93. Still Here: A Year of Pain, Grace, & Growth

As I sit here reflecting on the past year of my life, I’m overwhelmed by one truth that outweighs all others: it’s a miracle I’m still alive.  That’s not said for dramatic effect or sympathy—it’s the honest reality of living through the darkness of addiction and surviving it, again.  On April 10th, I turned 34 years old.  There were times this year when I was certain I wouldn’t make it to that milestone.  I’ve faced the kind of pain that breaks you open and leaves you gasping, but somehow, through the grace of God, the love of the people in my life, and the stubborn part of my soul that still believes I’m worthy of redemption—I’m still here.

This past year has tested me more than any other.  The weight of loss, shame, and despair nearly crushed me.  My best friend died.  I still don’t even have the words to fully express the hole that left inside of me.  There was no warning, no preparation for what it would feel like to lose someone who knew me at my worst and still believed in me.  The grief from that loss became the crack in the foundation of my recovery.  I spiraled, and eventually, I relapsed.

Relapsing was like waking up to find that everything you worked for had been washed away by a tide you thought you’d already survived.  It wasn’t just the physical agony of withdrawal or the chaos I invited back into my life—it was the shame.  I felt like I had betrayed everyone who believed in me, especially myself.  I remember looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.  The darkness came back quickly, and it came back hard.  Somehow, even at my lowest, I still found the strength to seek help.

I checked myself into detox at Bon Secours in Port Jervis.  Originally, I told myself I’d just stay for detox, get physically clean, and figure the rest out later.  But that wasn’t enough—not for the hole I had dug myself into.  Something inside me shifted.  Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was hope, or maybe it was just exhaustion from running.  I decided to stay for rehab.  I decided to fight again.

Detox was brutal.  Full-blown withdrawal, sleepless nights, nausea, and fear clawing at my chest.  I felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out. Even so, I showed up to every group.  I forced myself to eat, even when my stomach turned.  I listened when people spoke, and I let myself speak, too, even when it hurt.  Every passing day, I chose recovery, even when it felt impossible.  And slowly, things began to change.  I was given another shot at sobriety, and this time, I took it with both hands.  That’s not to say everything became easy—far from it.   Recovery is still a daily climb.  Some days, I feel strong.  On other days, I feel like I’m barely hanging on.  But today, I’m climbing.  That’s more than I could say one year ago.

Through all the darkness, there have been bright moments too.  Beautiful, healing, life-giving moments.  I went back to work doing what I love—coaching youth soccer.  Being back on the field, feeling the grass under my feet, seeing those kids light up when they learn something new—it’s medicine.  It’s purpose.  Coaching reminds me that I’m still capable of giving, of leading, and being part of something bigger than myself.  I get to show up for those kids with clarity and heart, and that means everything to me.

I’ve also been able to spend more time with my family and friends.  After the relapse, I was sure they’d all give up on me.  And some people did fall away—but the ones who mattered most stayed. They saw the real me underneath the mess.  They showed me the grace I didn’t think I deserved. I’ve had dinner with my family where we actually laughed.  I’ve hung around with friends where we talked about life and dreams, not just regrets.  Those moments keep me grounded.  They remind me that no matter how far I fall, love has a way of finding me again.

And perhaps most importantly, I’ve started to forgive myself.  That’s been the hardest part.  I’ve carried so much guilt—about the pain I caused, the opportunities I threw away, the people I scared, the lives I touched in the worst ways.  But each day sober is a small act of redemption.  Each time I choose not to pick up, I take a step toward becoming the man I want to be—the man I know that I can be.

I won’t lie and say I have it all figured out.  I don’t.  I still have moments where I feel lost.  I still have nights where I stare at the ceiling, wondering if I’ll ever fully heal, but I’ve learned that healing isn’t a finish line.  It’s a process.  It’s one small, brave decision after another, and I’m making those decisions now, one day at a time.

This year broke me in ways I never thought I could be broken, but it also showed me what I’m made of.  It reminded me that even in the depths of addiction, there is still a flicker of light waiting to be fanned into flame.  It reminded me that I am not my mistakes, that I am not my relapse, and that I am not the pain I carry.  I am a person in recovery.  I am a coach.  I am a son.  I am a friend.  I am a survivor.  As I step into another year of life, I carry all the scars of the past 365 days, but I also carry the lessons, the love, and the hope.  I know the road ahead won’t be easy, but I also know that I’m not walking it alone.  And for the first time in a long time, I believe I deserve to keep walking it.

I turned 34 this week. I’m alive. I’m sober. And I’m trying. That, to me, is everything.

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.