I can’t count the number of times I’ve prayed to get out of trouble.  Not in the way a person of steady faith does, with quiet devotion, but in the frantic, desperate way a man does when he’s cornered, out of options, and terrified of the consequences that are about to come crashing down.  In recovery, we refer to them as “foxhole prayers.”  Just like soldiers pinned down in a battlefield trench, I would suddenly find myself under fire—except my battlefield was addiction, and the bullets were the lies I told, the broken promises, the near overdoses, and the trouble I couldn’t talk my way out of.  Every time I was caught in the wreckage of my own making, I found myself crying out to God, “Please, just get me out of this one.”  That’s the thing about foxhole prayers: they aren’t about faith.  They’re about fear, and fear is something I know well.

Addiction has a way of stripping away the truth and replacing it with illusions.  For years, I believed I had control over what I was putting into my body.  I told myself I knew my substances, my dosages, and my limits.  The reality is, I was gambling with my life every single time I used.  One of the most dangerous illusions I fell victim to was “pressed” pills—the counterfeit tablets made to look like real pharmaceuticals.  Looking back now, from my perspective in recovery, I realize just how close I came to losing everything because of them.

There’s a phrase we hear often in the rooms of recovery: “You’re only as sick as your secrets.”  At first, I brushed it off, the way I used to brush off a lot of things that made me uncomfortable.  When I heard it, I didn’t nod along.  I didn’t smile in agreement.  I got angry.  Because if it was true… then I was terminal.  I didn’t understand the depth of those words—not really.  But as I sit here today, a man in recovery from substance use disorders, I know exactly what they mean, and I’ve learned—sometimes the hardest way possible—that secrets are poison.  And when we keep them, they rot us from the inside out.

There’s a quiet kind of courage in taking your prescribed medications every day.  It’s not flashy, it doesn’t earn applause, and no one’s giving you a medal.  For someone like me—an addict in recovery who also battles major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and generalized anxiety—taking my prescribed medications is nothing short of lifesaving.  It's a decision I make every day that keeps me grounded, breathing, and able to show up in the world with some sense of peace.

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.

To the graduates of Goshen Central High School: I stand before you not as someone who’s had a perfect life, but as someone who’s stumbled, fallen, and fought to stand up again.  I’m an addict in recovery, and I’ve learned lessons the hard way.  I share these with you today not to scare you, but to show you that no matter how far you fall, there’s a way back—and sometimes, you can spare yourself a lot of pain by listening to someone who’s already walked through fire.

In the rooms of recovery, there's a phrase we hear often: “rewind the tape.”  It’s a simple concept, but for those of us in the thick of addiction, it’s a lifesaving tool.  It's the act of mentally playing out the full story of what would happen if we picked up again—the bitter truth that lives on the other side of our disease.  We rewind the tape not just to remember our lowest moments, but to feel them, to sit in them long enough that we don’t make the mistake of going back out into active addiction.  I’ve had to rewind that tape more times than I can count, and each time I do, I remember a version of myself I never want to meet again.

It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it—how the chaos of addiction can feel like comfort, how the very thing that’s killing you can feel like your only friend.  When I was using, there were days I felt invincible.  High.  Numb.  Disconnected from the world and from the brokenness inside me.  I had days where I laughed with people I hardly knew, turned up the music, numbed the pain, and convinced myself I was fine.  But all of those days, those so-called “good” days, were built on lies.  The truth is, even at its best, my using life was slowly taking everything from me.

Last night, I took my youth boys soccer team to a semi-pro match not far from home.  It was one of those clear, golden summer evenings where the setting sun makes everything feel just a little more magical.  The kids were excited—laughing, goofing off, buzzing with that boundless energy only young people seem to have.  I was grateful to be with them, to be coaching again, to be trusted enough to guide these boys not only in soccer, but in life.  Beneath that gratitude was a quiet storm I didn’t anticipate until we got to the stadium.

One hundred weeks.  That’s how long I’ve been writing for the Independent Republican.  Week after week, for nearly two years, I have poured my thoughts, my struggles, and my triumphs onto paper.  What started as a way to express myself has become something so much greater—a source of healing, a testament to resilience, and a bridge between me and a community I never imagined would rally behind me.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “You don’t have to see the whole staircase.  Just take the first step.”  In the context of recovery, these words have become more than a slogan—they’ve become a lifeline.  They are a gentle whisper in the chaos, a reminder in the darkness that even if I can't see the end of this road, I can still begin moving forward.  For someone like me—an addict in recovery—those words have saved my life more than once.

Validation is oxygen to the fragile lungs of my spirit.  Before the first pill touched my palm or the first bottle kissed my lips, I was already starving for the simple proof that I mattered.  I looked for it everywhere—in my mother’s moments of approval, in the roaring bleachers when I scored the winning goal as a teenager.  Each nod of praise felt like sunlight, and each moment without it felt like the dead of night.

There’s a phrase I used to hear in meetings that I didn’t really understand at first: “Live life on life’s terms.”  It sounded like just another cliché, one of those sayings people toss around without much thought, but the longer I’ve been in recovery, and the more pain and healing I’ve walked through, the more I realize how much power—and how much truth—is packed into that simple line.

There was a time in my life when I thought perfection was the only acceptable goal.  Anything less felt like failure.  That mindset nearly destroyed me.  As an addict, I clung to the illusion that I had to be all or nothing — either I was completely healed and "fixed," or I was broken beyond repair.  I now understand that this thinking was not only flawed, but deadly.  The recovery slogan "progress, not perfection" didn’t mean much to me in the beginning.  It sounded like a cute little catchphrase people said in meetings — something stitched on a pillow or printed on a magnet, but over time, I’ve come to see that those three words carry a depth and truth that have saved my life more times than I can count.

I recently wrote a letter to a grieving mother whose daughter was a childhood friend of mine.  We grew up together, and as we got older, we found ourselves walking a similarly painful path — both of us struggling with the heavy, relentless grip of addiction.  I wrote the letter because I needed her mother to know that her daughter wasn’t just another life lost to this disease; she was someone who mattered deeply, someone who fought harder than most people will ever understand.

Six years ago, I spent Easter not at a family table filled with laughter and love, but in a freezing, fluorescent-lit jail cell, shivering and shaking my way through a cold-turkey detox from alcohol and Benzodiazepines.  The Orange County Jail doesn’t decorate for the holidays.  The Easter Bunny doesn’t make pit stops behind bars.  There were no hidden eggs or chocolate baskets—just concrete, steel, and the crushing realization that my life had completely unraveled.

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.

For a long time, I lived in shame.  I walked through life with my head down, crushed under the weight of judgment—not just from others, but from myself.  I was labeled an addict, a screw-up, a disappointment.  For years, I believed that label.  I thought I was weak, broken, and incapable of making the "right" choices.   People told me to just stop, to get it together, to think about my family, my job, and my future.  But they didn’t understand what I was up against.  They didn’t know the war raging inside my body and mind.  Addiction isn’t just a bad habit or a series of poor decisions. Addiction is a disease, and I didn’t choose it—it chose me.

In the depths of addiction, I never needed a grand reason to use.  I convinced myself that any excuse was good enough—a bad day, a good day, no reason at all.  But in recovery, I’ve come to understand that certain triggers pull at me like an undertow, trying to drag me back into the current I fought so hard to escape.  Those triggers are summed up in a simple but powerful acronym: H.A.L.T. Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.  Four words, four states of being that have nearly brought me to my knees more times than I can count.  Four enemies I now battle every day to keep from losing everything again.

One year. 365 days of complete abstinence from any mood- or mind-altering substances. It hasn’t been easy, but I made it. This milestone means more to me than any birthday I’ve ever celebrated. A year ago, I was trapped in the relentless grip of addiction. Today, I stand free. This is a letter I wrote to myself—a reflection on the challenges, growth, and transformation of the past year. It hasn’t been easy, by any means, but I did it. Here’s to the future.