114. Humility in Recovery
When I first heard the word “humility” in treatment, I’ll be honest—it rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t think it applied to me. In my mind, humility meant weakness, submission, or lowering myself beneath others. I already felt broken enough, so why would I want more of that? What I didn’t understand then—and what I’ve slowly come to learn through my journey in recovery—is that humility is not about weakness at all. Humility is about truth. It’s about seeing myself clearly: not better than anyone else, not worse than anyone else, but as I truly am. For someone like me, who spent years hiding behind lies, masks, and substances, that realization has been life-changing.
When I first heard the word “humility” in treatment, I’ll be honest—it rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t think it applied to me. In my mind, humility meant weakness, submission, or lowering myself beneath others. I already felt broken enough, so why would I want more of that? What I didn’t understand then—and what I’ve slowly come to learn through my journey in recovery—is that humility is not about weakness at all. Humility is about truth. It’s about seeing myself clearly: not better than anyone else, not worse than anyone else, but as I truly am. For someone like me, who spent years hiding behind lies, masks, and substances, that realization has been life-changing.
Addiction is the opposite of humility. At its core, addiction thrives on arrogance, denial, and self-deception. I used to think I could control it, that I could outsmart it, and that I didn’t need help. I told myself I was different, that I wasn’t “as bad” as the people I saw on the street or in rehab. My pride whispered that I was still in charge, even as everything around me crumbled—my health, my relationships, my dignity. Humility wasn’t in my vocabulary back then. I thought asking for help was a sign of failure. In reality, my refusal to humble myself was what kept me chained to the bottle, to the pills, and to the lies.
The first time I truly tasted humility was the day I admitted I was powerless. I walked into detox shaking, sweating, and sick beyond words. I remember lying in that bed, realizing that I wasn’t in control anymore. That moment was humiliating, but it was also the first step toward humility. There’s a huge difference between the two. Humiliation breaks you down while humility builds you up—but it builds you up in truth. Humility was me finally saying, “I can’t do this alone. I need help.” And for someone like me, those words were a miracle.
Recovery has taught me that humility is not just about admitting my weaknesses—it’s also about accepting my humanity. I used to live in extremes. Either I thought I was invincible, or I thought I was worthless. Humility has shown me that I am neither. I am simply human, capable of good and bad, strength and weakness, and that’s okay. In fact, that’s enough. Humility shows up in my daily life in ways I never expected. It’s there when I sit in a meeting and listen instead of talking. It’s there when I admit to my counselor that I’m struggling, instead of pretending everything is fine. It’s there when I call a friend to apologize for the damage I’ve caused. It’s even there when I look in the mirror and decide to forgive myself for my past mistakes. Humility is not about groveling or living in shame. It’s about honesty, openness, and the willingness to keep learning.
There’s a saying in recovery: “Pride leads to relapse.” I’ve seen it happen. I’ve felt it in myself. The moment I start thinking I’ve got this all figured out, that I don’t need meetings, that I don’t need to pray, that I don’t need to stay connected—that’s the moment I’m in imminent danger. My pride is deadly. My humility, on the other hand, keeps me alive. Humility reminds me that I’m one drink, one pill, one bad decision away from losing everything again. It grounds me. It makes me reach for the phone when I’d rather isolate. It makes me admit when I’m wrong before resentment has the chance to grow.
Humility also plays a huge role in making amends. Facing the people I hurt was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every instinct in me wanted to hide, to justify, to downplay, but humility pushed me to own my actions fully, without excuses. To look into the eyes of the people I love and say, “I was wrong. I hurt you. I’m sorry.” That kind of honesty is terrifying, but it’s also freeing. Humility healed relationships that I thought were beyond repair. Even in the cases where forgiveness didn’t come, humility allowed me to find peace.
Perhaps the most beautiful gift humility has given me is gratitude. When I was in active addiction, I felt entitled to everything and grateful for nothing. I thought the world owed me something. Now, I see life for what it is—a gift. I don’t deserve the second chances I’ve been given, yet here they are. I don’t deserve the love my family still shows me, yet they’re still here. Humility opens my eyes to these blessings. It reminds me to say thank you to my higher power, to others, and even to myself for choosing recovery one more day. Humility does not mean I am weak. In fact, it takes more strength to live humbly than it ever took to live arrogantly. Anyone can puff out their chest and pretend they’re fine. It takes real courage to admit you’re not. It takes courage to ask for help, to show up to meetings, to share your story, to start over. Humility is the foundation of my recovery because it keeps me teachable. The moment I stop being teachable, I stop growing, and if I stop growing, I start dying.
Today, humility is not a burden—it’s a gift. It doesn’t lower me; it frees me. It frees me from the lies I used to tell myself. It frees me from the need to be perfect. It frees me from the chains of pride that nearly killed me. Humility allows me to walk this path of recovery with honesty, with openness, and with hope. I am an addict in recovery, and I am learning every day what humility truly means. It’s not about being less than others. It’s about being real. It’s about admitting that I need help, that I make mistakes, that I can’t do this alone. And most importantly, humility reminds me that as long as I remain open, honest, and willing, there is hope—for healing, for growth, and for life.
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.
113. The Hobbies That Gave My Life Back
When I first stepped into recovery, I thought sobriety would mean a life stripped down, empty, and dull. I believed that without the substances, there would be nothing left to fill the void—the silence would swallow me whole. Addiction had consumed so much of my life, my time, and my identity that I had forgotten what it meant to enjoy something for the simple sake of enjoyment. What I’ve learned is that in recovery, finding and nurturing hobbies isn’t just a way to pass the time—it’s a lifeline. It’s a way to rediscover who I am beyond the addict.
When I first stepped into recovery, I thought sobriety would mean a life stripped down, empty, and dull. I believed that without the substances, there would be nothing left to fill the void—the silence would swallow me whole. Addiction had consumed so much of my life, my time, and my identity that I had forgotten what it meant to enjoy something for the simple sake of enjoyment. What I’ve learned is that in recovery, finding and nurturing hobbies isn’t just a way to pass the time—it’s a lifeline. It’s a way to rediscover who I am beyond the addict.
For years, my days and nights were dictated by one obsession: using. Every decision I made revolved around how I was going to get the next high, and everything else—family, work, my own passions—fell by the wayside. When I began recovery, I was terrified of the emptiness that came with putting drugs down. I was scared of the stillness, because in that stillness I’d be left alone with myself and the wreckage of what I had done. But in that emptiness, I’ve been given the chance to rebuild myself piece by piece. Hobbies, the little things that once seemed so ordinary, have become extraordinary sources of healing for me.
Take reading, for example. When I was in active addiction, books collected dust on shelves, ignored and forgotten. I didn’t have the patience or clarity of mind to read even a few pages of any book or magazine. My attention span was wrecked, and the only thing I cared to focus on was my next fix. Now, reading has become a way to quiet the chaos in my head. When I pick up a book, I can step into another world for a while, one that isn’t filled with pain and regret, but with imagination, growth, and perspective. Every chapter reminds me that my mind still has value, that I can still focus, still learn, still dream. Even more than that, reading teaches me patience—something I’ve never been very good at. Addiction was all about instant gratification. Sobriety, and the simple act of turning pages, has taught me to slow down, to take things one step, one word, one day at a time.
Movies, too, have taken on a new meaning in my recovery. They are no longer just background noise to numb myself or fill the silence in a dark room. Now, when I sit down to watch a film, I’m able to feel the emotions, to connect with the characters, to allow myself to be moved. Movies let me laugh when I need to laugh. They remind me of the beauty in storytelling, of how pain and triumph weave together into something worth experiencing. In many ways, movies have mirrored my own recovery journey—messy, heartbreaking at times, but ultimately filled with hope. They’ve shown me that even the broken can find redemption, that even the flawed can be loved, and that every good story is about getting back up after the fall.
Sports have always been a part of my life, but in addiction, even that passion began to fade. Games that once thrilled me became background noise. I would watch, but I wouldn’t feel. I was there in body, but never in spirit. Recovery has given that passion back to me. Attending a sporting event or even just watching a game on TV fills me with a sense of belonging, of shared excitement and unity. Sports are one of those rare things that can bring strangers together, and for someone who has felt isolated for so long, that matters. It’s more than just a score or a team—it’s the feeling of being alive, of being connected to something larger than myself. When the crowd roars, when the underdog makes a comeback, I feel a surge of hope in my own chest. Sports remind me that no matter how far down I’ve gone, there is always a chance to fight back.
Last but not least, coaching soccer—that’s the one hobby that has truly changed the way I see myself in recovery. Addiction robbed me of my confidence, my sense of purpose, and my ability to believe I could be a role model. When I coach, I get to give back, to pour into the lives of young athletes the lessons I wish I had learned earlier. It’s not just about drills or winning games—it’s about teaching resilience, teamwork, and discipline, all values I’ve had to relearn in my own recovery. When I step onto the field, I am reminded that I am not defined by my past failures. I am someone who can inspire, encourage, and lead. Coaching has become more than a hobby—it’s a symbol of redemption. It’s living proof that I can take the pain of my past and turn it into something good for someone else.
I won’t pretend it’s always easy. There are days when the cravings creep in or the depression whispers in my ear, telling me I’ll never be enough, that I’ll always fall back. On those days, it would be easy to lie down and surrender. But having hobbies gives me something to turn to. They give me a way to fight back against the darkness. A book can distract me. A movie can comfort me. A sporting event can excite me. A practice with my teams can give me purpose. These aren’t just hobbies. They’re anchors. They keep me grounded when the storm tries to drag me away.
One of the hardest truths about recovery is this: it’s not just about not using. If recovery were only about putting the drugs down, I don’t know if I would have made it this far. Recovery is about building a life worth staying sober for. Without hobbies, without passions, without things that bring me joy, sobriety would feel like a punishment. But with them, sobriety feels like freedom. My hobbies are the bricks that help me lay down that new foundation. They give me joy, purpose, and healing. They remind me that I am not just an addict trying to survive—I am a human being learning how to live again. And maybe the most powerful part is this: every time I open a book, watch a movie, cheer for a team, or coach a group of kids, I am proving to myself that I don’t need drugs to feel alive. I don’t need substances to feel joy. I don’t need to escape reality because reality, with all its ups and downs, is enough. Hobbies have given me my life back. They’ve given me myself back. And for someone like me, who once thought all was lost, that is nothing short of a miracle.
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.
112. Learning to Feel Again
When I arrived at Bon Secours Hospital, I didn’t walk through the doors so much as collapse into them. My body came first—shaking, exhausted, chemically broken—but my mind followed close behind, dragging years of guilt, fear, and regret like a bag I could no longer carry on my own. I told myself I was coming for detox. Just detox. As if I could separate the physical from the emotional, as if my addiction had ever been that simple.
When I arrived at Bon Secours Hospital, I didn’t walk through the doors so much as collapse into them. My body came first—shaking, exhausted, chemically broken—but my mind followed close behind, dragging years of guilt, fear, and regret like a bag I could no longer carry on my own. I told myself I was coming for detox. Just detox. As if I could separate the physical from the emotional, as if my addiction had ever been that simple.
The first emotion that hit me was fear. Not the dramatic kind people imagine, but a quiet, suffocating fear that settled in my chest and refused to leave. Fear of withdrawal. Fear of what the next few days would feel like. Fear of what I had done to myself—again. Deeper than that was the fear of being alone with my thoughts. For years, substances had acted as my shield, my escape hatch. Now they were gone, and there was nowhere left to hide.
As the medications began to stabilize my body, my emotions did the opposite. They came in waves—relentless and unforgiving. Shame was one of the loudest. It followed me down the hospital hallways and sat with me in my room at night. Shame for relapsing after knowing better. Shame for hurting the people who love me. Shame for once again becoming the version of myself I promised I would never be again. In rehab, there’s no distraction strong enough to drown that out. You feel it fully, you sit with it, and some days, it feels unbearable.
Then came grief. Real, aching grief—not just for the damage I caused recently, but for everything addiction has stolen from me over the years. Lost time. Missed moments. Broken trust. Versions of myself I’ll never get back. Lying in a hospital bed, I grieved the person I might have been if addiction hadn’t entered my life so early and stayed so long. That grief didn’t ask permission. It just arrived, heavy and unannounced, and demanded to be felt.
Anger showed up, too. Anger at myself for not being stronger. Anger at addiction for being so relentless. Anger at the false hope I gave myself—that I could control it this time, that it would somehow be different. In those early days, anger felt easier than vulnerability. It gave me something sharp to hold onto when everything else felt soft and exposed.
Rehab has a way of peeling back layers, whether you’re ready or not. Beneath the anger and shame, I found sadness so deep it scared me. A sadness rooted in loneliness—the kind that exists even when people are around. Even when nurses check on you. Even when counselors listen. Addiction isolates you in ways that are hard to explain. Sitting in that sadness forced me to acknowledge how disconnected I had become, not just from others, but from myself.
There were moments of despair when hope felt like a foreign concept. Nights where sleep wouldn’t come, and mornings I dreaded waking up to another day of fighting my own mind. I questioned whether I had it in me to do this again. Whether I deserved another chance. Whether recovery was something meant for people like me, or something I’d always reach for but never quite hold.
Yet—somewhere in the middle of all that pain—something unexpected began to surface. Relief. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to lie about how I was feeling or hide how bad things had gotten. In rehab, the truth is allowed to exist. Admitting that I was broken didn’t destroy me—it freed me. There was relief in being honest, in finally saying out loud what I had been trying to outrun for so long.
With that relief came moments of clarity. Short, fragile moments—but real ones. I began to see how exhaustion had driven my choices. How untreated pain had disguised itself as strength. How desperately I had been trying to survive instead of living. Rehab slowed everything down enough for me to actually look at my life, and while that was terrifying, it was also necessary.
Hope arrived quietly. It didn’t kick down the door or make bold promises. It whispered instead. It showed up in small ways—in a conversation with a counselor, in a shared story during group, in the realization that I wasn’t the only one who felt this broken. Hope didn’t erase my past, but it reminded me that my story isn’t finished yet.
There is still fear. There is still shame. Recovery doesn’t magically remove those emotions, but here at Bon Secours, I’m learning that emotions aren’t enemies—they’re messengers. They’re telling me what needs healing. They’re proof that I’m still human, still capable of feeling, still alive. Some days, I feel strong. Other days, I feel like I’m barely holding myself together, but for the first time in a long time, I’m showing up anyway. I’m staying. I’m not running. That, in itself, feels like an act of courage. Rehab has stripped me down to my most vulnerable state, and while that’s uncomfortable, it’s also honest. I’m learning that recovery isn’t about perfection—it’s about willingness. Willingness to feel. Willingness to stay. Willingness to believe that even after everything, I am still worth saving. I came here to detox my body. What I didn’t expect was how much my heart would need it too.
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.
111. The Setback That Won’t Define Me
When I began writing for the Goshen Independent Republican more than two years ago, I made a promise to myself—one that felt small at the time, but has grown into the backbone of every word I’ve published. That promise was simple: Tell the truth. Tell the truth about my recovery—the good, the bad, and the parts I wish I could forget. Tell the truth even when it’s humiliating. Even when it exposes every flaw I’ve tried to hide. Even when it makes my hands shake over the keyboard. I’ve kept that promise every single week. It has not been easy. In fact, some weeks have felt like walking barefoot over broken glass just to hand you, the reader, a piece of my heart. Sugarcoating my story, or skipping the parts that make me uncomfortable, would defeat the entire purpose of why I write these columns at all. My purpose has always been to let you see what addiction and recovery actually look like—not the Hollywood version, not the whispered-around-the-dinner-table version, but the real thing. The raw thing. The thing that too many people are terrified to talk about. Addiction thrives on silence. Shame keeps people sick, and I refuse to be a participant in that silence.
When I began writing for the Goshen Independent Republican more than two years ago, I made a promise to myself—one that felt small at the time, but has grown into the backbone of every word I’ve published. That promise was simple: Tell the truth. Tell the truth about my recovery—the good, the bad, and the parts I wish I could forget. Tell the truth even when it’s humiliating. Even when it exposes every flaw I’ve tried to hide. Even when it makes my hands shake over the keyboard. I’ve kept that promise every single week. It has not been easy. In fact, some weeks have felt like walking barefoot over broken glass just to hand you, the reader, a piece of my heart. Sugarcoating my story, or skipping the parts that make me uncomfortable, would defeat the entire purpose of why I write these columns at all. My purpose has always been to let you see what addiction and recovery actually look like—not the Hollywood version, not the whispered-around-the-dinner-table version, but the real thing. The raw thing. The thing that too many people are terrified to talk about. Addiction thrives on silence. Shame keeps people sick, and I refuse to be a participant in that silence.
I have done many things in my addiction that I am not proud of. Some that still wake me up at night, but they are part of my story, and pretending otherwise doesn’t erase them—it only buries them deeper, where they grow in the dark. I won’t let that happen anymore. And with that honesty comes this: I owe you an explanation for my absence over the past four weeks.
On November 26th—one day before Thanksgiving—I checked myself into Bon Secours Hospital in Port Jervis for detox and rehab. I had relapsed roughly two or three weeks before that. I wish I could tell you the exact day it happened, but I can’t. The days blur when you’re spiraling, and the calendar becomes something other people use.
I can tell you exactly what triggered it. A couple of weeks earlier, I was cleaning out my closet, trying to declutter. In the back corner—tucked away like a landmine—I found an empty bottle from a past relapse. It was bone-dry. Not a drop inside, but somehow, that empty bottle had more power over me than a full one ever could. It planted a seed that I didn’t notice at first… and then I did. Then I ignored it, and then—I let it grow. That night I went to bed, but the bottle lay awake in my mind. I woke up four, five, six times, and each time the same thought hit me like a hammer: You know what that felt like. You know what that tasted like. By morning, the seed that had been planted the day before had grown into a full-grown oak tree, its roots wrapped around every decision I made.
In recovery, they often say, “An addict relapses before they actually relapse.” I never fully understood that—until that morning. I got dressed. I planned my day. I told myself I was fine, but I knew exactly where I’d end up after running my errands. I knew I was going to drink. At the time, I convinced myself it would only be that day—just one break in the dam, just one moment of escape, but addiction doesn’t bargain. Addiction doesn’t negotiate. Addiction doesn’t say “just once.” Addiction says, “Welcome back.”
I went to the gas station and restocked on the exact same booze as the bottle I had found. Within days, three to four bottles became seven to eight. Within weeks, I was right back where I had left off. They say addiction picks up exactly where it paused, never where it started—and that has never felt more true. Every night during that stretch, I went to sleep promising myself I wouldn’t drink the next day, and every morning, addiction reminded me it was stronger than promises said in a whisper to the dark. Eventually, after nearly a month of spiraling, I found the strength—or maybe the desperation—to admit myself into detox. And thank God I did.
Two days into my detox, I had a seizure. I was standing in the hallway near the nurses’ station when everything went white. I collapsed, splitting my chin on the counter before my head slammed into the floor. When I woke up, dazed and bleeding, the first emotion I felt wasn’t fear—it was shame. Shame that I had let myself get so sick again. Shame that I had put myself in that position. Shame that the people who care about me had to watch me fall—again. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. Truly lucky.
Now I’m here, working closely with doctors, nurses, and counselors, trying to build my coping skills back up so that when I leave—just before the holidays—I’m not stepping outside defenseless. I’m disappointed in myself. I won’t pretend otherwise. I feel like I’ve let my family down, my friends down, my readers down—you down. And for that, I am deeply sorry.
There are no excuses for my relapse. Only an explanation—and the truth. One small moment of weakness snowballed into something massive, something uncontrollable. Addiction is powerful in a way that’s nearly impossible to put into words. Unless you’ve lived it, you can’t fully understand it—and I pray you never have to. I am starting over. Again, but I believe—more than ever—that I can come back stronger than before. That this setback is not the end of my story, but a painful reminder of why recovery requires vigilance, humility, and honesty every single day.
Just yesterday, I walked out of Bon Secours into a world full of holiday lights, family gatherings, and temptations. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Fear is normal. Nerves are normal, but hope is normal too, and I have hope once again.
As I prepare to rejoin my family and step back into my life, I want to apologize once more—to the people who love me, to the people who support me, and to the people who read these columns not just for entertainment, but because they see pieces of themselves in my story. I’m sorry, but I’m not giving up. This relapse is a chapter—not the conclusion, and I am gearing up, right now, for the comeback I know I’m capable of.
Thank you for sticking with me. Thank you for still believing in me, even on the days when I struggle to believe in myself. I promise—I’m going to rise from this, and when I do, I’ll tell you the truth about that, too.
Wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas and a safe, happy holiday season!
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.
110. From Obsession to Hope
James Frey’s book A Million Little Pieces is a raw, unflinching story about a young man’s struggle with addiction and his fight to claw his way back from the depths of self-destruction. The book does not sugarcoat the brutal realities of substance abuse, nor does it dress up addiction as something glamorous or mysterious. Instead, it exposes the pain, the suffering, and the daily war addicts face against themselves. When I first read Frey’s words, I felt like he was describing my own life with haunting accuracy. There’s a quote from that book that I can’t shake. It rattles around inside me because it doesn’t just describe Frey’s life—it describes mine, and the lives of so many others I’ve met along the way.
James Frey’s book A Million Little Pieces is a raw, unflinching story about a young man’s struggle with addiction and his fight to claw his way back from the depths of self-destruction. The book does not sugarcoat the brutal realities of substance abuse, nor does it dress up addiction as something glamorous or mysterious. Instead, it exposes the pain, the suffering, and the daily war addicts face against themselves. When I first read Frey’s words, I felt like he was describing my own life with haunting accuracy. There’s a quote from that book that I can’t shake. It rattles around inside me because it doesn’t just describe Frey’s life—it describes mine, and the lives of so many others I’ve met along the way. It’s one of the most accurate depictions of what addiction really is:
“An addict is an addict. It doesn’t matter whether the addict is white, black, yellow or green, rich or poor or somewhere in the middle, the most famous person on the planet or the most unknown. It doesn’t matter whether the addiction is drugs, alcohol, crime, sex, shopping, food, gambling, television, or the (expletive) Flinstones. The life of an addict is always the same. There is no excitement, no glamour, no fun. There are no good times, there is no joy, there is no happiness. There is no future and no escape. There is only an obsession. An all-encompassing, fully enveloping, completely overwhelming obsession.”
That word—obsession—stops me every time I read it because that’s what it is. Addiction isn’t just about the substance or the behavior. It’s about the way it grabs hold of your mind and refuses to let go.
I used to believe there was something exciting about the life I was living. The parties, the late nights, the reckless choices—I thought they made me interesting. The truth is that addiction is boring. It’s repetitive. When I look back at my own addiction, I can’t point to much excitement or glamour, even though I once believed it was there. What I see now is a cycle that repeated itself every day: waking up sick, scrambling to find a way to use, promising myself I’d stop tomorrow, then breaking that promise by the evening. It’s a cycle of lies you tell yourself and lies you tell others, just to keep the obsession fed.
Frey is right—there’s no joy in that life. Sure, there were fleeting moments when I thought I was having fun, but those moments never lasted. They were quickly replaced by shame, regret, and the quiet, suffocating weight of knowing I was letting everyone down, including myself.
And the part about addiction not discriminating? That one hits home, too. In rehab, I’ve sat beside people from every background imaginable. I’ve sat beside businessmen, mothers, kids barely out of high school, and grandparents who’d lost it all. It didn’t matter if they had money or nothing at all, a fancy title or no job to their name. Addiction didn’t care. We all ended up in the same chairs, wearing the same paper-thin hospital gowns, sweating out the same poisons. That’s what makes Frey’s words so powerful: he strips away all the differences and shows us the ugly truth that addiction looks the same no matter who you are.
I used to tell myself I was different. That my situation was unique, that no one could possibly understand the reasons I used the way I did. The truth is, I wasn’t different. I was just another person caught in the same obsession that’s destroyed so many lives. Addiction is the great equalizer. The details might look different, but the feelings are the same: the emptiness, the shame, the desperation. That realization was hard to swallow, but it also opened the door to my recovery. Because here’s the other side of it: while addiction may not discriminate, neither does recovery. The same way I’ve sat beside people from all walks of life in treatment, I’ve also sat beside them in recovery rooms, and what ties us together isn’t the shame of where we’ve been—it’s the hope of where we’re going.
Today, when I hear that word obsession, it reminds me not only of the darkness I came from. It also pushes me to stay focused on the light I’ve found. Recovery takes that same energy I once poured into feeding my addiction and gives me a chance to pour it into something better: connection, honesty, service, and growth. That doesn’t mean the whispers of addiction don’t still creep in. They do. There are days when the thought slips in—“maybe just once.” But I’ve lived that lie long enough to know it doesn’t end with just once. It ends with me right back in the same cycle, right back in the obsession. So, I keep doing the work, one day at a time, to stay free from the grips of addiction.
Frey’s words remind me of where I’ve been, but they also remind me of why I can’t go back. Addiction promises everything—excitement, escape, relief—but delivers nothing but emptiness. Recovery, on the other hand, doesn’t promise perfection. It promises honesty. It promises a chance at real connection, at building a life where joy and peace aren’t just fleeting moments but something steady, something worth holding onto, and that’s what I’m fighting for today.
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.
109. Foxhole Prayers: My Journey from Desperation to Real Faith
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.
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.
I remember one night, in particular, when everything came to a head. I was sitting in my car, my body trembling from withdrawal, my mind screaming for just one more pill. I had burned through every dollar I had and every relationship that once meant something to me. I was staring at a handful of pressed pills I knew could be poison, but at that moment, I didn’t care. Pressed pills are counterfeit pills, made to look like real prescription medications, but often laced with deadly substances like Fentanyl. I knew that, and yet the craving drowned out the fear. My life felt like nothing but a long series of broken chances. In my desperation, I whispered, “God, please don’t let me die like this. Just help me get through tonight.” That was the kind of prayer I was good at—the bargaining kind. I’d say, “If you help me this one time, I promise I’ll change.” Very rarely, in ways I still can’t explain, the storm would pass. I wouldn’t overdose. I’d make it home. The cops would drive past me instead of pulling me over. The lie I told wouldn’t come to light that day. Every time I survived, I convinced myself it was luck—or worse, I’d take the grace I had been given and throw it away on more using. My prayers were never followed by action. They were escape hatches, not turning points.
I suppose you can say that foxhole prayers kept me alive, but they also kept me sick because every time I used one, I thought I could bargain my way through life. I thought I could manipulate my higher power the way I manipulated people. I treated prayer like a get-out-of-jail-free card. I wasn’t building a relationship with a higher power—I was exploiting it, just like I did with everyone else who tried to help me. And over time, that hypocrisy ate at me. Every foxhole prayer was proof of how broken I had become.
The truth is, I didn’t want to change. I wanted relief without responsibility. I wanted forgiveness without surrender. I wanted freedom without doing the work to earn it. And so, I stayed stuck in the vicious cycle of addiction—using, crashing, praying, and then using again.
When I finally entered recovery, I brought that same mindset with me. I thought to my higher power, “Okay, I showed up. Now fix me.” Recovery doesn’t work like that. Change doesn’t come because we beg for it—it comes because we surrender to it. For the first time, I began to learn the difference between a foxhole prayer and a real prayer.
In treatment, I heard other people share about their higher power. Some spoke with a kind of peace I didn’t understand. They weren’t begging their higher power to save them from the mess they created yesterday. They were asking their higher power to guide them today. That shift—from crisis to daily connection—was something I had never known. I remember one night in rehab when I finally broke down. I had been lying in bed for hours, sweating and shaking through withdrawal, my mind racing with shame. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t stop thinking about how badly I had ruined my life. For the first time, I didn’t bargain with my higher power. I didn’t say, “Get me out of here.” I whispered, “God, please help me stay. Help me face this.” It wasn’t a cry to escape the pain—it was a plea for the strength to walk through it. That prayer felt different. It wasn’t born out of fear—it was born out of surrender. That’s the night I believe my recovery journey truly began.
Recovery has taught me how to pray differently. My prayers aren’t bargains anymore; they’re more like conversations. Some days they’re simple: “God, help me stay sober just for today.” Other days, they’re raw: “God, I don’t know if I can keep doing this, but I’ll trust you anyway.” I still get scared, I still feel lost sometimes, but I no longer wait until the bullets are flying to get on my knees and pray.
The foxhole prayers of my past were rooted in fear of dying. The prayers I say today are rooted in hope for living. That’s the difference. Looking back, I see those foxhole prayers in a new light. They weren’t worthless. They were the cries of a broken man who didn’t know how else to reach out to his higher power. They were clumsy, selfish, and desperate—but they were also proof that somewhere deep inside me, I still believed there was something greater than myself. If I hadn’t whispered those frantic words into the dark, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be here to write this.
Today, my faith can’t just live in the foxhole. It has to live in the sunlight, in the ordinary, in the daily grind of recovery. I can’t wait until I’m cornered to reach out to my higher power. I need it in the morning before my feet hit the floor. I need it when I feel resentful in a meeting. I need it when I hug my family and realize how close I came to losing them forever. I need it not just in moments of desperation, but in moments of gratitude. Foxhole prayers remind me of who I was. Real prayers remind me of who I’m becoming.
Today, when I pray, I don’t ask my higher power to get me out of trouble—I ask it to keep me honest, so I don’t get into any trouble. I don’t ask it to erase the consequences of my actions—I ask it to give me the courage to face them. I don’t beg it to change the world around me—I ask it to change ME. That’s a prayer recovery has taught me to say.
If you’re reading this and you’re still stuck in the cycle of foxhole prayers, I want you to know something: those prayers mean something. They mean there’s still a part of you that hasn’t given up. But please don’t stop there. Don’t stay in the foxhole. Let those desperate cries become the beginning of a real conversation with a higher power who doesn’t just want to save you from trouble— it wants to walk with you into freedom. For me, prayer isn’t about escaping anymore. It’s about living, and in that shift, I’ve found a peace that I never thought was possible when I was whispering frantic bargains into the night.
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.
108. The Deadly Illusion of Pressed Pills
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.
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.
Pressed pills are designed to fool you. They look like Xanax, Oxycodone, Percocet, and many others—medications that come from a pharmacy and carry an illusion of safety. What’s inside is rarely what the stamp on the pill claims. Dealers and manufacturers press these pills with cheap fillers and, all too often, with Fentanyl—a synthetic opioid so powerful that just a few grains can kill. I didn’t know this when I was in the depths of my addiction, or maybe I just didn’t care. The truth is, I thought I was using something familiar. Something I had used before. Something “safe” in the twisted world of addiction. Boy, was I wrong.
I remember one night vividly, though so much of my using years is a blur. I had bought what I thought were Xanax bars. They looked perfect—clean cut, same shape and markings as the real thing. I didn’t question it. My withdrawals had been creeping in hard, and my anxiety was screaming at me. I thought if I could just numb out for a little while, I could breathe again. I swallowed them like I had so many times before. Within an hour, I was on another planet. My body felt heavier than usual, my breathing shallow, my memory slipping in and out. I told myself, “These must just be strong.” Deep down, a part of me knew something wasn’t right. Still, I kept using them because I was desperate to escape.
That desperation almost killed me more than once. What I thought was Xanax was laced with fentanyl. I didn’t know it then, but every time I took one of those pressed pills, I was rolling the dice with my life. And for what? For a high that only lasted a few hours, followed by shame, sickness, and the never-ending cycle of needing more.
The moment I truly understood the danger came later, when I entered rehab. Walking into treatment was terrifying on its own. I felt stripped of everything—my substances, my crutches, my lies. On my first day, they asked me to take a urine test. I complied, not thinking much of it, because I was convinced I already knew what would show up: Benzodiazepines from all the “Xanax” I’d been using. When the results came back, my world stopped. The counselor sat across from me and told me, “You’re positive for Fentanyl.” I stared at him in disbelief. “No,” I argued. “That’s not possible. I’ve only been using Xanax.” My voice shook, part anger, part confusion, and part fear. He looked at me with compassion but also with firmness. “What you thought was Xanax bars most definitely wasn’t Xanax. They were actually pressed pills.”
In that moment, the denial I had been living in cracked wide open. I realized I hadn’t just been numbing myself—I had been poisoning myself. Every pill I thought was calming my anxiety had actually been a loaded gun. I could have overdosed at any moment, and the terrifying part is, I wouldn’t have even known why.
That discovery shook me to my core. It wasn’t just about getting clean anymore; it was about facing the truth that I had been inches away from death without even realizing it. It was about admitting that my addiction had blinded me so deeply that I couldn’t even trust the very substances I was using. The idea that I could have died believing I had simply taken “Xanax” haunts me to this day.
Recovery has given me the chance to look back at those experiences with honesty. I see now that pressed pills are one of the cruelest tricks in addiction. They prey on people like me—people desperate for relief, people who think they know what they’re doing, people who have convinced themselves that they’re managing their drug use responsibly. Pressed pills shatter that illusion. They don’t care if you’re young or old, rich or poor, experienced or inexperienced. They are silent killers hiding behind familiar shapes and markings.
When I share my story with others, especially those still struggling, I emphasize this: there is no such thing as a “safe” pressed pill. None. Every time you put one in your mouth or crush one up, you’re making a choice that could end your life. It doesn’t matter if your friend gave it to you, if you’ve bought from the same dealer for years, or if the pill looks exactly like the ones you’ve seen in a pharmacy bottle. The truth is that you don’t know what’s inside. And what’s inside could kill you before you even have a chance to realize what’s happening.
For me, the wake-up call came in rehab, in the form of a urine test. For others, that wake-up call comes in the form of a body bag. I was one of the lucky ones—lucky that I survived, lucky that I found treatment, and lucky that I have another chance to live a life free from the lies and illusions of addiction. Many aren’t so fortunate.
Today, in recovery, I carry those memories with me as both a warning and a motivation. They remind me how fragile life is and how dangerous it was to gamble with it for the sake of a high. They remind me of the people I’ve lost to overdose, people who thought they were taking one thing but ended up blindly taking Fentanyl. They remind me that my life is worth more than the illusion of escape. Addiction wanted me dead, but recovery has given me life. Part of that life is telling the truth about pressed pills—the danger, the deception, and the destruction they cause. If my story can reach even one person, if it can make them think twice before swallowing a counterfeit pill, then maybe my survival can serve a purpose beyond myself.
And so, I would like to end with this message to the young people I coach, to the athletes I work with, and to anyone who has followed my journey: Your life is far too valuable to risk on a pill that might not be what it seems. I know what it’s like to want relief, to want escape, to think just one pill could take away the pressure, the pain, or the anxiety. I also know what it’s like to stare death in the face because of that choice. I was lucky enough to survive. Many are not. You have dreams, goals, and futures worth fighting for. No game, no season, no feeling of fitting in is worth gambling your life on a counterfeit pill. If my story does anything, I hope it shows you that pressed pills don’t just steal your health—they steal your chance to live, to grow, to love, and to fulfill the potential that’s already inside of you. I beg of you; please don’t make the same mistakes I did. Choose life instead.
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.
107. You’re Only as Sick as Your Secrets
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 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.
I used to be full of secrets. I carried them like a second skin. Hell, I was a secret. I wore a thousand different masks, told a thousand different lies, and built walls so high around myself that even I forgot what was real. I’d smile when I was dying inside. I’d say I was sober when I had pills in my sock. I’d tell my family I was okay when I was using in gas station bathrooms. I was hiding the truth—not just from others, but from myself, and in doing so, I was feeding my addiction every single day.
Addiction thrives in the dark. It loves silence. It loves shame. It tells you that if people really knew who you were, they’d leave. That you don’t deserve love. That you’re broken beyond repair. And when you believe that lie—when you start keeping secrets to avoid the pain—you give your disease all of the power.
For a long time, my secrets were my identity. I was a coach, a writer, a friend, a son. But I was also an addict, and I couldn’t let those two worlds collide. I told myself that if I could just hold it together on the outside, no one had to know the hell I was living on the inside, but secrets are heavy. They don’t just sit quietly in your chest. They fester, they twist your thinking, and they keep you sick. When I finally got honest, it wasn’t pretty. It didn’t come in a neat little breakthrough moment. It came in the form of broken relationships, ruined trust, and staring at myself in the mirror with tears in my eyes, wondering who I had become. I had to own up to the truth: I was sick, and I couldn’t get better until I let go of the secrets I’d been holding for so long.
Recovery has taught me that truth is freedom. It’s not easy. God, it’s not easy. Telling someone you hurt them. Admitting that you used again. Owning up to stealing, lying, and cheating. Sitting in a room full of strangers and saying, “My name is Kyle, and I’m an addict.” That takes courage. Every time I’ve told the truth—and I mean really told it—something inside me has healed. I’ll never forget one of my first group sessions in treatment. We were doing a trauma inventory, and I was literally shaking. Not because of withdrawal, but because I was about to speak out loud the things I had buried for decades. Things I swore I’d never share. I remember spilling some of my deepest secrets and looking around the room and seeing nods. Not judgment. Not disgust. Just understanding. In that very moment, I realized that I wasn’t alone anymore. I was amongst people who knew exactly what it felt like to drag a secret into the light and survive it. The secrets I spilled, almost immediately, lost their power.
There’s something holy about being known fully and still being accepted. That’s what recovery has given me. When I stopped hiding, I found connection. When I dropped the mask, I found real friendship. When I told the truth, I found healing. The thing is—it doesn’t end there. Secrets try to sneak back in. Old patterns whisper in your ear: “Don’t tell them that. Just keep this to yourself. They wouldn’t understand.” That’s why honesty has to be a daily practice. I’ve learned to check in with myself, to ask hard questions, and to call someone when I want to isolate because I know now—without a doubt—that secrets will kill me. Slowly, yes. But absolutely.
I often think back to the people I’ve lost. I’ve seen what happens when people keep one secret too many. I’ve buried friends who “seemed fine” until they weren’t. Plain and simple, secrets killed them. I’d be lying if I said I was immune. I know I’m one good lie away from that same fate. I think about the friend who swore he was clean but overdosed alone in a motel. I think about the mother who never told anyone she was struggling again and ended up back in jail. Their secrets became their coffins, and it terrifies me to know that could have been me. So today, I make a promise to myself: I won’t keep secrets anymore. If I’m hurting, I’ll say it. If I’m tempted, I’ll admit it. If I fall, I’ll reach out. Not because I’m weak, but because I want to live.
I want to be the kind of man who walks in the light. A man who stands tall in his truth, no matter how ugly it might be. I’ve learned that honesty isn’t a one-time confession — it’s a muscle. If I don’t use it, it withers, and when it withers, I get sick again. I want to be a coach who shows his players that honesty isn’t a flaw—it’s a strength. I want to be a writer who tells real stories, even when they’re messy. I want to be a son my mother can trust again. And I want to be a friend to others in recovery who might still be drowning in silence. I’d rather face temporary embarrassment than permanent regret.
To anyone reading this who’s still holding onto secrets—please, let them go. Your secrets will not save you. They will not protect you. They will eat you alive until there’s nothing left. I know it’s scary. I know the shame feels unbearable, but I promise you, there is nothing you’ve done, nothing you’ve felt, nothing you’ve hidden that will ever be helped by silence. Speak it, share it, and set yourself free.
We are only as sick as our secrets, and I’ve been sick enough for one lifetime.
Today, I choose healing.
Today, I choose truth.
Today, I choose life.
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.
106. The Lifeline I Can’t Afford to Ignore: Why Taking My Medication Matters
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.
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. It’s not easy. It never has been. But I’ve learned, often the hard way, just how crucial it is to stick with it.
There was a time, not that long ago, when I truly believed I didn’t need medication. Or maybe I was just scared of needing it. Scared that taking pills each morning and each night meant something was deeply wrong with me—that I was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. Addiction already made me feel like I was wearing a label across my forehead that said, “less than.” Adding a list of mental illnesses and a cabinet full of prescription bottles only made that weight heavier.
What I’ve come to understand through years of trial and error, relapse and reflection, is that my mental health and my recovery are deeply intertwined. One doesn’t stand without the other. I can’t stay clean and sober without addressing the underlying mental health issues that led me to self-medicate in the first place. And I can’t address those issues unless I’m willing to take the medications that help keep the chaos in my brain at bay.
When my depression is at its worst, I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to be alive. When my bipolar disorder is in full swing, I can be euphoric one moment and in the depths of despair the next. The OCD traps me in endless loops of thought, rituals I must do “just right” or else something terrible will happen. PTSD floods my body with panic from memories I wish I could forget, and my anxiety makes even a quiet room feel like it’s closing in on me. It’s a lot, and when left untreated, it becomes unbearable.
Medication helps. It doesn’t cure everything, and it’s not a magic fix, but it’s the difference between drowning and keeping my head above water. It’s the difference between isolating in my bedroom for days and showing up to coach my kids’ soccer games with a genuine smile. It’s the difference between numbing my pain with drugs and facing it with courage, clarity, and support.
But here’s something that I’ve had to learn, and relearn, over time: sometimes the medications stop working. Or maybe they never fully worked in the first place, but I was too scared, too stubborn, or too exhausted to say anything. There have been days—weeks, even months—when the pills I take daily don’t seem to do what they’re supposed to. I start slipping. I get irritable. I get hopeless. I start to think, What’s the point? That’s when the temptation to quit taking them creeps in. That’s when I hear the old voices saying, You’re better off without them. They’re not working anyway. You’re strong enough on your own. That’s the illness talking. That’s the addict in me looking for an excuse to fall back into chaos. I’ve learned—sometimes painfully—that when the medicine isn’t working, it doesn’t mean I should stop taking it. It means I need to talk to my doctor. I need to be honest. I need to be open to the hard, uncomfortable process of trying something new.
And let me tell you, I hate change. I hate it with a passion. I cling to routines, even broken ones, because they feel familiar. So, when a doctor tells me we might need to adjust my meds or try something different altogether, my first instinct is to shut down. I think, What if it gets worse? What if the side effects are awful? What if this new medication changes me in a way I don’t like? But if I want to live—and I mean really live, not just survive—I must be willing to do what’s necessary. I have to trust that my recovery is worth the discomfort. That my life is worth fighting for, even when that fight means walking into a psychiatrist’s office and saying, “This isn’t working. Can we try something else?”
I know I’m not alone in this. There are others like me—people trying to stay sober while navigating the wild terrain of mental illness. We don’t talk about it enough. We don’t admit how hard it is to balance all the moving parts. If you’re reading this and you’ve ever questioned whether taking your medication matters, I want you to know that it does. It matters more than you realize.
There’s no shame in needing help. There’s no weakness in relying on a pill to stabilize your mood or ease your anxiety. If anything, there’s strength in it. There’s bravery in walking into a pharmacy and picking up a prescription that might make the difference between relapse and recovery. Between hopelessness and healing. Between life and death.
I take my medication because I want to be here for the people I love. I want to coach soccer games, write columns, and spend time with my family and friends. I take my medication because I’ve lost too many people who didn’t. I’ve seen what happens when mental illness is left untreated. I’ve been that person before—curled up in bed, consumed by darkness, certain that there was no way out.
Today, I know better. I know that taking my meds isn’t a sign of defeat—it’s a declaration of hope. It’s me saying, “I believe in my future. I believe I deserve peace. I believe I’m worth saving.”
If you’re walking this path too, be gentle with yourself. Speak up when things aren’t working. Stay open to change, even when it scares you. And above all, take your meds—not because you’re weak, but because your life matters. And so does mine.
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.
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.
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.
104. Six Lessons I’d Give to the 2025 Graduating Class of Goshen Central High School
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.
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.
Lesson 1: Don’t Trade Who You Are for Who Others Want You to Be
One of my earliest mistakes was trying to mold myself into someone I thought people wanted. I craved acceptance so badly that I ignored my own values. In high school, it might seem like fitting in is everything, but later, I learned that pretending to be someone else can lead you down paths you never intended to walk—paths that, for me, led to addiction and pain. Stay true to who you are, even if it means standing alone for a time. Authenticity is freedom, and it’s far more valuable than any popularity you might gain by betraying yourself.
Lesson 2: Your Choices Matter More Than You Think
In my darkest days, I wished I could go back to the seemingly small choices that steered me off course: skipping school, hanging out with the wrong crowd, experimenting with illicit substances. At the time, they felt insignificant, but they planted seeds that grew into something I couldn’t control. Know that every decision you make is a brick in the road you’re building. Choose carefully. One choice may not define your whole life, but repeated bad choices can.
Lesson 3: Don’t Be Afraid to Ask for Help
I waited far too long to ask for help because I thought it was a weakness. By the time I realized I needed it, the hole I’d dug was deep. If you remember nothing else I say today, remember this: you are never alone, and there is no shame in asking for help. Whether you’re struggling with mental health, school, relationships, or something you can’t even put a name to yet, speak up. The bravest thing you can do is reach out. Asking for help can change—and save—your life.
Lesson 4: Gratitude Is a Lifeline
In recovery, I learned to find gratitude even in small moments. During my worst days in detox, I practiced saying “thank you” just for the sunrise or for the fact that I was breathing. Gratitude doesn’t erase pain, but it gives you something to hold onto. Don’t wait for life to be perfect to start being thankful. When you’re grateful, you’ll see opportunities instead of obstacles, and you’ll value people over possessions. This mindset will sustain you when life feels unfair or overwhelming.
Lesson 5: You Are More Than Your Mistakes
I carried so much shame over what I’d done. I thought my mistakes defined me—that I was doomed to be “the addict,” the disappointment. But in recovery, I learned that our past can inform us without condemning us. You will make mistakes; it’s inevitable. But you don’t have to become them. The courage to own your wrongs, make amends, and keep moving forward is what defines character. You are never too far gone to change, to heal, or to grow.
Lesson 6: Live Like You Have Something to Lose—Because You Do
When I was using, I acted like nothing mattered, but I lost so much: relationships, trust, opportunities, years of my life. I forgot that life is precious and that every moment is something to cherish. I want you to live like you have something to lose—because you do. You have your dreams, your health, your potential, and the people who love you. Don’t squander those gifts. Honor them. Protect them. Build a life you’re proud of, one decision at a time.
I wish someone had told me these lessons when I was your age, even though I may not have listened. Maybe you won’t either, and that’s okay. But if you ever find yourself lost or broken, I hope you’ll remember that you heard these words once, and that you can always start over. I hope you’ll know you are not alone, and I hope you’ll know that even when life doesn’t go as planned, it can still become something beautiful.
I envy you, standing at the start of adulthood with your whole lives ahead. You have opportunities I once took for granted. You have time. You have hope. Don’t waste them. Don’t let fear of failure keep you from trying, but don’t let recklessness fool you into thinking there are no consequences. Build a life with intention. Love fiercely. Work hard. Laugh often. And never stop learning.
I won’t pretend that life after high school is easy. There will be heartbreak, disappointment, and moments you’ll want to give up. But there will also be joy you can’t yet imagine, friendships that feel like family, and victories that will make you proud of the fight. Life is a breathtaking, messy, complicated gift. Don’t throw it away chasing something you think will make you feel whole. What you’re looking for is already inside you.
My final wish for each of you is simple: may you live a life so full of purpose that when you look back years from now, you’ll know you didn’t just exist—you truly lived. And if you ever fall down, may you always find the strength to get back up.
Congratulations, Class of 2025. The world needs you—just as you are.
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.
103. Rewinding the Tape: Remembering the Truth That Saves Me
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.
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.
There was a time in my life when I didn’t even know a tape existed. I lived minute to minute, driven by obsession and compulsion. When the urge to use came, I gave in—again and again—without hesitation or thought. Recovery has taught me to pause, to reflect, to remember, and when I remember, I see the pain, the wreckage, and I see myself at my worst.
I rewind the tape, and I see a morning where I woke up in a place I didn’t recognize, next to people I didn’t know, my body trembling, soaked in sweat, my heart racing with the kind of anxiety that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. I see myself scrambling for a fix, not because I wanted to get high, but because I needed to stop feeling. Withdrawal wasn’t just physical for me—it was emotional. It was shame, self-loathing, and hopelessness. I rewind the tape, and I remember lying to people I loved, stealing from those who trusted me, and disappearing into the night with a phone full of missed calls from my mother. Her voice on the other end, crying, begging me to come home—I can still hear it.
That’s what rewinding the tape means for me. It means remembering the part that comes after the high. The part where the fun dies and the consequences come rushing in like a tidal wave—unforgiving and absolute. For a long time, I would only remember the first few seconds of that tape. The part where the drug goes in, the drink goes down, and everything feels okay for a fleeting moment. That moment of relief, of escape… that moment was my seduction. But that moment always passed. ALWAYS.
The rest of the tape—the part I refused to look at—was where the truth lived. The destruction. The broken promises. The emptiness. That’s why I need to play the tape all the way through now. Because my addiction is a liar. It has a soft voice and a strong grip. It tells me, “This time will be different.” It says, “You’ve been clean for a while. You deserve it.” It whispers things that sound like freedom, but always lead back to the same prison. And the only way I know how to fight back is by remembering.
Recovery has given me many gifts, but one of the greatest is the ability to tell myself the truth. And the truth is, no matter how much time passes, I am still one bad decision away from being right back in hell. I don’t say that to scare myself—I say it because I’ve been there. I know the way back far too well. I know what it feels like to lose everything. I know what it feels like to wish I were dead, and I know that if I don’t stay vigilant, if I don’t keep rewinding the tape, I could end up there again.
There was a time not long ago when I thought I had it beat. I had a few months clean, I was feeling good, and I let my guard down. I stopped going to meetings. I stopped praying. I stopped rewinding the tape. And I relapsed, just like that. One drink became two, then ten. One high became a month-long bender. And the shame that followed? It nearly killed me. I had to claw my way back out of that darkness. I had to look people in the eye again, people I had promised I’d never hurt again. I had to start over. But that’s what recovery teaches us, too—that starting over is okay, so long as we start.
Now, when I feel that pull—that quiet whisper that says, “Just one won’t hurt”—I hit rewind. I close my eyes and I see it all. The lying. The trembling hands. The look on my family’s face when they realized I was using again. I see the way I turned into a stranger. The way I let down the people who loved me. And then, I press play on the life I have today. I see the people I’ve made amends to. I see the kids I coach on the soccer field, the way they look up to me. I see my family smiling, trusting me again. I see my reflection in the mirror, and I don’t hate the person staring back. I see hope.
“Rewind the tape” isn’t just a phrase—it’s a survival skill. It’s a roadmap back to gratitude. It’s how I remind myself that I’ve come too far to go back now. That no matter how strong the craving, no matter how loud the disease screams, I know where it leads. I’ve walked that road. I’ve bled on it. And I have the scars to prove it.
If you’re new to recovery, let me tell you this: your mind will lie to you. It will glamorize the past. It will make you forget the worst of it. That’s why you have to remember it on purpose. You have to play the whole tape through. The moment you feel that temptation rise, don’t fight it with willpower—fight it with truth. Go back. Rewind. Watch yourself stumble. Watch yourself fall. Watch the people you love cry. Watch yourself beg for another chance, and then open your eyes and realize you have that chance, right now, as long as you don’t pick up.
Today, I live with a quiet kind of strength. Not because I’m invincible, but because I’ve learned to look back—not to punish myself, but to protect myself. I can’t erase the past, but I can use it. I can use it to stay sober. I can use it to stay humble. I can use it to keep moving forward. And when the day comes—because it always does—when the disease whispers again, I’ll be ready. I’ll take a breath, close my eyes, and press rewind.
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.
102. Better Sober & Suffering Than High & Hollow
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.
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.
I’ve had some pretty rough days sober. Let’s not sugarcoat it. There have been moments when the shame came crashing in so hard it nearly crushed me. Days when I sat alone, sweaty and shaking in detox, barely able to hold down water, praying for sleep that wouldn't come. Nights when I stared at the ceiling, replaying every failure, every bridge I burned, every person I hurt. There were mornings I woke up with the taste of regret in my mouth, stone-cold sober, and had to live with everything I did while I was using.
But I’ll say this with my whole heart: even the worst day I've lived in sobriety has been better than the best day I ever had in active addiction.
One of my worst sober days came just after I relapsed. I’d worked so hard to get clean—stayed in treatment, listened in groups, built up trust again, and started believing I was worthy of a better life. But one weak moment undid so much. I remember walking back into detox, head down, ashamed. I was surrounded by people detoxing just like I was, but I felt completely alone. The guilt of letting everyone down—my family, my employer, the people who rooted for me, the ones who said they believed in me—hit me like a wave I couldn’t swim through.
I laid there in the detox bed, curled up, cold sweat soaking my shirt, my body twisting against the drugs leaving my system. Every part of me ached, not just from withdrawal, but from the raw, unbearable truth: I’d betrayed myself and everyone who supported me once again.
And still, it was better than using because that pain was honest. That suffering, that storm of self-loathing and regret—it wasn’t dulled by dope. It was real. It was mine, and most importantly, it was a signal that I was still alive. Still fighting.
When I was using, I didn’t feel remorse. I didn’t feel much of anything, really. Drugs had this way of flattening life—no real highs or lows, just a constant, numbing hum. My “best” days using were spent either chasing the next fix or briefly escaping reality. Sure, I might’ve felt temporary peace when the drugs hit, but it was ALWAYS followed by fear: fear of running out, of getting caught, of being found out for the hollow shell I was becoming.
One of my so-called best days using was a sunny afternoon by a lake deep in the woods. I had just scored, had enough to get through the weekend, and I remember thinking: This is it. I’m good. No one can touch me here. I laid back, warm sun on my face, high as a kite, music in my ears. I probably posted some filtered picture on Snapchat with a fake smile, pretending I had it all together. But inside, I was empty. I didn’t think about the family I was betraying, the friends I’d lost, the job I lied to, or the self-respect I couldn’t even pretend to have anymore. That day felt "good" because I wasn't present. I wasn’t me. I was just a ghost floating through a life I was too scared to fully live.
Compare that to my worst sober day—and it’s not even close because now, even on my worst days, I’m present. I feel things—raw, painful, overwhelming things—but I feel. I cry now, not just because I’m hurting, but because I care. I care about the people I hurt, the person I want to become, and the second chance I’m still lucky enough to have. Sobriety has given me back the truth. And truth, even when it cuts like glass, is more valuable than the most euphoric high because truth is what sets me free.
On my worst day sober, I can still look someone in the eye. I can still write a page in my story that’s completely honest. I can still go to bed knowing I didn’t steal, lie, or run from myself. I might be trembling, but I’m standing. I might feel broken, but I’m clean. That matters.
Recovery isn’t romantic. It’s not all sunsets and self-help quotes. Some days, it’s getting through one minute at a time. It’s staring down a craving and saying no for the thousandth time. It’s apologizing, forgiving, breaking down, and building back up again. It’s work—harder than anything I’ve ever done. But it’s real, and real is better than anything I ever got out of a needle, a pill, or a bottle.
Today, I have a future. Maybe it’s fragile. Maybe it’s still under construction. But it’s mine. I’ve laughed, for real. I’ve hugged people and felt it. I’ve cried and let the tears come. I’ve looked in the mirror and not hated the person staring back. Those very moments—they don’t need to be “best days” to mean everything.
My worst day sober came with pain, but also with growth, accountability, and the whisper of hope still flickering somewhere inside me. My best day using? It came with silence. With numbness. With a slow, quiet death I couldn’t even recognize at the time. So yes, I’ll take the worst day of this honest, messy, beautiful sober life over the “best” day I ever had hiding from myself. Because this life, even at its lowest, is worth staying alive for.
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.
101. Lessons from the Sidelines: A Night at the Kingston Stockade Game
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.
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.
We found our seats on the fifth row behind the half-line. Perfect view of the action. The boys were pointing out players they admired and breaking down formations with impressive knowledge for their age. Their passion reminded me of myself at that age—before the chaos, before the mistakes, before addiction took center stage in my life. I smiled at them, but as I scanned the crowd, something else caught my eye: the concession stand, and the line of adults ordering beers like it was nothing.
At first, it seemed harmless. Just a few dads and fans cracking open cold ones as they settled in. The more I watched, the more I couldn’t look away. One man in front of us nursed a single beer for nearly half the match. Another came back with two cups—he gave one to his friend, and they clinked them together with a smile, then sipped slowly as they chatted and cheered. There were no slurred words, no staggering, no blackouts. Just casual, social, controlled drinking. They laughed, got loud during goals, high-fived strangers—and then, without fanfare, they stopped. One beer. Maybe two, and that was it.
And me? I sat there silently with a knot in my stomach, a water in my hand, and a truth I’ve come to know all too well pressing hard against my chest: I can’t do that. I will NEVER be able to do that.
There is no “just one” for me. There never was. Watching those men last night—watching how easily they were able to stop—was like standing outside in the cold, looking through the glass at a warm home I’ll never be invited into. It’s not envy, not exactly. It’s grief. It's the mourning of a life I’ll never live, of a version of me that doesn’t exist and never will.
I have to accept that if I want to succeed.
You see, if I had that first beer, it wouldn't end with a quiet sip and a shared laugh. It wouldn’t end until I had ruined everything all over again. My boys—these young athletes who look up to me, who trust me, who are learning about discipline and teamwork and character from me—they wouldn’t have their coach anymore. My job would disappear. My second chance at life, the one I clawed my way back to would vanish in a matter of weeks, maybe even days. That’s not dramatic—it’s just the truth of my disease. One drink is all it takes. And last night, as I watched others consume with ease, I saw again how utterly incapable I am of moderation.
There was a time I thought I could drink like that. Early on, before everything fell apart, I’d tell myself, “I’ll just have one.” But I never did. “Just one” turned into “just one more,” then “just a few,” then “might as well finish the bottle,” then waking up somewhere I didn’t recognize, ashamed and empty. It was never about enjoyment—it was about escape. It was about numbing the shame, the anxiety, and the loneliness. I used to think people like the ones I saw last night didn’t exist, or at least that they were faking it, but they’re real… I’m not one of them.
As I sat there, I thought of the people I’ve hurt. I thought of the times I broke promises, the moments I chose a drink over someone I loved, and the trust I’ve shattered. I’ve spent years trying to rebuild the parts of myself I destroyed, and while I’m proud of the progress, proud of the man I’m becoming, I’d be lying if I said nights like last night don’t make me ache inside. The longing to be “normal,” to be able to just blend in, it hits hard in those moments. I also know this: I’m not meant to blend in. I’m not meant to sip beer in the stands and call it a night. My journey, painful and raw as it is, gives me something they don’t have—perspective, depth, and the ability to guide others away from the edge I nearly fell over too many times.
One of my boys leaned over during halftime and asked if I’d ever played semi-pro. I told him I hadn’t. He nodded, said “Cool,” then went back to analyzing corner kick tactics. He doesn’t need to know all the details of my story yet, but one day, maybe he will. And maybe when he’s faced with his own temptations, he’ll remember that his coach sat at a game once, surrounded by people drinking, and chose not to. Not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.
On the way home, I felt peace, real peace, even as that ache lingered. I didn’t drink. I didn’t run. I sat with the discomfort and made it through. That may not sound like much to some people, but to me, it’s everything.
Because every day I stay sober is a day I win. Every day I choose life over oblivion, I become more whole, and last night, amid the cheering and the beer cups and the under-the-lights glory of the game, I was reminded that I am still here. Still fighting. Still choosing to be present—even when it hurts.
And that’s a victory far greater than any final score could ever produce.
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.
100. 100 Weeks of Writing: A Journey of Healing & Resilience
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.
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.
In the beginning, I wasn’t sure I would be able to write five weeks' worth of articles, let alone 100. I questioned whether I had enough to say, whether anyone would care, and whether my words would be worth reading. As each week passed, I found that writing wasn’t just about filling space—it was about telling my truth, about processing my emotions, and about offering something real to those who might need to hear it. What started as a short-term effort quickly became a lifeline.
When I first began writing these articles, I had no idea how much they would impact my recovery. At that time, I was still grappling with the wreckage of my past. Addiction had taken so much from me—my peace, my self-respect, my relationships—but one thing it could never steal was my voice. Even in my darkest moments, I had words. What I didn’t realize then was how powerful those words could be—not just for me, but for those who have followed my journey.
Writing has been more than an outlet; it has been a mirror. Every article has forced me to confront my reality, to reflect on where I’ve been, and to remind myself of where I’m going. There were weeks when putting my thoughts on paper felt like ripping open old wounds, but in that pain, there was healing. Writing gave me clarity when my mind was clouded by guilt and doubt. It allowed me to take control of my own narrative instead of letting addiction define me. It became my therapy in ways I never anticipated.
But what has made this journey truly special is not just the act of writing itself—it is the people who have read my words and taken the time to respond. The letters, emails, and comments I’ve received over these past 100 weeks have been nothing short of life-changing. I have heard from people who are also battling addiction, from those who have lost loved ones to this disease, and from individuals who simply wanted to share encouragement. Each message has reminded me that I am not alone. More importantly, they have shown me that my story matters.
There were times when I wondered if I was strong enough to keep going. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to start over again. After everything—after getting clean, building myself back up, and then losing it all in a relapse—I questioned whether I had the strength to go through it again. The shame, the withdrawals, the exhaustion of trying to put the pieces back together felt almost unbearable. I wasn’t sure if I deserved another chance or if the people who had supported me before would still believe in me. But even in that uncertainty, something in me refused to give up. Maybe it was hope, maybe it was sheer desperation—but I knew I had to try. Recovery is not a straight road; it is filled with setbacks, moments of doubt, and unbearable cravings. But on those hard days, I would read the words of a stranger who told me that my writing had given them hope, and suddenly, I had a reason to push forward. My readers have held me up in ways they will never fully understand. They have been my accountability, my motivation, and my source of unwavering support. To every single person who has ever taken the time to read my work, to reach out, to remind me that my words have value—thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You have been part of my recovery in ways you cannot imagine.
And today, as I mark over nine and a half months of sobriety, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I have come so far from where I once was. Every single day, I fight for this life, and every single day, I am grateful that I chose to keep going. I have rebuilt bridges that I once thought were burned forever. I have found strength in myself that I never knew existed. I have learned that I am capable of more than I ever gave myself credit for.
None of this would have been possible without the opportunity to share my journey. For that, I owe a debt of gratitude to Wendy Bynum-Wade. Wendy, you have given me more than just a platform—you have given me a purpose. You took a chance on me, believed in me, and allowed me to use my voice when I wasn’t even sure I had anything worth saying. Your faith in me has meant more than I can put into words, and I will forever be thankful for the opportunity you have given me. You didn’t just allow me to write for the Independent Republican; you gave me a space to heal, grow, and connect with people in ways I never imagined.
One hundred weeks. It feels surreal to say that out loud. A hundred weeks of honesty, vulnerability, and, most importantly, resilience. A hundred weeks of confronting my demons and choosing, again and again, to rise above them. A hundred weeks of proving to myself that I am more than my past, that I am worthy of redemption, and that I have something to give to the world.
I don’t know what the next hundred weeks will hold. What I do know is that I will keep writing, keep sharing, and keep fighting. My journey is far from over, but if these past 100 weeks have taught me anything, it’s that I am not walking this path alone.
To my readers, to my family, to those who have supported me, and to Wendy Bynum-Wade—thank you. Thank you for giving me the courage to keep going. Thank you for making these 100 weeks more meaningful than I ever could have imagined. Thank you for being part of my story.
Here’s to the next chapter!
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.
99. Finding Faith in the First Step
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.
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.
When I first heard this quote, I was sitting in a folding chair in a dimly lit room during my early days of treatment. My body was still trembling from withdrawal, my mind clouded by guilt, shame, and a hollow sadness that I couldn’t begin to articulate. I remember thinking, What staircase? I don’t even know if I can stand up. I couldn’t see a way out. I couldn’t see ten steps ahead. Hell, I couldn’t see tomorrow, but something in those words cracked open a door in my heart—just wide enough to let a glimmer of hope in.
Addiction isn’t something I ever planned for. It crept in slowly, disguised as relief. What began as a coping mechanism—a little something to numb the pain, to feel "normal"—turned into a monster that devoured everything good in my life. I lost friends, jobs, trust, my sense of worth, and most tragically, I lost myself. There were times I didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. There were times I didn’t want to be him anymore, and in those darkest moments, when the idea of climbing out felt impossible, King’s words echoed somewhere deep in my chest.
“You don’t have to see the whole staircase…”
Recovery is overwhelming. It’s terrifying. When you’re at rock bottom, the thought of rebuilding your life is so daunting that it feels damn near impossible. How do you earn back trust that’s been broken time and time again? How do you face the damage, the shame, the people you’ve hurt? How do you become someone you can live with—someone you can be proud of? The truth is that you don’t. Not all at once, and you don’t have to know how. You just have to take the first step.
For me, that first step was admitting I needed help. It was dragging myself into detox, even though I was scared out of my mind. It was showing up to group therapy when all I wanted to do was hide. It was telling the truth, finally, about the depth of my addiction. That first step didn’t look like much from the outside, but on the inside, it was everything. It was the first time in a long time that I chose life.
There have been many “first steps” along the way. The first time I made amends. The first time I spoke in a meeting. The first time I forgave myself—well, started to. Recovery isn’t linear, and there have been relapses, setbacks, days I’ve stumbled or wanted to give up, but each time, I’ve reminded myself: You don’t need to see the top of the staircase. You just need to find the courage to put one foot in front of the other.
There’s something incredibly humbling about starting over. It strips you bare. It forces you to look at yourself without the masks, without the substances, and without the lies. It hurts. It hurts like hell, but in that pain, there’s also honesty. There’s also freedom. Because when you stop pretending, you can finally begin healing.
The staircase, to me, is symbolic. It's not just about sobriety—it’s about the life I want to live. A life of integrity, of peace, and of service. A life where I show up, where I feel things fully, where I’m no longer running from the past or hiding from the future. That staircase might be long. It might be steep. I don’t know what’s waiting at the top, but I do know this: I’ve come too far to turn around now.
One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned in recovery is that you don’t get to fast-forward through the process. You don’t get to leap to the top. You have to earn it, step by step, day by day. Some days the steps are small—just getting out of bed, just calling someone from my support network, just showing up. Other days, they’re monumental—like sharing my story publicly, like coaching youth soccer again, like reconnecting with people who thought they’d lost me forever.
And even now, I still don’t see the whole staircase. I still don’t have all the answers, but I have something better: I have faith. Not blind, naive faith, but hard-earned, battle-tested faith. Faith that if I keep moving forward, if I keep choosing recovery, something beautiful is waiting for me up ahead.
Dr. King wasn’t talking specifically about addiction when he said those words, but in many ways, recovery is a form of justice—a justice we grant ourselves. It’s the reclaiming of our dignity, our voice, our right to live a life of purpose, and it always starts with a single step.
So, if you’re where I was—broken, ashamed, afraid—know this: you don’t have to see the whole picture. You don’t need to have it all figured out. Just be brave enough to take one step. Into a meeting. Into a detox center. Into an apology. Into yourself. That’s where it starts. That’s where everything starts. Looking back now, I see how each small, uncertain step carried me further than I thought possible, and though I still have a long way to go, I no longer walk alone. I walk with the strength of every step I’ve already taken. I walk with a heart that’s slowly learning how to heal. I walk with the words of Dr. King wrapped around me like armor, reminding me that vision isn’t always required. Only courage is.
And that courage—mine, yours, ours—is enough.
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.
98. The Need to Be Seen: Validation & My Addiction
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.
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.
Before I ever picked up a drink or used a drug, I was already aching for something I didn’t have a name for. I thought it was love. I thought it was respect. The truth is, I just wanted to be seen. To be heard. To be told, in some way, that I mattered. That I was enough. That’s what validation is. It’s not just a pat on the back or an occasional “good job.” It’s someone looking you in the eyes, listening to your voice, and saying without words: You’re real. I see you. For a kid who always felt like a ghost in his own home, that kind of recognition became something I would chase for the rest of my life—sometimes through achievements, sometimes through relationships, and eventually through illicit substances.
A drink did not just warm my throat; it applauded me. It whispered, You’re enough, and the ovation grew louder as the buzz set in. Pills followed, then powders, then needles, each substance another cheap standing ovation. Yet addiction is the loneliest audience in the world. It claps only for itself, and when the show ends, it leaves you alone on stage, holding a bouquet of dead silence. My need for validation was not vanity; it was survival. Human beings are wired for connection, and connection begins with recognition. When that recognition is inconsistent, the brain learns to hunt for it anywhere, at any cost. Substance abuse disorders are, in many ways, attachment wounds dressed up as chemical ones. The bottle does not simply contain alcohol—it contains the promise that someone, even a liquid someone, sees me.
I didn’t start using because I loved getting high. I used because when I was high, the need to be validated didn’t scream so loudly. The alcohol and drugs quieted the voices in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough, not strong enough, not lovable. When I used alcohol and drugs, I felt fearless. I felt worthy. I felt seen—even if only by myself in a mirror I couldn’t quite look into. But the alcohol and drugs are liars. They give you confidence on loan and leave you bankrupt in the end. The more I used, the more validation I needed—and the less of it I ever actually got. The truth is, even before the drugs, I couldn’t feel satisfied by anyone’s approval. I was chasing a level of recognition that no one could realistically give me. My expectations were so high—so specific and so fragile—that even when people did care, even when they did show up, it somehow never felt like enough. I was asking the world to fix something inside me that I didn’t yet know how to touch. Eventually, I couldn’t tell the difference between wanting to be loved and wanting to be numb.
When I got sober the first time, I started to feel human again. I shared my story, and people clapped. I wrote a column about recovery, and people wrote back. I coached kids and saw admiration in their eyes. All of that attention felt good—no, it felt incredible. But it was also dangerous, because even in sobriety, I was still addicted to validation. I thought if I kept performing—if I kept impressing people—I’d never fall again. Unfortunately, that’s not how this disease works. It doesn’t care how many TED Talks you’ve given or how many articles you’ve written. If your worth is tied to how loudly people cheer for you, then the silence between those cheers can feel unbearable, and eventually, that silence crept back in.
When I relapsed, it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was because I cared too much—about what others thought, about who I was supposed to be, about not disappointing anyone. The pressure of being “the success story” crushed me, and the shame of falling again nearly killed me. I checked myself into detox at Bon Secours, shaking and broken, convinced I had let everyone down. What I didn’t expect was that this place—this cold, clinical detox unit—would show me a deeper kind of validation than any stage or newspaper column ever had.
It came in small, quiet moments: A nurse sitting by my bed, just letting me cry. A counselor nodding while I confessed everything I hated about myself. Nobody here needed me to impress them. They didn’t care about my past successes. They only cared that I was still here. Still trying. Still breathing. And for the first time in a very long time, that was enough.
Validation is essential for recovery—not the applause, but the acknowledgment. The feeling that someone, somewhere, understands you. And that you are allowed to take up space in the world, even when you’re not at your best. Especially when you’re not at your best. When we don’t get that kind of validation, especially early in life, we start searching for substitutes. For some, it’s approval from partners or parents. For people like me, it becomes alcohol or drugs. Substances promise quick acceptance. They wrap you in false comfort and whisper, You don’t need anyone else. You’ve got me. But it’s a lie, and it always was.
I’m slowly learning to speak without polishing every word. I’m learning to share the messy parts of my story without trying to make them sound noble or inspiring. And when someone listening to me nods, or says “me too,” I feel a kind of healing I never got from any high. Even more important, I’m learning to validate myself. That’s the hardest part. Some days, I still look in the mirror and see failure. Other days, I see a man who is fighting like hell to change. I’m learning that self-validation isn’t arrogance—it’s survival. It’s saying, I’m worth saving, even when the rest of the world hasn’t voted yet.
Recovery has taught me that validation is not a luxury. It’s a need, and it’s not a weakness to admit that. In fact, it takes strength to look someone in the eye and say, “I need to be seen. I need to be heard. I need to know I’m not alone.”
So I write this now for the person who’s still suffering. For the one who thinks no one cares. I see you. I know your pain, and I want you to know this: Your worth is not measured by your mistakes. You don’t need to earn love. You don’t need to impress anyone to matter. You are enough, simply because you’re still here. And that, in itself, is everything.
I am an addict. I am also a coach, a writer, a friend, and someone’s child. My worth did not evaporate in the fumes of my relapse. Craving validation is not weakness; it is a signal that we are alive and wired for belonging. The substances that once delivered counterfeit acceptance are not the enemy—they are the evidence. They prove that what we seek most is to be known. I’m not cured. I’m still learning. But today, I can say this with honesty: I don’t need a standing ovation to know I’m on the right path. I just need to keep showing up, keep telling the truth, and keep learning to validate the man I’m becoming—one day, one breath, one honest word 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.
97. Living Life on Life’s Terms
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’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. Living life on life’s terms means accepting that we cannot control everything. For someone like me—an addict who used to believe that I could numb, outwit, or run from pain—that kind of surrender was terrifying. My disease told me I had to stay one step ahead of reality. It told me that if things got too hard, I could always escape. That bottle, that pill, that hit—I thought they were my armor, my illusion of control, and my false comfort.
Life doesn’t ask us if we’re ready. It doesn’t slow down for our wounds. It doesn’t bend to our fears. When I finally stopped running—when I hit bottom and had nothing left but the broken pieces of who I used to be—I realized the very thing I was always trying to avoid was the one thing I most needed to face: life, exactly as it is. In recovery, I’ve had to learn how to sit with discomfort. How to grieve losses that I used to drown in silence. How to take responsibility without destroying myself with shame. How to feel joy without fearing it’ll be taken away.
Living life on life’s terms means showing up even when I don’t feel like it. It means going to work when I’d rather be in bed, being honest when it’s easier to lie, and asking for help when my pride screams not to. Some days, it feels unbearable. There are moments when the pain of the past comes roaring back, and I wonder if I’ll ever be whole. I still carry the weight of people I’ve let down. I still have nights when the silence is too loud, when my mind replays every mistake like a cruel movie. But even then—especially then—I try to remind myself that pain is not the enemy. Avoidance is. Denial is. Disconnection is.
Living life on life’s terms has taught me that healing isn’t about returning to who I was. It’s about becoming someone new, someone who can walk through the fire and not run from it. I’ve had to face truths I never wanted to admit. The fact that I hurt people I loved, that I lied to protect my addiction, and that I broke promises I swore I’d keep. I’ve had to learn how to forgive myself—not to excuse what I did, but to find the strength to do better.
Unfortunately, there’s no script for how to rebuild your life after addiction. There’s no manual for how to earn back trust, how to fix what you shattered, or how to keep going when guilt threatens to swallow you whole. But every day I stay clean, every day I show up and do the next right thing, I write a new page in my story. I try to do this with honesty, humility, and a heart that’s finally learning how to feel again.
I used to think that sobriety meant losing something—that I’d have to give up the only thing that ever made me feel okay. I’ve come to see that recovery isn’t about losing—it’s about gaining. I’ve gained clarity. I’ve gained purpose. I’ve gained people in my life who know the real me, not the façade I used to hide behind. I’ve even gained the ability to feel pride—real pride—in the man I’m becoming.
Living life on life’s terms also means accepting that not everything will go my way. I won’t always get the job. People I care about may not always forgive me. I may feel lonely, anxious, or lost, but I no longer believe those feelings are punishments. They’re just part of being human, and being human is something I used to run from with everything I had. Now, I lean into it. I’ve learned that real strength isn’t found in pretending to be okay. It’s in standing in your truth, even when your voice shakes. It’s in saying, “I’m struggling,” and still getting up the next day to try again. It’s in facing the wreckage you caused, doing the work to make amends, and realizing that while you can’t change the past, you can change who you are today.
Today, I am an addict in recovery. I am not perfect. I am not finished. I am present, and that alone is a miracle.
Every time I live life on life’s terms, I take another step away from the darkness that used to define me. I choose faith over fear. Responsibility over regret. Progress over perfection. I choose life—the real, messy, beautiful, painful, ordinary life I once believed I didn’t deserve.
And you know what? It’s enough. It’s more than enough.
So, when I hear the slogan “life on life’s terms” now, I no longer roll my eyes. I don’t dismiss it. I live it because, in the end, recovery is not about controlling life. It’s about letting go of the illusion that I ever could—and finding peace in learning to live, fully and fearlessly, one day 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.
96. Progress Not Perfection: A Personal Reflection on Recovery
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.
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.
When I first got sober, I was drowning in shame. I felt the weight of every lie I had told, every relationship I had shattered, every promise I had broken. The wreckage behind me was overwhelming. I couldn’t look in the mirror without feeling disgusted. I was so focused on how far I had fallen, on all the things I hadn’t done right, that I couldn’t see the most important thing: I had taken the first step. I had asked for help. That was progress.
Progress didn’t feel like enough back then. I wanted instant redemption. I wanted to be the perfect son again, the perfect friend, the perfect coach, the perfect employee. I wanted everyone to forgive me immediately and see how hard I was trying, but recovery doesn’t work like that. It’s not about flipping a switch or putting on a show. It’s about building a life — slowly, honestly, and humbly.
There were days when I would go to a meeting, share from my heart, and still come home feeling broken. There were days in detox when I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and I wondered if I was strong enough to make it through. I relapsed after nearly four years of being clean, and the shame of that nearly took me under. I felt like I had betrayed every person who ever believed in me. I remember lying in that hospital bed, sick and hollowed out, thinking I was beyond redemption.
But the truth is that moment was progress, too.
I didn’t run. I didn’t give up entirely. I checked myself into rehab. I admitted I needed more help. That wasn’t weakness — that was growth. That was progress. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.
This slogan — progress, not perfection — taught me that healing doesn’t come from pretending to be okay. It comes from showing up, even when I’m not okay. It comes from being willing to be seen in my imperfection, in my messiness, in my humanity. Each day I stay clean, each time I tell the truth instead of hiding, each moment I choose integrity over ego — that’s a victory.
I used to think of progress as big things — getting a job back, making amends, rebuilding my reputation, but now I see progress in smaller moments: waking up early to meditate. Calling someone from my support network when I feel triggered. Apologizing to someone I love without making excuses. Writing honestly about my struggles instead of spinning a story. Saying no to something that might jeopardize my sobriety. These little choices, stacked together, are what recovery is made of.
And perfection? I’ve let it go. It was never real. It was never the goal. Trying to be perfect was just another way I avoided being present. It was a shield I used to hide behind, afraid of being seen as weak, flawed, human. But in recovery, I’ve learned that vulnerability is strength. That honesty is courage. That being real is more powerful than being perfect could ever be.
I’m still healing. I still have days when I feel like I’m not enough. I still carry guilt for the pain I’ve caused. I still miss people I’ve lost to this disease. And sometimes, I still hear that voice in my head whispering that I’ll never truly change. But I know now that voice is a liar because every day I choose to stay sober, every time I reach out instead of isolating, every honest word I write or speak, I am proving that voice wrong. Recovery is not linear. I’ve fallen down. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve disappointed myself and others, but I always get back up. I always try again. That’s progress, and the more I lean into that truth, the more grace I find — not just from others, but from myself.
"Progress, not perfection" means I’m allowed to grow at my own pace. It means I’m not defined by my worst day. It means I can forgive myself, even when the path is messy. It means that every little bit of effort I make matters — even when nobody else sees it. I’ve seen miracles in this journey. I’ve watched other addicts rise from their own ashes and become the most compassionate, wise, and resilient people I’ve ever known. As a result of that, I’ve begun to believe that maybe, just maybe— I’m one of them too. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But I know this: I will keep trying. I will keep growing. I will keep showing up, messy and imperfect, but honest and willing, because that’s what recovery is. Not perfection. Just progress.
And today, that’s enough.
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.
95. A Letter to a Grieving Mother
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.
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. Writing it broke something open inside me. It made me think about how fragile recovery is, how easily it could have been me instead, and how love — real, unconditional love — endures even in the face of heartbreaking loss. This letter isn’t just a goodbye; it’s a way of honoring her fight, her spirit, and the people who never stopped believing in her. Out of respect for the family's privacy during this difficult time, I have changed the names of all those mentioned.
Dear Grieving Mother,
I’ve sat with this blank page for what feels like forever, trying to find the words that could possibly bring you even a moment of comfort, but I know there aren’t any words strong enough to ease the pain of losing your daughter. I still can’t believe I’m writing that. She should be here. She should be laughing. Living. Healing.
First, I need to say how truly sorry I am. Sorry for your loss, sorry for the way this disease stole your daughter, and sorry for not being able to make the wake. Please don’t take it as a sign that I didn’t care. I do. Your daughter mattered to me, and so do you. But the truth is, I don’t do well with those kinds of things. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Funerals and wakes twist something inside me that I can’t always untangle. They remind me of the friends I’ve lost, the people I’ve used with, cried with, and gone to treatment with. People who wanted to live but couldn’t make it through the storm. People just like your daughter.
But just because I wasn’t physically there doesn’t mean I wasn’t with you. I’ve been thinking of you constantly. And of her. I’ve replayed every time we spoke, every smile, every time she was raw and honest about how tired she was. Not just physically tired, but soul tired. Addiction has a way of doing that to us. It makes everything feel heavier. And when you’re trying to carry that weight day after day, sometimes it just becomes too much. But please, please believe me when I say: your daughter did not fail. She fought. She fought hard and longer than most people could ever understand. And she loved deeply, even when she was hurting.
You raised a daughter with a beautiful heart, a quick wit, and a spirit that refused to be defined by her pain. She didn’t always win the daily battle, but she never stopped trying. That counts for something. That means something.
I hope you can hold on to the truth that she’s at peace now. I know that doesn’t fill the space she’s left behind, but maybe it can soften the edges of the grief you carry. There’s no more suffering for her. No more guilt. No more waking up in that dark place, wondering how to claw her way out again. She’s free. I like to believe she’s somewhere full of light and warmth, where none of the weight follows her anymore.
As someone still walking the recovery path, I want you to know that your daughter’s life—and now her passing—has left a mark on me. A real one. I’ll carry her memory with me in every meeting I go to, every time I share, every day I fight to stay clean. I’ll think of her when I’m tempted to give up. I’ll think of her when I see someone struggling. Her story, her strength, and your love for her will continue to ripple outward, even now.
And you—God, my heart breaks for you. No parent should have to endure what you are enduring. I wish there was something I could do to take even a fragment of that pain from you. Please know that I’m holding space for you in my thoughts and in my heart. I’m praying for peace to come, even if it’s only in the quietest of moments. You deserved more time with your girl. And she deserved more time with you.
Thank you for loving her so fiercely and for never giving up on her. That love carried her farther than you probably know.
With all my heart,
Kyle Borisewich
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.