120. The Gift of Ordinary

For most of my life, I ran from the ordinary.  I thought I needed chaos to feel alive—loud nights, louder people, endless motion that drowned out the silence I feared most.  That silence, I know now, was myself.  When I finally stopped running, when the drugs and alcohol stopped working, when the world grew small enough that I couldn’t hide anymore, I came face to face with a truth that nearly broke me: I had built my life around escaping reality, and in doing so, I’d lost the ability to live it.  Recovery, for me, has been about learning how to love the ordinary again.

It didn’t start that way.  It started with pain.  It started in a detox room where the world felt like it was ending.  My body ached, my mind raced, and I felt like I was unraveling from the inside out.  Every part of me screamed to leave, to use, to run back to the familiar poison that once made the pain quiet.  Deep down, under all that noise, there was something small but stubborn—something that whispered, Don’t go back.  Maybe it was hope.  Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was grace.  Whatever it was, I held on to it.

The first few days were a blur of sweat, sleeplessness, and regret.  The walls felt like they were closing in, and every memory that surfaced reminded me of what I’d lost—family, trust, self-respect, time.  Addiction is a thief, but it doesn’t break in all at once.  It creeps in quietly, taking little pieces of you until there’s barely anything left, and when you finally notice what’s missing, it feels too late to get it back.  But recovery teaches you that it’s never too late.  Not for healing.  Not for change.  Not for forgiveness.

The first time I laughed in treatment—really laughed, from my gut—it caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d felt anything that real.  It wasn’t about the joke; it was about connection.  Sitting in a circle with people who understood the wreckage inside me, I felt something shift.  We were all broken in different ways, but we were trying.  And that trying—that willingness to get back up after being beaten down by our addictions—was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

In addiction, I thought I was alone.  In recovery, I learned that loneliness was a lie my disease told me.  The truth is, there are people who will walk with you through the darkness, who will hold you accountable, who will believe in your light even when you can’t see it yourself.  I’ve met those people in rehabs, in meetings, on late-night phone calls when the urge to use feels too strong to bear. These people are my brothers and sisters in this fight, and I owe my life to them.  Still, recovery isn’t all triumph and enlightenment.  Some days, it’s just hard.  Some mornings, I wake up and the shame still tries to crawl back in—the memories of what I did, who I hurt, and the person I became when I was sick.  The difference now is that I don’t let that shame drive me anymore.  I don’t bury it under a bottle or a pill.  I sit with it, I face it, and most importantly, I try to learn from it.

There’s a saying in recovery that goes, “We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.”  It was just another recovery slogan that I used to hate.  How could I not regret the damage I’d done? Over time, I began to understand what that saying really meant.  It’s not about erasing regret—it’s about using it to your advantage.  My past doesn’t define me, but it can teach me.  Every mistake, every relapse, every broken promise—those are the things that remind me why I never want to go back.  They’re not scars of shame anymore. They’re reminders of survival.  Today, recovery looks a lot less like fireworks and a lot more like routine.  It’s making my bed in the morning.  It’s calling someone instead of isolating.  It’s showing up to work, to meetings, and to life.  It’s choosing honesty when lying would be easier. It’s saying “I’m struggling” instead of pretending that everything is fine.  And very slowly, the ordinary has become extraordinary.

I’ve found joy in things I used to overlook—a sunrise, a cup of ice cream, a quiet drive home after a long day of coaching.  I’ve rediscovered what it means to show up for the people who love me.  I’ve learned to look my family in the eyes again without the weight of guilt pressing on my chest.  I’ve learned that being present—really present—is the greatest gift I can give anyone, including myself.  There’s another quote in recovery that I think about often: “Recovery is not about becoming someone new.  It’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t you.”  That’s exactly what it feels like.  It’s peeling back the layers of denial, fear, and self-destruction until you find the person who’s been waiting underneath all along.  The person who loves, who dreams, and who wants to truly live.

I used to think recovery meant getting my old life back.  I don’t want that life anymore.  I want the one I have now—the one built on truth, on gratitude, on second chances.  I want the kind of life that lets me wake up sober and clear-headed, knowing I have the chance to do better today than I did yesterday.  I still have bad days.  I still have moments where the pull of the past feels strong.  I’ve learned that feelings aren’t facts.  Cravings pass.  Shame fades.  What remains is the choice I make each day—to stay sober, to stay grateful, and to keep growing.  Recovery hasn’t given me a perfect life.  It’s given me a real one, and that’s more than enough.

When I look back now, I realize that the greatest miracle of my recovery isn’t that I stopped using—it’s that I started living.  Really living. Feeling everything I used to numb.  Loving people with a full heart.  Facing pain without running from it.  The gift of the ordinary is no small thing.  It’s the sound of laughter echoing through a kitchen.  It’s the peace of lying down at night with nothing to hide.  It’s the simple miracle of being alive, aware, and free.

I used to think I was chasing happiness.  Now, I’m just grateful to be here—to be sober, to be healing, and to be learning what it means to live one honest day at a time. 

That’s recovery.
Not perfection, but progress.
Not grand gestures, but small miracles.
Not the life I once had—but the life I never thought I’d get to live. 

And for that, I’ll stay grateful every single day.

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.