105. A Fourth of July Weekend to Remember
This past Fourth of July weekend was unlike any I can remember in years. For most of my adult life, holidays like this were excuses—opportunities to drink myself into oblivion or numb out with substances, to celebrate recklessly in ways that only pushed me deeper into the darkness of addiction. This year was different. This year, I woke up each morning clear-headed, full of gratitude, and with a heart open enough to experience the kind of simple joy I used to think was lost to me forever.
On July 4th, I went to the historic Harness Racing track in Goshen, New York, with my mother. The old grandstands, the smell of horses and fresh-cut grass, and the excitement in the air all reminded me of a time when life felt pure—before addiction stripped me of so much. As we walked through the gates, I felt like a kid again, wide-eyed and eager, but with a deep, sober awareness of how precious this day truly was.
At one point, my mom looked over at me as we sat in the grandstands, studying the horses warming up on the track. She smiled, almost in disbelief, and said, “It’s funny to see you enjoying this, Kyle. You know, this was always here—even back when you were using. But you never wanted it then.” Her words hit me hard. They weren’t meant to wound; they were an honest reflection of how addiction had blinded me to life’s simplest pleasures. I’d spent years searching for a fleeting high, completely missing the beautiful moments that had been right in front of me all along.
Sitting together in the stands, I watched families laughing, kids begging for another lemonade, and old friends greeting each other like no time had passed. I also noticed how many adults were responsibly sipping beers or cocktails—right there in the open, no shame or secrecy. For a long time, seeing people drink so casually would have made me feel angry, jealous, or desperate. I’d have asked myself why they could drink “normally” when I couldn’t. But this time, I just felt acceptance. I know now that for me, there’s no such thing as “just one.” That understanding no longer makes me bitter; it keeps me alive.
I realized, sitting there, how important it is to surround myself with people who genuinely support my sobriety. My mom was my rock that day. She knew I might feel uncomfortable, so she never left my side. She checked in with me every so often, just a hand on my shoulder representing a silent, “You doing okay?” Those small gestures reminded me that I don’t have to go through this alone—and that having the right people with you can turn what could be a triggering environment into a safe, even joyful, experience.
The races themselves were thrilling. I found myself cheering for horses with corny names like “Pep Lo Pew” and “Goshen Glory,” as if my voice could make them run faster. My mom laughed at my enthusiasm, and I laughed with her. There was something healing in that laughter—something that washed away years of pain, even if just for a moment. It was the kind of carefree joy I thought I’d forfeited when I chose addiction time and again. It was proof that recovery doesn’t just give your life back; it gives you a chance to truly live.
As the sun began to set behind the grandstands, the sky exploded with fireworks. I watched them with a full heart. I thought back to countless nights when I watched fireworks through the haze of intoxication, barely able to focus, wishing the explosions would quiet the chaos in my mind. This time, I felt each boom vibrate through me, alive and present for every burst of color.
Of course, sobriety isn’t always easy—far from it. There were moments during the day when I felt the old cravings flicker. Seeing groups of people clinking plastic cups together brought back memories of how I used to celebrate. But I reminded myself that those “celebrations” always ended the same way for me: with shame, regret, and despair. By playing the tape forward—something I’ve learned in recovery—I could see past the fantasy of “just one” and remember the reality of my disease.
This Fourth of July taught me that freedom isn’t just about the country we live in; it’s about the personal liberation we fight for every day. For me, freedom means living without the chains of addiction—being able to enjoy a day at the races, a sunset, a conversation with my mom, or the joy of fireworks without needing to escape reality. It’s so easy to think recovery is just about not using substances, but it’s so much more than that. Recovery is about reclaiming the moments we missed, the relationships we damaged, and the simple joys we ignored. It’s about building new memories that remind us why we fight so hard to stay sober. It’s about recognizing that life, in all its messy, beautiful imperfection, is enough.
As we drove home that night, I looked over at my mom in the passenger seat. I thought of all the nights she stayed up waiting for me, all the times she feared the worst. I thought about how lucky I am to have a second chance because not everyone gets one. And I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t waste it.
I know there will be more holidays, more crowded events, more moments when I’ll see others drink and be reminded of what I’ve lost. But I also know what I’ve gained: clarity, peace, and the ability to show up for my life, and if I keep choosing sobriety, one day at a time, I’ll keep getting to experience days like this—days that remind me life can be more beautiful than I ever imagined, even without a drink in my hand. This Fourth of July was more than a holiday. It was a milestone, a reminder of how far I’ve come, and a glimpse of the life I can have if I stay the course. And for that, I am deeply, profoundly 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.
