the resilience it takes to rebuild a life, the importance of self-compassion, and the joy of finding purpose in unexpected places.

The first outing started with a message that was casual but sincere. Kelly reached out, mentioning she’d love to catch up over lunch.  My first reaction was hesitation.  High school was over a decade ago, and we were both vastly different people now.  Besides, I had spent so much of my recovery journey focused on mending my present that revisiting the past felt like a detour I wasn’t ready for. But something about the invitation tugged at me—a whisper urging me to embrace the unknown. So, I hesitantly said yes.

The day of the lunch, anxiety hit me like a freight train.  What would we even talk about?  I knew she wouldn’t judge me for my struggles, but would she see me as the person I’ve been working hard to become?  I reminded myself of the promises I’d made in recovery: to remain open to new experiences, to rebuild connections, and to allow myself to grow. With that in mind, I stepped into the restaurant, greeted by Kelly’s warm smile.  From the moment we sat down, any lingering nerves melted away.  Kelly was exactly as I remembered her—kind, intelligent, and refreshingly down-to-earth.  We started with small talk, catching up on the basics: careers, families, and the quirks of adulting.  But soon, our conversation ventured into deeper waters, touching on the twists and turns our lives had taken since high school.  As we shared our stories, I realized how vastly different our paths had been and yet how much they overlapped.  We talked about perspectives—on love, failure, and the search for meaning.  Kelly spoke about her struggles balancing career ambitions with personal fulfillment.  And then, when it came time to share my story, I hesitated.  But as I looked across the table at someone who genuinely seemed to care, I found the courage to open up.  I spoke about my struggles with addiction, the shame of relapses, and the hope I’d found in recovery. I half-expected awkward silence or thinly veiled pity, but instead, she listened with empathy and grace.

What struck me most about this lunch was how different Kelly was from the crowd I used to run with. My past social circle, in active addiction, had often mirrored my worst impulses, enabling behaviors that kept me stuck in a cycle of self-destruction.  Sitting across from Kelly, I felt a sharp contrast—her energy was uplifting, and her curiosity about life was contagious.  She was someone who sought out growth, embraced challenges, and genuinely cared about the world around her.  It wasn’t the kind of crowd I’d typically found myself in, but it was the kind of crowd I wanted to be part of now.

As I left lunch, I noticed how much lighter I felt.  The weight of my insecurities, the fear of judgment—all of it seemed to dissipate.  In its place was a quiet sense of belonging, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a long time.  For the first time in ages, I wasn’t just surviving; I was living. I was connecting, laughing, and learning.  This outing was a small step, but it was monumental in what it represented.  It reminded me that stepping outside of my box doesn’t mean abandoning who I am. It means expanding my understanding of who I can be.  It means opening myself up to the possibility that the world is kinder, more forgiving, and more full of surprises than I often give it credit for.

Since that afternoon, I’ve made a conscious effort to keep stepping outside my box.  I’ve sought out conversations with people who challenge me, who inspire me, and who remind me that growth happens in the unfamiliar.  Recovery has taught me that life isn’t meant to be lived within the confines of our fears or past mistakes.  It’s meant to be explored, experienced, and shared.  I’m learning to see myself through new eyes—not just as someone in recovery but as someone capable of building a rich, meaningful life.  As I continue this journey, I carry with me the lessons of that afternoon: the power of connection, the importance of perspective, and the joy of rediscovering the world—one step, one lunch, and one laugh at a time.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

69. A New Meaning to the Word Gratitude

Gratitude.  It’s a simple word, but its weight has never been heavier, its meaning never clearer than since I returned home from treatment.  I suppose that’s the first thing I need to express gratitude for—the opportunity to feel grateful at all.  There was a time when I didn’t think I’d make it to this point, a time when the haze of addiction clouded everything in my life.  I couldn’t see clearly, and I couldn’t appreciate the good things that had been there all along.  Now, on the other side of treatment, I can see the people who’ve stood by me, the second chances I’ve been given, and the simple joys that I had lost sight of.  All those things continue to fill me with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Coming home wasn’t easy.  I returned to a life that I had nearly destroyed, to relationships I had damaged, and to a sense of deep responsibility to make things right.  In the midst of that, my family welcomed me back with open arms.  They didn’t have to.  I certainly wouldn’t have blamed them if they had needed more time, or if they had put up walls to protect themselves from being hurt again. Yet, here they are, showing me love, support, and an understanding that I can never fully repay.  I feel gratitude for my family in a way I can’t fully put into words.  They are the bedrock of my recovery, the foundation that steadies me when the ground beneath me feels shaky.  There were nights in rehab when I wondered if I could ever mend the hurt I caused them.  I wasn’t sure they’d ever truly be able to trust me again.  Coming home and feeling their love wasn’t just reassuring—it was lifesaving. Every hug, every word of encouragement, and even their silence when words fell short is a reminder that love can be unconditional, that it can endure, and that it can heal.  I am grateful for every ounce of patience, every conversation, and for their presence in my life, which I had taken for granted so many times before.

Then there are the readers of my column.  I was so afraid of how my honesty and my openness about my relapse would be received.  When I relapsed, I knew I’d let so many people down, not just my family and friends but also the readers who had followed my journey and sent messages of hope all along.  I didn’t know what to expect when I returned to my writing.  I feared judgment, disappointment, and maybe even scorn.  Instead, I was met with kindness and empathy.  The outpouring of support from my readers, the way they have continued to stand by me when I stumble, has been a source of strength beyond what I could have ever imagined.  I am grateful for every email, every comment, every note of encouragement.  People I’ve never even met have shown me a level of compassion that I don’t think I deserve but that I’m deeply, deeply thankful for.  Their belief in my ability to recover, and in my worth as a person despite my mistakes has given me the courage to keep going on the hardest days.  As humans, sometimes we forget how powerful words can be, but the words of my readers have helped me rebuild myself, one step at a time.  For that, I owe you all more than I can ever express.

I also have to talk about the gratitude I feel for the gentleman I work for. He didn’t have to take me back. He had every reason to turn me away, to protect his business and himself from someone who had clearly made more than a few mistakes.  He didn’t do that.  He immediately opened the door for me to return to work, reclaim some sense of normalcy, and contribute in a meaningful way again. That act of grace didn’t just give me a job—it gave me back a sense of purpose, a belief that I could still be trusted and still be valuable, even after stumbling and falling.  I’m thankful for his trust, his patience, and for the opportunity to prove that I’m more than my past mistakes.  I’m determined to show up every day, not just for him but for myself, to live up to the second chance he gave me.  He didn’t have to extend that chance, and I know that.  I’m grateful every day that he did, and I won’t let that go to waste.

I am also deeply grateful for Wendy Bynum, the woman who has continued to give me the opportunity to document my journey in the Independent Republican.  In a world where so many people shy away from uncomfortable truths, Wendy has embraced mine and given me a platform to share my story with honesty and vulnerability. She didn’t have to keep that door open for me, especially after my relapse, but she did—and for that, I am endlessly thankful.  Her belief in the importance of telling these stories and of giving voice to the complexities of recovery has been a crucial part of my healing. Wendy’s trust in me has allowed me to share my journey and help others who are walking similar paths.

Lastly, I’m grateful for this moment where I’m able to reflect on everything and truly feel it.  Gratitude is something I overlooked for so long, caught up in the chaos of addiction and the constant pursuit of something to numb the pain.  Now, sobriety has given me the clarity to appreciate life in ways I never could have before.  I’m grateful for every morning I wake up without the weight of shame, for every small victory in this recovery process, and even for the setbacks that have taught me how strong I can be.

Gratitude doesn’t erase the past, and it doesn’t make this journey easy, but it does make it bearable. It reminds me of what’s important.  It keeps me focused on the people who matter, on the things that really count, and on the person I want to be.  I am far from perfect, and I still have a long way to go, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t have to walk this road alone.  I have family, friends, readers, and colleagues who are walking it with me, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Gratitude has become the light that guides me as I continue to find my way forward.  Gratitude is no longer just a word to me.  It’s a lifeline.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

68. Learning To Live With Regrets

Regret is a heavy word.  It's a burden that weighs down the soul, a shadow that lingers long after the darkest days have passed.  I have known that weight intimately, especially from my time in active addiction.  Those were the days when I lost myself, made choices that I will never be proud of, and hurt people I deeply cared for.  The pain of those memories—the lives I affected, the promises I broke—can be overwhelming.  What I’ve come to understand is that while regret can be paralyzing, it doesn’t have to be.  It doesn’t have to stop my recovery, and today, I refuse to let it.  This is my story of living with regret and learning to rise above it.

In active addiction, life becomes a blur.  Time slips through your fingers, and before you know it, years have passed with nothing to show but broken relationships, shattered dreams, and a drained bank account.  I wasn’t immune to that.  I remember the lies I told my family—the constant reassurances that I had it under control, that I was "just fine."  I remember my friends pulling away, one by one, exhausted by my unpredictability, tired of the empty promises I kept making to "get better tomorrow."  There were moments when I wanted to believe I could stop, but addiction has a way of pulling you deeper into a cycle of self-destruction and deceit.

One of my greatest regrets is the impact my addiction had on my family.  The disappointment in their eyes when I showed up late, or not at all, to family gatherings, the way my promises became meaningless over time because I failed to follow through.  It wasn’t just the big things I missed—birthdays, holidays, or important events—it was the everyday moments that slowly disappeared.  I became distant, unavailable, a ghost in the lives of people who loved me most and while they tried to reach me, I was too consumed by my addiction to let them in.

I often think about my parents, who stood by me despite the pain I caused them.  The sleepless nights they spent worrying about where I was, whether I was alive or dead.  The sacrifices they made to support me, even when I wasn’t ready to accept help.  The guilt of letting them down is something that lingers in my heart, even now.  And then there’s my sister, who looked up to me once, but as time went on, I became a stranger to her.  I missed out on watching her grow into the incredible person she is today because I was too wrapped up in my own chaos.

The regret I carry from those days is like a permanent scar—it's a part of me now, and I will never be able to undo the hurt I caused.  In my worst moments, those memories threatened to swallow me whole.  The guilt, especially about Chris, has been unbearable at times.  I let him down, I let myself down, and I let everyone who believed in me down.  It feels like there’s a relentless voice in my head, constantly replaying my failures, highlighting every missed chance to turn things around, and reminding me of the people I’ve hurt along the way.

There’s a specific type of loneliness that comes from pushing people away, from shutting yourself off from those who love you most because you are too ashamed to let them see how far you've fallen.  I lived in that loneliness for a long time.  Even after getting sober, that sense of regret lingers. It followed me around like a dark cloud, always threatening to pull me back into the abyss.

It wasn’t until my most recent relapse, when I checked myself into Bon Secours Hospital for detox, that I truly began to confront those feelings head-on.  I hit rock bottom again, and as much as it hurt, it was also the moment of clarity I needed.  I couldn’t run from the past anymore.  I had to face it, and that’s when I realized that if I didn’t learn how to live with my regrets, they would destroy me.  I had to find a way to move forward—not by forgetting what I had done, but by finding forgiveness and understanding in myself.

In recovery, I’ve learned that regret is part of the healing process.  It’s the mind’s way of acknowledging the harm that’s been done, but it’s also a way to grow.  Regret can serve as a powerful motivator if you let it.  Instead of letting the pain of the past paralyze me, I’ve started using it to drive me forward.  Every day, I remind myself that I have the power to change and become someone better.  I can’t change what I did during my active addiction, but I can control what I do now.  Today I choose to heal.  I choose to make amends, not just to the people I hurt but to myself.

One of the hardest steps has been forgiving myself.  Self-forgiveness doesn’t come easy, especially when you feel like you don’t deserve it. For a long time, I didn’t think I was worthy of happiness or recovery.  I’ve learned that clinging to that belief only keeps you stuck.  It’s a form of self-punishment, and it keeps you tethered to the past.  In group therapy sessions, I’ve talked about these feelings with others who’ve been in the same place and hearing their stories has helped me realize that I’m not alone.  We all carry regrets, but we all have the capacity for change.

Part of my healing has been finding ways to make things right where I can.  For my family, it’s about being present again, showing up for them consistently, and proving through my actions that I’m committed to my recovery.  For my friends, it’s about rebuilding trust, one step at a time, and owning up to the hurt I caused.  As for Chris, I can never bring him back, but I honor his memory by staying sober and continuing to fight this battle for both of us.  In my moments of weakness, I think of him, and it gives me strength to keep going.  Recovery isn’t a straight line, and neither is working through regret.  There are days when the weight of my past feels too heavy to bear.  On those days, I allow myself to feel the grief, the sadness, and the pain, but I don’t let it drown me.  I remind myself that every day I wake up sober is a victory.

Regret is powerful, but so is hope.  I hold onto that now.  I’m learning to live in the present, to focus on the person I’m becoming rather than the person I used to be.  Yes, I have regrets from my time in active addiction.  They will always be a part of my story, but I am more than my mistakes.  I am someone who is trying, every single day, to make things right, and that’s what ultimately matters.  In this journey, I’m finding peace—not by forgetting the past, but by using it to fuel my future. I am no longer paralyzed by my regrets.  Instead, I am learning to rise above them, one day at a time.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

67. Acclimating To Life After Returning Home From Treatment

It’s been a month and a half since I returned home from rehab, and it feels like I'm learning to live all over again.  Everything is the same but also completely different.  There’s an odd sense of disconnection as I try to acclimate to a life I once knew so well, yet it feels like I’m walking through it for the first time.  When I left for treatment, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel coming back.  Part of me feared I’d fall right back into old habits, that the pull of my former life would be too strong to resist.  Another part of me was excited to start over, to finally live the life I’d wanted but couldn’t quite grasp because of addiction.

Now that I’m here, it’s both harder and easier than I imagined.  Easier in the sense that the cravings aren’t as overpowering as they were when I first got clean.  Harder because there’s a new level of responsibility I carry with me, and every day feels like a test of my willpower and commitment.  I can’t afford to let my guard down, but at the same time, I’m learning how to live without feeling like I’m constantly in crisis mode.

Returning to work has been one of the most grounding parts of this journey so far.  I didn’t realize how important having a routine was until I got back to my job.  Work provides structure, a sense of purpose, and an anchor to my day-to-day life.  During rehab, every moment was accounted for—group sessions, therapy, meals, exercise.  There was always something to keep me occupied.  I worried that without that structure, I’d fall apart when I came home but work has filled that gap, giving me a reason to keep moving forward.

At first, it was daunting.  Going back to work after months away felt like stepping into a world that had moved on without me.  I was nervous about how people would see me—would they notice the changes, would they judge me, would they still trust me?  Thankfully, those fears faded quickly once I got into the swing of things.  My coworkers have been surprisingly supportive, though I haven’t been completely open with everyone about where I’ve been or what I’ve gone through.  Only a few close colleagues, my boss being one of them, know the truth, and they’ve been incredibly understanding. It’s comforting to know that I don’t have to face everything alone, even when I’m not fully transparent with everyone.

What I didn’t expect was how therapeutic working could be.  There’s something about staying busy, being productive, and having clear goals that helps me stay focused on my recovery.  When I’m at work, I don’t have time to dwell on my past mistakes or get lost in regret.  I have tasks to complete, people to help, and projects to finish.  It gives me a sense of accomplishment and reminds me that I’m capable, even after everything I’ve been through.  In a way, work is a form of therapy—it’s a place where I can prove to myself that I’m still valuable, that I can contribute, and that I’m more than just my struggles.

But it’s not all smooth sailing.  Some days, the weight of everything catches up with me.  There are moments when I feel overwhelmed by the responsibility of staying sober, maintaining relationships, and keeping up with the demands of my job.  On those days, it’s tempting to shut down or escape into unhealthy thoughts, but I’ve learned that reaching out for support is key.  I’ve stayed in touch with some of the people I met in rehab, and we check in on each other regularly.  Having a community of people who understand exactly what I’m going through has been a lifeline.  Even though I’m home and out of the structured environment of treatment, I know I’m not navigating this alone.

Another adjustment has been facing the outside world and all the old triggers that come with it.  In rehab, I was in a bubble—protected from the things that pushed me toward using.  Now, I’m back in an environment where those temptations are real and sometimes right in front of me.  I’ve had to be vigilant about setting boundaries and being mindful of where I go and who I spend time with.  I’d be lying if I said it isn’t hard.  There are places and people I care about deeply that I know I need to avoid for now, maybe forever and that hurts.  One thing I’ve come to understand is that protecting my sobriety has to come first, even if it means making difficult choices.

One of the best parts about being home is reconnecting with my family and my dog, Bumpy.  I missed them so much while I was away, and being around them now reminds me of why I’m doing this.  They’ve all been through so much because of my addiction, and I owe it to them—and to myself—to stay on this path.  There’s still guilt, of course, especially when I think about all the times I’ve let them down, but instead of letting that guilt paralyze me, I’m using it as motivation to keep going, to keep improving, to show up for them in ways I couldn’t before.

Looking ahead, I know the road isn’t going to be easy.  There will be challenges and setbacks, but I’m learning to take things one day at a time.  Work has been an incredible part of my healing process, but I know I can’t rely solely on it to keep me grounded.  I need to stay committed to the things I learned in rehab—attending therapy, practicing self-care, taking my psych meds, and staying connected with my support system.  Life after treatment is full of ups and downs, but every day that I wake up sober is a day I’m winning.  There’s a quiet strength in that, a strength I didn’t know I had before.  For now, I’m focused on building a life that reflects the person I’m becoming, not the person I used to be and that’s enough for today.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

66. More Journals From Rehab Pt. 3

During my time in rehab, I committed to keeping a daily journal—a space where I could pour out my thoughts, struggles, and reflections as I faced the challenges of recovery head-on.  Writing became a vital outlet for me, helping me process the rollercoaster of emotions that came with detox and healing.  These passages reflect the highs and lows of my journey, from the depths of withdrawal to moments of clarity and growth.  Each entry is a raw reflection of my battle with addiction and my determination to rebuild my life.  Please keep in mind that I was fresh off a relapse when these entries were written, so my thoughts may not be as clear or organized as usual.  What you’ll find here is raw, honest, and deeply personal—my unfiltered experience of trying to piece my life back together.

Day 4 – Detox (05/25/2024)

Last night was a really good night.  Since we’re allowed to stay up later on the weekends, three other patients and I hung out watching TV and swapping funny “war stories” from our time in active addiction.  Even though making light of those times is usually discouraged, there’s a certain comfort in finding humor in the ridiculous things we did during our active addiction.  It felt good to laugh and bond with them.

My sleep, however, was a different story.  While it wasn’t great, it was a little better than the past few nights, which gives me hope that things are slowly improving.  I feel like I may be on the up and up. The group of patients here is great right now, mostly men, and surprisingly, no one has rubbed me the wrong way yet.  Of course, that can change, but for now, it’s nice to feel at ease around everyone.

Last night, an Alcoholics Anonymous speaker came in to lead a meeting.  I actually know him from when I was clean before. He was incredible.  His message was emotional and powerful, hitting home in a way I needed.  After the meeting, he pulled me aside and asked what my plan was.  I told him I’m staying for rehab after detox, but I’m still on the fence about long-term treatment.  He gave me his number and offered to help me find a good program, which I really appreciate.  I’m definitely going to keep in touch with him as I navigate this journey.  To be honest, the thought of entering a long-term program feels overwhelming.  Being away from my family and my dog, Bumpy, for months is hard to accept.  That’s the part I struggle with the most but deep down, I know it’s probably what’s best for me.

This morning brought a small victory: I managed to hold down breakfast for the first time since entering detox.  That felt like a big win. Some of the groups they’ve held so far have been among the best I’ve attended in all five times I’ve been in this program.  It feels like there’s something different this time, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.  I don’t know if it’s the nurses, the counselors, the groups, or the fact that I’m here by choice this time.  In the past, I entered treatment to please someone else, but this time, I made the decision myself because I knew I so desperately needed help.  My addiction had taken full control of me again, and I knew I couldn’t stop on my own.

Today, I’m feeling grateful.  I’m getting to know the other patients on a deeper level, and I genuinely enjoy being around them.  Despite our different stories, our struggles are so similar.  I started tapering off Methadone and Valium this morning, and in about three days, I’ll be done with detox and ready for rehab.  It’s a relief to have some downtime on the weekends to relax—watching TV, doing arts and crafts, or just chilling.  Oddly enough, enjoying leisurely activities is still hard for me at times.  When I’m using, my downtime is filled with drinking and doing drugs.  When I’m clean, I struggle to fill my downtime.  Rehab is helping me figure out healthier ways to manage that free time.

We had another AA meeting this morning, and it was a good one.  On Saturdays, we get two AA meetings—one in the morning and one in the evening.  The speaker spoke about grief, which was exactly what I needed to hear. I’ve been really struggling with the death of my best friend, Chris.  I’ve experienced loss before, but burying my best friend was something I never imagined.  The grief is hard to put into words, and it’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  Not even my worst enemy. I’m hoping the counselors here can help me develop healthier coping skills to deal with the grief I’m carrying.

Later in the day, I met with my counselor, and she gave me a list of long-term treatment programs spread across New York—some upstate, some in Long Island, and others in New York City.  It’s still early days, so I don’t need to make any decisions just yet.  Part of me thinks it would be cool to live in New York City for a few months, but I’m going to research each program to see what feels like the best fit for me.

I’ve made it to all the groups so far, which I’m proud of.  In detox, you aren’t required to attend groups, but I’ve made it a personal goal to go to every single one.  Sitting in my room makes the day drag on endlessly.  There’s no clock, no TV, and all I can do is stare out the window at the occasional passing car.  Attending groups helps me stay out of my head, keeps me occupied, and makes detox go by just a little bit quicker.  When my mind isn’t busy, thoughts of leaving start creeping in.  I want to take as much information from these groups as possible so that I’m able to apply it to my life when I’m back home.

Dinner tonight was decent. I had a ham and cheese sandwich, a side salad, chicken noodle soup, and a chocolate chip cookie for dessert. It wasn’t the best meal, but it hit the spot, and I was able to keep it down, which is another small victory. We ended the night with our second AA meeting, and once again, it was powerful. These meetings are the highlight of my day. They help break up the monotony and give me hope for my own recovery. Now, I’m looking forward to a relaxing evening. Today was a pretty good day, and I’m feeling grateful to be sober again. For the first time in a while, I’m beginning to look forward to the future. As much as I know the road ahead won’t be easy, I feel more prepared to face it than I have in a long time.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.