121. The Bridge Back to Myself

For most of my life, I thought recovery was about learning how to live without drugs or alcohol.  I thought it was about white-knuckling my way through cravings, sitting in meetings, collecting milestone chips/tags, and somehow finding the strength to say no each time temptation came knocking.  Over time, I’ve come to understand something far deeper: recovery isn’t about staying away from a substance—it’s about finding your way back to yourself.  Addiction didn’t just steal my sobriety; it stole my identity.  It stripped away my sense of purpose, my confidence, and the light that once lived inside me.  I used to wake up each morning with a quiet shame that no one but me could see—a weight pressing down on my chest that whispered, You’ll never change.  The truth was, for a long time, I believed that voice.

When I first walked into detox, I wasn’t seeking peace or spiritual growth.  I was just trying to stop slowly dying.  I was sick—physically, mentally, spiritually.  My body trembled, my thoughts raced, and I could barely eat or sleep.  Beneath all the misery, there was a flicker of something small and fragile: hope.  It was buried under layers of guilt and fear, but it was there, whispering that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t beyond saving.  The early days of sobriety were some of the hardest days of my life. The nights felt endless.  My body screamed for the poison it had grown dependent on.  I missed my family, my dog, my friends, and the version of myself that I couldn’t even remember clearly anymore.  But somewhere in those sleepless nights, I began to face a truth I had run away from for years—recovery isn’t about getting back what you lost.  It’s about building something new from the wreckage of your past.

I remember sitting in group one morning, slouched in a chair, arms crossed, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.  A counselor said something that changed me: “You don’t recover from addiction by being punished—you recover by being loved.”  I didn’t believe it at first. Love felt like something I didn’t deserve.  Slowly, I began to see that the people around me—those who shared their stories, who cried, who laughed, who held me accountable—were showing me a kind of love I had never known: unconditional, patient, and honest love.  That’s when I began to understand what recovery really is.  It’s not a straight line from brokenness to healing.  It’s a bridge—a fragile one at first—built plank by plank out of honesty, humility, and willingness.  And each day, I had a choice: I could walk further across that bridge, or I could turn back toward the chaos that once defined me.

The thing about recovery is that it demands truth.  Real truth.  The kind that hurts to say out loud. The kind that makes your voice crack in meetings or your eyes fill with tears when you talk about the people you’ve hurt.  I’ve had to face myself in ways that felt unbearable—owning my mistakes, admitting the pain I caused myself and others, and forgiving myself for things I thought were unforgivable.  That’s where the healing lives—in the rawness, in the vulnerability, in the courage to keep showing up even when it hurts.

There are still days when the disease whispers in my ear.  It tells me I’m not enough.  It tells me that one drink, one pill, one escape wouldn’t hurt.  Over time, I’ve learned to pause and “rewind the tape,” to play out the story all the way to the end.  I remember the hospital beds, the lies, the looks of disappointment in my family’s eyes.  I remember waking up each morning not knowing if I’d survive the day.  Then I remember how far I’ve come—how the fog has lifted, how my heart beats with purpose again,  and how I can finally look in the mirror and see someone worth saving.

One of the greatest gifts of recovery has been rediscovering connection.  Addiction isolated me.  It convinced me that no one could possibly understand my pain.  Recovery has shown me that I’m not alone—and I never was.  In every meeting, in every handshake, in every tearful hug after someone shares their truth, I see pieces of myself reflected back.  We’re all walking each other home, one day at a time.  There’s a quote I once heard that says, “The opposite of addiction isn’t sobriety—it’s connection.”  I believe that with all my heart because connection is what keeps me grounded.  It’s what reminds me that I belong here, that my story matters, and that my past doesn’t define my future.  It’s what allows me to coach again, to write again, to live again—not as a shadow of who I was, but as someone reborn through struggle.

Recovery hasn’t given me a perfect life.  It’s given me an honest one. There are still moments of doubt, grief, and fear.  There’s also laughter now.  There’s purpose.  There’s gratitude.  I wake up each morning with a chance to be better than I was yesterday—to show up for my team, for my loved ones, and for myself.  That, to me, is a miracle.

I’ve learned that recovery doesn’t mean I’ll never feel pain again—it means I don’t have to numb it anymore.  I can face life on life’s terms.  I can walk through the storm without needing to escape it.  I can trust that even when the road feels dark, there’s light waiting on the other side.  If there’s one message I could give to anyone still struggling, it would be this: you are not beyond redemption.  No matter how far you’ve fallen, no matter how broken you feel, there’s a way back.  It won’t be easy—it will take courage, honesty, and an open heart—but it’s possible, and that possibility is everything.  Recovery isn’t just about staying sober.  It’s about rediscovering joy.  It’s about learning to love yourself again after years of self-destruction.  It’s about rebuilding trust, not just with others, but with your own soul.

When I look at my life today—the people who stood by me, the ones who gave me a second chance, the young players I coach who look up to me—I realize that every moment of pain led me here.  Every relapse, every detox, every night I thought I wouldn’t make it—it all brought me to this point of clarity and grace.  I used to think recovery was about surviving.  Now I know it’s about living.  Truly living.  With open eyes, with gratitude, and with purpose.  I may always be an addict in recovery, but I’m also a man rebuilding a bridge back to himself—one honest, hopeful, hard-won step 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.