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.  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.

94. An Easter I’ll Never Forget

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

I’d been arrested before, plenty of times, but this time was different.  The charges I faced weren’t just traffic violations or minor misdemeanors.  They were serious felonies that carried the very real possibility of years behind bars.  The kind of charges that make you stare at a wall and wonder how you let it get this far.

It was a week before Easter in 2019 when it happened.  I pulled into a public lot in Middletown and clipped a parked car without even realizing it.  I was high—Xanax and beer buzzing through my system, numbing everything, including my grip on reality.  I locked the car and stumbled across the street into a bar to keep the buzz going.  It was just another day lost to addiction.  I glanced out the window a while later and saw the red and blue lights flashing in the parking lot right beside my car. Instead of slipping out the back or hiding, I marched right up to the officers—belligerent, arrogant, and completely oblivious to how much trouble I was actually in.  I asked them what they were doing near my car, even though I knew damn well what I had stashed in there.  That’s the insanity of addiction—it doesn’t just rob you of control; it robs you of reason.

The officers informed me I’d been caught on camera hitting the parked car.  Then came the question: “Do you have any weapons or drugs on you?”  That’s when it hit me.  I was cooked.  I admitted there were pills in my car, stuffed inside the door panel and center console.  They searched, and sure enough, found a sandwich bag full of 520 Xanax bars.  That was it.  I was arrested on the spot—charged with felony possession with intent to distribute, several misdemeanors, and a laundry list of traffic violations.

When I finally came to, nearly two days later, I had no idea what I’d even been arrested for.   Blackouts are a terrifying byproduct of mixing alcohol and benzos.  You lose time.  You lose memory. You lose yourself.  I looked down at the word “INMATE” stamped on my jail-issued jumpsuit and felt my stomach drop into a black hole of shame and fear.

They put me in the medical unit, isolated in a cell for over 23 hours a day for a full week.  No books. No TV.  No distractions.  Just a thin mat on a metal cot, a toilet-sink combo, and the suffocating echo of my own thoughts.  Some days I was let out for 30 minutes to shower or make a phone call—other days, not at all.  It felt like time itself had stopped, as if the world outside had forgotten me.  I counted holes in the cinderblock walls to stay sane.  I talked to the ceiling—anything to pass the time, drenched in sweat and regret.  Withdrawal isn’t just a physical torment—it’s emotional warfare.

When Easter finally arrived, the pain of being separated from my family hit me like a freight train.  I pictured them sitting down together, carving the ham, passing rolls, laughing with full bellies and warm hearts—while I sat on a metal stool in my cell, gagging on dry bread dusted with a packet of sugar.  That was the only thing I could stomach.  The food smelled like chemicals and rot.  The kind of scent that doesn’t leave your nose even after you’re free.

That Easter, I didn’t just detox from drugs—I detoxed from who I had become.  I was stripped of everything: my freedom, my health, and my dignity.  But in that silence, I began to hear something I hadn’t in a long time—my own soul begging for another chance.

Someone once told me, “If you forget where you came from, you’re bound to end up right back there.”  That line lives in my head rent-free.  I’ve memorized the pain of that cold jail cell because it reminds me that I never want to go back, not just to jail, but to that lost, broken version of myself.

Today, I’m over eleven months clean and sober.  This past Easter, I got to sit down with my family—clear-eyed, grateful, and free.  We laughed.  We ate, and I held my loved ones close, knowing how easily it all could have slipped through my fingers.  Once again, recovery has given me my life back.  I refuse to throw it away.  Not for a drink.  Not for a pill.  Not for anything.

I hope everyone had a safe, love-filled holiday.  If you’re struggling, know this: no matter how far you’ve fallen, you are not beyond redemption.  There is always hope—even if it starts in the darkest, loneliest places.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

92. More Than a Choice: The Truth About Addiction

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

That statement alone may turn some people away.  "You chose to use," they might say.  "You put that substance in your body.  You could’ve walked away."  And I get it.  On the surface, it looks like a choice.  But no one chooses addiction the way someone chooses a career, a partner, or a hobby. No one dreams of waking up sick every morning, needing a fix just to feel normal.  No one dreams of burning bridges, losing everything, and lying awake at night begging God for mercy, knowing they’ll still use again tomorrow.  That’s not a life anyone would choose. That’s a prison.

Addiction hijacks the brain.  It rewires your reward system, and floods you with dopamine in ways that natural pleasures—like love, success, or even the sound of your child’s laughter—can’t compete with.  Over time, the brain stops caring about anything else.  It becomes obsessed with one thing: the next high.  That’s not weakness.  That’s biology.  That’s chemistry.  That’s a chronic illness just as real as cancer or diabetes.

I didn’t want to hurt the people I loved.  I didn’t want to see the look in my mother’s eyes when I told her I’d relapsed—again.  I didn’t want to break promises to my friends, steal, lie, or isolate myself.  But my disease didn’t care what I wanted. It only cared that I fed it.

There were times I cried in the shower, trying to scrub off the shame, wishing I could go back and make different choices.  By then, I wasn't making choices anymore.  I was responding to a craving so deep, so consuming, it felt like life or death, and sometimes, I chose death.  Over and over again.

But something changed.

It wasn’t some magical moment.  It wasn’t a single rock bottom—there were many.  But eventually, I reached a point where I was tired.  Tired of surviving.  Tired of lying.  Tired of being numb.  I checked into detox again.  My body shook, my stomach twisted, and sleep was a stranger.  I was full of fear, full of guilt.  But underneath it all, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: a flicker of hope.

That hope grew in treatment.  It grew in group therapy, when I looked around and realized I wasn’t alone.  I heard stories that echoed my own.  Stories of lost years, shattered families, near-death experiences . And yet, there we were—still alive, still fighting.  It grew when a counselor told me, “You’re not a bad person trying to be good. You’re a sick person trying to get well.”  That broke me open. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a failure.  I felt human.

Recovery hasn’t been easy.  It’s a daily battle.  Some days, the disease whispers in my ear, telling me I’ll never be enough, that I’ll always be broken.  But now, I know that voice isn’t me.  It’s the illness talking, and I don’t have to listen.

I’ve learned to forgive myself.  That might be the hardest part of all.  I’ve learned that relapse doesn’t mean I’m hopeless—it means I’m still learning.  I’ve learned to ask for help, to admit when I’m struggling, and to reach out instead of retreat,. I’ve learned that vulnerability is strength.

And I’ve learned that I am so much more than my addiction.

I’m a son.  I’m a friend.  I’m a coach.  I’m a writer.  I’m a person with dreams, with a future, with something to give this world.  My disease tried to steal all of that from me.  And for a while, it almost did.  But I’m taking it back—one day at a time.

I write this now for anyone who still believes addiction is a moral failing or a character flaw.  I write this for the families who are losing hope, for the friends who don’t understand, for the employers who can’t see past the stigma.  But most of all, I write this for the addict who feels alone, ashamed, and beyond saving.

You are not your worst day.  You are not your disease.  You are worthy of love, of healing, of a second chance.  Addiction may be a disease—but recovery is possible, and it’s the most courageous thing I’ve ever done.

So, before you judge someone struggling with addiction, remember: that they didn’t choose this.  But they can choose to fight it.  And if they’re lucky—if they have support, treatment, and even just one person who believes in them—that fight can lead to something beautiful.  It can lead to a life worth living.

I know because I’m living it now.

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.

91. H.A.L.T.: The Four Triggers That Almost Took My Life

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

Hungry: The Emptiness That Calls for More

Hunger isn’t just about food.  It’s the hollowness inside me, the aching void that I once filled with substances.  In active addiction, I ignored my body’s real needs, confusing hunger for cravings, and nourishment for numbness.  The hunger wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual, an insatiable emptiness that whispered, You’ll never be whole.

Even now, in recovery, I have to remind myself that hunger is dangerous.  When I let myself get too empty—whether it’s skipping meals, neglecting self-care, or failing to nourish my soul with purpose—I feel the pull of my old life.  The gnawing hunger makes me weak, vulnerable to the thoughts that tell me one time won’t hurt, but I’ve learned that when I feed myself properly—not just with food, but with connection, meaning, and self-love—I am able to silence that voice.

Angry: The Fire That Burns Everything Down

Anger has always been my most dangerous trigger.  When I’m angry, I don’t think—I react.  In the past, I lashed out at the world, convinced that my pain justified my destruction.  When the rage cooled, I was left with the wreckage, the bridges burned, the people I swore I loved looking at me like I was a stranger.  Recovery hasn’t made me immune to anger.  I still feel it, sharp and hot, when things don’t go my way, when the past comes back to haunt me, when I look at the scars—both seen and unseen—left by the years I lost.  Now, I know that anger is just energy, and I get to decide where it goes.  I can let it consume me, or I can channel it into something that doesn’t destroy me.  I can sit with it, breathe through it, and speak it out loud to someone in my support network instead of drowning it in a bottle or a needle.  I remind myself that anger is temporary, but the consequences of my actions in response to it can last forever.

Lonely: The Darkness Where Addiction Thrives

Loneliness is a slow poison.  It seeps into my bones, whispering that no one understands, that no one cares, and that I might as well give up because no one would notice if I did.  In active addiction, I was surrounded by people but lonelier than I’d ever been.  I pushed away the ones who loved me and surrounded myself with those who only wanted my company as long as I could get them high.

Recovery is about connection, but even now, there are moments when the loneliness creeps back in. Nights when I miss the old me—not the destruction, but the illusion of belonging that came with it. I’ve had to learn that loneliness doesn’t mean I’m alone.  It means I need to reach out, to pick up the phone, sit in a meeting, or remind myself that there are people who would drop everything to remind me that I matter.  I just have to let them in.

Tired: The Weakness That Whispers Lies

Exhaustion is dangerous.  When I’m drained, my defenses crumble.  The thoughts creep in: You can’t do this.  You’ll never be enough.  One time won’t kill you.  When I was using, I never truly rested.  I crashed and I blacked out, but I never knew peace.  In recovery, I’ve learned that true rest is more than sleep—it’s allowing myself to stop running, to breathe, and to forgive myself for not being perfect.  When I’m tired, I want an escape.  I want the quiet oblivion that substances once gave me, but I’ve learned the hard way that nothing good comes from making decisions when I’m running on empty.  Now, I give myself permission to rest.  To pause.  To say no when I need to because if I don’t take care of myself, I know where I’ll end up.

H.A.L.T. and the Choice to Live

H.A.L.T. isn’t just an acronym—it’s a warning sign.  A flashing red light that tells me I need to stop and take inventory of where I’m at before I make a choice I can’t take back.  When I feel the cravings, the pull of my old life, I ask myself: Am I hungry?  Angry?  Lonely?  Tired? And almost always, the answer is yes.  Almost always, I can find the root of my pain in one of those four words, but knowing isn’t enough.  Recovery is action.  It’s eating even when I don’t feel like it.  It’s talking even when I’d rather isolate.  It’s forgiving even when I want to hold onto the grudge. It’s resting even when my mind tells me I don’t deserve it.

H.A.L.T. has saved my life more times than I can count.  If you’re struggling, if you’re standing on the edge wondering if it’s worth it to keep fighting—stop.  Breathe.  Ask yourself those four questions. Then do something about it because the fight isn’t won in the big moments. It’s won in the small ones.  The ones where you choose to keep going, one moment, one breath, one step at a time.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.

90. One Year Later: A Letter to the Man I Used to Be

One year. 365 days of complete abstinence from any mood- or mind-altering substances. It hasn’t been easy, but I made it. This milestone means more to me than any birthday I’ve ever celebrated.

A year ago, I was trapped in the relentless grip of addiction.

Today, I stand free.

This is a letter I wrote to myself—a reflection on the challenges, growth, and transformation of the past year. It hasn’t been easy, by any means, but I did it. Here’s to the future.

May 22, 2025

Dear Me—
The broken version of me.  The version who stood in the mirror this exact day one year ago, hollow-eyed, sunken, and desperate.  The version who had just walked into Bon Secours Hospital, more ghost than man.  This letter is for you, from the version of us who lived to tell the story.

We made it.  One year clean.  Three hundred and sixty-five consecutive days.

I can already feel your disbelief.  I know you can’t imagine a world without numbing yourself first.  I know you feel like you’ve let down every single person who ever believed in you.  You’re standing at the edge of yourself, thinking, “There’s no way back.”  But there is.  And I’m here to prove it.

The first thing I want you to know is that recovery wasn’t magic—it was war.  A war you fought in silence, in sleepless nights, in group therapy rooms with flickering lights and folding chairs.  I remember the pain in detox, the shaking, the vomiting, and the waking up in a fog so thick I didn’t know where I was or who I was anymore.  But each day, even when you wanted to walk out, you stayed.  Not because you felt strong, but because something fragile and trembling inside you still wanted to live.

It’s been a year now, and you wouldn’t believe the things we’ve reclaimed.

Do you remember soccer?  How much it meant to us? Well, I’m back on the field.  Coach again.  I was terrified to return, worried that the kids would see through me—see the addict, the failure.  But they just saw Coach Kyle.  They saw someone who believes in them, someone who shows up for them, and someone who knows what a second chance looks like.  I taught them about the game, sure—but they taught me how to laugh again and how to be present.  There’s something holy in the way they run without fear.  I forgot what that felt like.  Until I remembered.

And then—there’s family.

You were so sure they’d given up on you.  I remember the way you avoided your family’s calls, the guilt in their voice when they tried to talk to you about the weather instead of the elephant in the room.  But slowly—beautifully—they came back.  No, we came back.  We sat in the hard conversations.  We listened.  We cried.  We rebuilt trust, brick by brick.  This past Christmas, we all sat at the same table, not pretending, but real.

Of course, it hasn’t all been healing.  There were days when the weight of it nearly crushed me.

There’s no easy way to say this—but we lost people.  People we went to meetings with.  People we swapped stories with.  People who, just like us, wanted to get better.  They didn’t make it.  I stood in the back of more than one funeral home this year, hands clenched, jaw locked, screaming on the inside: Why not me?  Survivor’s guilt is a cruel companion.  It tries to rob the living of their peace.  But I carry their names with me.  I wear their memory like armor.  I owe it to them to keep going.

The cravings didn’t vanish, either.  There were nights when the pull of the bottle came roaring back like a storm through the window.  Nights when loneliness wrapped around me like a second skin, but I didn’t pick up.  I picked up the phone instead.  I called someone.  I told on myself.  I cried.  I told the truth, even when it was messy.  That’s what saved me—telling the truth out loud.

And speaking of telling the truth, writing has been part of my redemption.

The columns I get to write every week for the Independent Republican have become a kind of spiritual practice.  Every sentence I put out into the world carries a piece of my recovery.  Some of them are hard to write.  Some of them made me feel exposed.  But I’ve also gotten letters back from people who said, “Your words helped me hold on one more day.”  That’s when I realized—this isn’t just my story.  It belongs to everyone who’s ever felt broken and dared to hope anyway.

I owe so much to the people who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

To my family, you gave me space to heal, but never stopped reminding me where home was.  To my friends who stuck around, who kept inviting me out even when I said no a dozen times—thank you for not giving up.  To Wendy—thank you for letting me write, for giving me a voice when I thought I had none.  You didn’t just print my words.  You helped me find them.  You reminded me that sharing my story wasn’t selfish—it was survival.

This year wasn’t just about staying clean—it was about building a life that makes staying clean worth it.

I still miss the old version of me sometimes.  Not the addict, but the dreamer.  The hopeful kid who believed in second chances before he ever needed one.  I’ve found him again, in pieces—in the laughter of my players, in the late-night talks with my family, in the way my hands shake not from withdrawal, but from writing something that matters.

So here we are.  One year sober.  One year free.  One year alive.

And if you’re reading this somewhere in your own day one, thinking you can’t possibly make it to Day 365—let me tell you something from the other side: You can.  You will.  Just keep showing up.

Because if someone like me can change, then so can you.

With all the grace in the world,
—Me

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.

89. The Importance of Failure

Failure.  It’s an ugly word.  A word that tastes like regret, burns like shame, and lingers like a ghost in the mind.  Failure is the thing I once feared the most, the very thing that threatened to define me.  For years, I ran from it, hid from it, numbed it with substances.  I convinced myself that if I could just stay ahead of failure, maybe I could outrun the pain.  Boy, was I wrong.  It took me years to understand that failure was not my enemy.  It was my teacher.

As an addict in recovery, I have failed more times than I can count.  I have stood on the edge of sobriety, promising myself and the people who love me that I was done, that I was stronger this time around, and that I had learned my lesson.  Yet, I fell.  Again and again, I fell.  Each relapse felt like a betrayal—not just to those who believed in me but to myself.  I would wake up, sick and ashamed, wondering how I had let it happen, how I had lost control again, and how I had once again become the person I swore I’d never go back to.

In those moments, failure felt like the end of everything.  It felt like proof that I was broken beyond repair.  That I was undeserving of a second chance—much less a tenth or twentieth one.  But somewhere along the way, through the darkness, I began to realize that failure wasn’t the final word in my story.  It was just a chapter.

Recovery is not a straight path.  It is not a single moment of triumph or a single victory where the battle is won and never revisited.  Recovery is war—daily, relentless, and sometimes exhausting.  It is the fight of a lifetime, and in that fight, failure is inevitable.  But failure is also necessary.  It humbles us.  It reminds us that we are not invincible, that we are human, and that the demons we face are real and strong but not unbeatable.  I used to believe that failure meant I was weak.  What I’ve come to understand is that failure means I am trying.  That I am still here, still standing, still fighting.  The only true failure is in giving up, in refusing to get back up after falling.  And so, I rise.  I rise not because I have never fallen but because I have learned to stand again.

There is a certain pain in failure that I would not wish on anyone.  The look of disappointment in my family’s eyes, the way friends slowly drifted away, the trust that took years to rebuild—all of it hurt in a way I cannot put into words, but in that pain, there was also growth.  Every failure forced me to look at myself more honestly.  Every failure stripped away another layer of denial, another excuse, another illusion that I could do this alone.  Every failure pushed me to seek help, to open up, to surrender to the truth that I could not heal in isolation.

One of the greatest lessons I have learned in recovery is that failure is not the opposite of success.  It is part of it.  Each stumble, each setback, and each moment of weakness has shaped me.  It has made me more resilient, more self-aware, more willing to do the hard work of healing.  I am not proud of my failures, but I am grateful for what they have taught me.  Failure has shown me who truly stands by my side—not just when I am doing well but when I am at my lowest.  Failure has taught me the importance of accountability, the power of vulnerability, and the necessity of grace—both from others and myself.  It has reminded me that perfection is an illusion and that real strength is found not in never falling but in always getting back up.

There was a time when I believed that my failures defined me.  That I was nothing more than the sum of my mistakes, my bad choices, and my broken promises.  Today, I know better.  I am not my failures.  I am what I choose to do with them.  I am the man who refuses to give up.  I am the man who keeps fighting.  I am the man who, despite the weight of his past, is still moving forward.  To anyone who feels lost in their own failure, who feels like they have fallen too many times to ever rise again—please hear me when I say this: You are not beyond saving.  Your failures do not define you. What defines you is what you do next.  So stand.  Try again.  Fail if you must, but never stop moving forward.  Failure is not the end of the road.  It is just part of the journey.

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.

88. Co-Occurring Disorders

Co-occurring disorders.  Dual diagnosis.  Comorbidity.  Whatever name they go by, they are a cruel, tangled mess that has defined much of my life.  To someone on the outside, it might seem like a simple equation: addiction and mental illness feed off each other in a never-ending cycle of destruction.  But for those of us who live it, for those of us who wake up every day and carry the unbearable weight of our own minds, it's so much more than that.

I have battled substance abuse, and alongside it, I have fought the relentless grip of major depressive disorder, oppositional defiant disorder, bipolar disorder, and generalized anxiety.  I have tried to untangle the threads of my suffering, but they are knotted so tightly together that I have come to understand—this is not a matter of cause and effect.  It is a war fought on multiple fronts, where victory feels impossible, and surrender is always whispering in my ear.

Depression has been my constant companion, lurking in the shadows even in moments when I should have been happy.  It drapes itself over me like a heavy, wet blanket, suffocating and draining me of motivation, making some of the simplest tasks feel insurmountable.  It tells me I am worthless and that no matter how hard I try, I will fail.  It whispers that I am a burden to those who love me, that the world would spin just fine without me in it.  When you believe that lie long enough, when it becomes your truth, illicit substances start to look like salvation.

Then, there is the oppositional defiant disorder.  That part of me that has always raged against authority, against the rules, against anyone who tried to tell me how I should live my life.  It started when I was a kid, a deep-seated anger that no amount of discipline or reasoning could touch.  When people told me to go left, I went right.  When they told me to stop, I ran.  When they told me that substances would ruin my life, I dove in headfirst.

Addiction came like a thief in the night, whispering promises of relief and escape.  At first, it felt like freedom.  It quieted the depression, muted the anxiety, and made the rage inside me feel like it had a place to go.  It tricked me into thinking I had found the answer, that I had finally found something stronger than the demons in my head.  But addiction is a liar.  It does not grant peace; it steals it.  It does not free you; it shackles you.  And soon, I was drowning in the very thing I thought would save me.

Then came the bipolar disorder.  The endless, exhausting pendulum swings between euphoria and despair.  The manic highs where I felt invincible, where I could conquer the world, where my thoughts raced so fast I couldn't keep up.  And then the crashes—the brutal, merciless crashes that left me shattered, desperate to feel anything other than the abyss swallowing me whole.  Drugs and alcohol became my crutch, my medicine, my way of smoothing out the unbearable peaks and valleys.  They only made it worse.  They fueled the highs, deepened the lows, and took me further from the person I was meant to be.

And anxiety—oh, the anxiety.  The constant, suffocating fear that coils around my chest like a vice. The relentless worry, the irrational panic, the racing heart that beats like a war drum in my ribcage. The belief that everything is about to fall apart, even when there is no reason for it.  The certainty that I am not safe, that I will never be safe.  I tried to drink it away, to numb it with pills, but addiction does not heal anxiety.  It breeds it, amplifies it, and turns it into something even more monstrous.

And so, the cycle continued.  One disorder fed into the next, addiction fueling them all, a never-ending downward spiral that seemed impossible to escape.  Until one day, I had to make a choice: keep falling or fight like hell to climb out.

Recovery is not a straight road.  It is a battlefield.  It is waking up every day and choosing, again and again, not to let these disorders define me.  It is facing the wreckage I have caused, the relationships I have shattered, the people I have hurt, and learning how to make amends.  It is learning to live without the substances that once felt like my only lifeline.

It is therapy, where I’ve sat with my pain and unpacked the trauma I tried to bury.  It is non-narcotic medications, learning to trust that the right treatment can help me balance what I could never balance on my own.  It is structure, routine, and self-care—things that once felt foreign to me but are now my armor against the chaos inside.

Today, I take multiple non-narcotic medications to help manage my mental illnesses.  It took time to find the right combination, but these medications have given me a stability I never thought possible. They do not erase my struggles, nor do they make life easy, but they allow me to function, to think clearly, and to fight my battles with a fair chance.  For so long, I resisted the idea of medication, believing I had to tough it out on my own, but I have learned that real strength is accepting the help I need to heal.  It is understood that I will always live with these disorders, but they do not have to control me.  That addiction is a disease, but it is not my identity.  That I am more than my mistakes, more than my darkest moments, more than the pain I have endured.

It is hard. Gosh, it is so hard. There are days I want to give up, days when the weight feels too heavy, and when the temptation to numb it all away is deafening. But then I remember why I chose recovery. I remember the people who believe in me, even when I don’t believe in myself. I remember that I have made it through the nights I thought would kill me, and I hold onto hope—the fragile, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, I can build a life worth living. Co-occurring disorders tried to break me. Addiction tried to bury me. But I am still here. I am still fighting, and as long as I have breath in my lungs, I will keep choosing recovery—one day, one hour, one moment 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.

87. Choosing Your Friends Wisely in Recovery

Recovery from addiction is one of the most challenging and transformative journeys a person can undertake.  It requires immense discipline, self-awareness, and an unwavering commitment to change.  However, one of the most overlooked aspects of recovery is the importance of choosing the right friends.  The people we surround ourselves with can either support and uplift us or drag us back into the cycle of addiction.  This makes the process of selecting friends an essential part of long-term sobriety.  When I first got sober, I thought I could do it without changing too much about my life.  I truly believed I could hang out with the same people, go to the same places, and just white-knuckle my way through it.  I convinced myself that I was strong enough to be around some of my old friends without slipping back into old habits.  Recovery doesn’t work that way, and I learned that the hard way.

Human beings are inherently social creatures, and the people we associate with shape our thoughts, behaviors, and decisions.  For someone in recovery, having a strong support system is crucial, as addiction often thrives in isolation and negative environments.  Surrounding oneself with positive, understanding, and supportive individuals can reinforce healthy habits and provide the emotional strength needed to resist temptation.

The people we surround ourselves with can make or break us in recovery.  This isn’t just a cliché—it’s a truth I’ve felt in my bones.  Early on, I had to take a long, painful look at the friendships I had built over the years.  Some of these people have been in my life forever.  They had seen me at my best and my worst.  Some of them had been right there in the trenches with me, passing bottles, popping pills, and lighting up in the darkness.  There was comfort in that shared chaos, in knowing we had survived it together, but survival isn’t the same as living, and I wanted to live.

One of the hardest lessons in recovery is learning that not all friendships are meant to last.  It can be painful to walk away from long-term relationships, but sometimes, it is necessary for personal growth and sobriety.  Recognizing when a friendship is toxic and having the courage to step away can be life-saving.  Letting go does not mean harboring resentment or anger.  Instead, it means accepting that some people are not aligned with your journey and wishing them well from a distance.  In doing so, you create space for new, healthier relationships that truly support your recovery.

The hardest part wasn’t recognizing that some of my friendships were unhealthy.  The hardest part was accepting that I had to step away from them, even from people I still loved.  It felt like another loss, another thing addiction had stolen from me.  At times, I grieved those friendships like death because, in some ways, they were deaths—the death of a version of myself I could no longer be, the death of connections built on self-destruction rather than growth.

On the other hand, maintaining relationships with people who enable or encourage substance use can be dangerous.  Even if they do not explicitly pressure an individual to relapse, simply being around those who engage in unhealthy behaviors can create an atmosphere of temptation.  It is critical to recognize that influence is powerful, and even the strongest willpower can be eroded by continuous exposure to negative influences.

I had friends who felt like I was abandoning them.  People who accused me of thinking I was “better” than them now.  That cut deep because I knew exactly what they meant.  I had been that person before—watching someone else get sober while I was still lost in my addiction.  I had rolled my eyes at them, convinced they would eventually come back to the fold.  I had told myself they were just in a “phase.”  And now, on the other side of it, I understood.  My recovery was a mirror they didn’t want to look into, just like I once hadn’t wanted to see my own reflection.

Letting go of those friendships left me feeling isolated at times.  There were days when I thought, “Is this really worth it if I have to be alone?” But then I started to find my people—the ones who didn’t just tolerate my recovery but celebrated it.  People who didn’t just avoid drinking around me but who actively encouraged my growth.  People who held me accountable without judgment and who reminded me, on the hardest days, why I chose sobriety in the first place.  These friendships weren’t built overnight.  Trust had to be earned; walls had to be broken down. But they became my lifeline.  I realized that true friends don’t put you in harm’s way.  They don’t test your limits just to see if you’ll break. True friends don’t make you feel guilty for choosing yourself.  And the best ones?  Well, they walk beside you.

The company we keep has a profound impact on our recovery journey.  Choosing friends wisely is not just about avoiding bad influences but about actively seeking those who uplift, support, and encourage us to be our best selves.  It requires a careful balance of discernment, patience, and self-respect.  While it can be difficult to recognize friendships or relationships that no longer serve us, doing so is a necessary step in maintaining long-term sobriety.  By surrounding ourselves with positive influences and cultivating genuine, healthy friendships, we give ourselves the best chance at a fulfilling, sober life.  One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that recovery is a journey best traveled with people who truly have our best interests at heart.

If you’re in recovery, I won’t tell you that letting go of certain friendships will be easy.  It won’t be.  It might be one of the hardest things you ever do.  But I will tell you this: It’s worth it because the friendships you gain in sobriety, the ones built on honesty, love, and mutual respect—those are the friendships that will save your life.  And nothing, no memory, no misplaced loyalty, no temporary loneliness, is worth sacrificing that.  There will be moments when nostalgia sneaks in, and you wonder what it would be like to go back for just one night, one drink, one taste of what was left behind.  In those moments, remind yourself that you didn’t just leave your addiction behind—you left the pain, the regret, the self-loathing.  You left the friendships that only existed in the fog of substance abuse.  You left the chaos that you once called home.  Choose wisely.  Choose people who choose you—your real, sober, healing self.  It’s the best gift you can give to yourself, and it’s one you deserve.

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.

86. Managing Impulsivity in Sobriety

Impulsivity is acting without thinking about the long-term consequences.  It’s the quick decision to give in to an urge, the knee-jerk reaction in a moment of emotional overwhelm.  In everyday life, that might look like interrupting someone mid-sentence, spending money you don’t have, or blurting something out that you can’t take back.  For someone like me who struggles with addiction, impulsivity becomes far more dangerous.  It fuels the cycle of substance use, driving us to chase instant relief without considering the damage we’re doing to ourselves and the people we care about.

In addiction, impulsivity and compulsion often blend together.  It stops being about a conscious choice and starts feeling automatic.  I remember so many moments when I acted on impulse and picked up, knowing full well it would end in guilt, shame, and withdrawal.  I’d tell myself it would be different this time, but deep down, I knew that wasn’t true.

Neurologically, impulsivity is connected to how our brains process rewards and manage self-control.  The prefrontal cortex—the part responsible for thinking ahead and making rational decisions—often loses out to the reward center, which craves instant satisfaction.  That’s why the urge to use feels so overwhelming in the moment.  Our brains prioritize short-term relief over long-term consequences, and before we know it, we’ve acted on that impulse.

Impulsivity has always been a big part of my story.  Looking back, I can see how acting on impulse without thinking things through played a major role in my addiction.  Whether it was reaching for the next drink or drug to escape a feeling I didn’t want to face or making rash decisions in moments of frustration or sadness, impulsivity was a constant.  At first, it felt harmless—like part of my personality. I was the spontaneous one who could make things happen fast, but as my addiction progressed, impulsivity became a trap.

There were countless times when I told myself I’d stay clean, only to throw it all away in a single impulsive moment.  One minute, I’d be feeling strong and committed to my recovery, and the next, I’d be caught in a storm of emotions.  Instead of pausing to think about the consequences, I’d convince myself that one slip wouldn’t hurt, but it always hurt—every single time.  Each time, picking up again felt more like a decision made without my permission, like I had lost control of my ability to choose.

My impulsivity didn’t start with substances—it showed up long before that.  I was always the kid who couldn’t sit still.  I’d speak without thinking, start things I couldn’t finish, and I always would jump into situations without considering the risks.  At the time, it seemed like part of my personality—something that made me adventurous and bold, but as I got older, impulsivity caused more and more problems.

I remember one night in particular.  I was fresh out of treatment, feeling good about my progress and determined to stay clean.  Then, without warning, an argument triggered me.  My mind started racing: Just one drink will calm you down, that voice whispered.  I acted on the impulse before I even had time to second-guess it.  I didn’t call anyone or sit with the feelings that were bubbling up. Instead, I gave in.  That impulsive moment sent me spiraling, and it took months to climb out of that hole again.

Impulsivity has also destroyed relationships in my life.  I made promises I couldn’t keep, hurt people who cared about me, and acted recklessly with no regard for the impact it would have on others. My family saw me struggle to control my urges and watched helplessly as I made the same mistakes over and over again.  Even when I was in a good place mentally, impulsivity could still sneak up on me.

The worst part about impulsivity is that it feels like freedom in the moment.  There’s a rush that comes with acting on an urge.  What I learned is that the consequences always catch up, and they’re rarely worth the fleeting satisfaction of that impulsive choice.

Recovery has taught me that managing impulsivity is possible, but it takes a lot of work.  One of the first lessons I learned in rehab was the power of the pause.  It sounds so simple: just pause before making a decision, but when your brain is wired for quick fixes, pausing can feel like climbing a mountain.  For me, it took practice.  Now, whenever I feel an urge—whether it’s to act on a craving or lash out in frustration—I try to give myself a few seconds to breathe and check in with myself.  I ask, “Is this what I really want?  What’s going to happen if I act on this?”  More often than not, taking that pause is enough to stop me from making an impulsive decision I’ll later regret.

Mindfulness has also become a big part of my recovery.  I was very skeptical at first, but learning to stay present in the moment has been life-changing.  Breathing exercises and grounding techniques help me stay connected to reality instead of getting caught up in my emotions.  Writing this weekly article is another tool that keeps me grounded.  Writing out my thoughts helps me process what I’m feeling and identify patterns in my behavior.

I’ve also learned the importance of accountability.  I have people in my life now—my therapist, my support network, my family—who help me stay on track.  I’m honest with them when I feel those impulsive urges creeping in, and that honesty gives me the space to work through my emotions without acting on them.

Managing impulsivity is still a work in progress for me.  There are days when it feels like second nature to pause and think things through, and there are other days when I struggle. What recovery has taught me is that I don’t have to be perfect.  I just have to keep trying.  When I was in active addiction, impulsivity ran my life.  Now, I’m learning how to take that power back.  Every time I pause, reflect, and make an intentional choice, I’m building a better future for myself.  Recovery is about progress, not perfection, and learning to manage impulsivity has been one of the most important steps in that process.

For anyone struggling with impulsivity, my advice is simple: Slow down, breathe, and give yourself permission to sit with your feelings before you act on them.  It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.  Every second you pause is a victory, and every intentional decision is a step toward a better 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.

85. Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes: A Reflection on Recovery & Renewal

There’s a phrase you hear often in recovery circles: “If nothing changes, nothing changes.”  At first, it sounds like one of those self-help mantras that’s easy to dismiss—just another slogan tacked to a wall.  The deeper I go into this recovery journey, the more I realize how much weight those five words carry.  They cut right to the heart of what it takes to reclaim a life lost to addiction.  It’s remarkably simple yet very profound.  If I do what I’ve always done, I’ll get the same heartbreaking results.  I'll stay destroyed if I cling to the patterns that have destroyed me time and time again.  Trust me on this one.  I’ve lived it.  I’ve been trapped in the cycle, and I’ve tasted the consequences of refusing to change.

When I first entered treatment in 2018, I was desperate for things to be different, but I didn’t fully understand what that would require.  I thought detoxing would be enough—that all I needed was to clear the drugs from my system, and the rest would fall into place.  I wasn’t ready to face the deeper truths about what had brought me to the edge.  I wasn’t ready to let go of the parts of me that were clinging to chaos and self-destruction.  Here’s the hard truth: detox is just the beginning.  You can’t stop there and expect miracles to start happening.  After the physical pain passes, you’re left staring at the wreckage of your life, at the wreckage you created, and that’s where the real work begins—the slow, painful process of change.  Real change.  I’m not talking about surface-level adjustments but soul-deep transformation.

In early recovery, I desperately feared change.  I told myself I didn’t, but I was lying.  Change meant letting go of everything familiar, even the things that hurt me.  Change meant stepping into the unknown, and there’s nothing more terrifying than the unknown when you’ve spent years numbing every uncomfortable feeling.  It felt safer to stay in the misery I knew than to risk something new, something uncertain.

But nothing changes if nothing changes.

I learned that lesson the hard way.  I thought I could coast after my first treatment.  I thought I had it figured out.  I thought I was “fixed.”  Then the relapse hit.  One slip became a slide in what felt like the blink of an eye; everything I’d worked for in treatment unraveled.  I found myself right back where I’d started—or maybe even further down.  The shame was suffocating.  The disappointment in myself cut deeper than anything anyone else could have said or done.  What broke me wasn’t just the relapse.  It was the realization that I’d fooled myself into thinking I could hold on to parts of my old life and still stay sober.  I hadn’t changed enough.  I hadn’t committed fully to the hard work.

When I walked into detox a few years later, I was stripped down to nothing.  I was physically sick, emotionally wrecked, and spiritually bankrupt.  I didn’t know if I could do it again.  I didn’t know if I had the strength to face the mountain of work ahead of me, but I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t go back.  If I went back, it would kill me.  Maybe not right away, but eventually.

This time, I listened more.  I humbled myself.  I stopped trying to control everything and accepted help.  I showed up to every group session even when my body ached and my mind begged me to stay in bed.  I was honest in my reflections, even when the truth made me feel raw and exposed.  I dug into the parts of myself I had tried to hide for so long—the deep wounds, the buried grief, the shame I carried from years of letting people down.  Most of all, I leaned into change.  I embraced it, even when it felt like walking into a storm without an umbrella.

I’ve learned that change doesn’t happen in a single, sweeping moment.  It’s a series of small, deliberate choices—showing up for myself every day, even when it’s hard.  It’s reaching out for help when I want to isolate.  It’s choosing honesty over denial, connection over escape, and hope over despair.  Change is uncomfortable.  It’s often messy, painful, and slow, but it’s also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced because on the other side of it is freedom.  I’m not the same person I was when I first walked into treatment.  I don’t say that to boast, because it’s not the result of my own brilliance or strength.  It’s the result of surrender—of trusting the process, trusting my counselors, and trusting that the pain of transformation is worth it.  And it is.

Recovery has given me a second chance at life.  It’s given me the chance to rebuild relationships I thought were lost forever.  It’s given me the chance to look in the mirror without shame.  Most of all, it’s given me hope—a fragile but powerful thing I never thought I’d have again.

“If nothing changes, nothing changes.”  It’s not just a slogan.  It’s a challenge.  It’s a call to action.  It’s a reminder that staying the same is a death sentence for someone like me.  If I want to live—not just survive, but truly live—I have to keep changing.  I have to keep growing.  I’m still on this journey.  I’m still learning, still stumbling, still finding my way.  But I know one thing for sure: I’m not going back.  Change is hard, but it’s worth it.  Every single day, it’s worth it.

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.

84. A Thousand-Pound Phone: The Weight of Asking for Help

Sometimes, a phone can feel like a thousand-pound weight.  It sits there, just inches away, yet the act of picking it up and dialing a number can feel impossible.  When someone is suffering in active addiction, reaching out for help isn’t just difficult—it feels insurmountable.  For years, I believed that asking for help was a weakness.  I thought it meant I wasn’t strong enough to handle my problems on my own, that it was an admission of failure, but I know now that the ability to ask for help is one of the greatest strengths a person can have.

Addiction is a disease that thrives in isolation.  It convinces us that we are alone, that no one could possibly understand our struggle, and that we are beyond saving.  It warps our thinking, making us believe that reaching out for help would only bring judgment, rejection, or disappointment.  The shame of our actions, our failures, and our struggles builds a wall around us, making it even harder to let anyone in.  The idea of exposing our pain, our weakness, and our failures to another person feels unbearable.

For a long time, I lived in that mindset.  I was trapped in my own addiction, unable to see a way out.  I told myself I could handle it, that I could stop whenever I wanted to, and that I didn’t need anyone else, but deep down, I was terrified.  Every time I hit rock bottom, every time I swore I would change, I found myself right back in the same place, and still, I refused to ask for help.  It wasn’t just about pride—it was about fear.  Fear of being seen as weak, fear of admitting that I wasn’t in control, fear of what would come next if I did reach out.

There were moments when I wanted to pick up the phone, and I thought about calling someone—anyone—and telling them that I couldn’t do it on my own.  The human mind is extremely powerful, and my mind always found a reason not to.  What if they don’t understand? What if they judge me?  What if they don’t pick up?  The weight of those questions kept my hands frozen and kept the phone untouched.  I convinced myself that suffering in silence was the better option because at least then I wasn’t burdening anyone else with my problems.

The truth is that suffering in silence is exactly what addiction wants.  It feeds on secrecy, shame, and isolation.  It tells us that we’re better off alone, that no one could possibly help us, and the longer we believe that the deeper we sink.  Looking back now, I see how much damage that belief caused me.  It kept me trapped in a cycle of destruction, refusing to reach for the very thing that could have saved me.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point.  I couldn’t keep up the facade anymore.  I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.  I had tried every excuse, every rationalization, and every lie I could tell myself.  None of it was working.  I knew that if I didn’t do something differently, I wasn’t going to make it.  So, with shaking hands and a racing heart, I finally picked up the phone.  It felt like the hardest thing I had ever done, but it also turned out to be the most important.  When I finally asked for help, I didn’t find judgment—I found understanding.  I didn’t find rejection—I found support.  I wasn’t met with anger or disappointment—I was met with people who wanted to see me get better and who were willing to walk with me through my recovery.  I had spent so long convincing myself that I had to do it alone that I never stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, people wanted to help me.  The truth is that asking for help is not a weakness.  It takes incredible strength to admit that we need others, to put aside our pride and fear, and to reach out. It takes courage to say, “I can’t do this alone.”  Once I finally understood that, my entire perspective changed.  Recovery isn’t about going it alone—it’s about community, about connection, and about allowing others to lift us up when we can’t stand on our own.

That’s not to say it became easy.  Even after making that first call, I still struggled with the idea of relying on others.  I had spent so long pretending to be strong and pretending I had it all together that it felt unnatural to let people see my vulnerability, but the more I allowed myself to lean on others, the more I realized how much I had been missing.  There is a profound strength in allowing yourself to be helped, in admitting that you don’t have all the answers, and in trusting others enough to let them in.

I think about all the times I sat staring at my phone, all the moments I came so close to reaching out but didn’t.  I wonder how different things might have been if I had understood sooner what I know now.  I also know that I can’t change the past.  What I can do is share my experience, so that maybe someone else who is struggling and who is staring at their own phone, feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, might find the strength to pick it up.  If I could say one thing to anyone who is suffering in silence, it would be this: You are NOT alone.  You do not have to fight this battle by yourself.  There are people who care, who want to help, and who will stand by you no matter how many times you fall.  The hardest step is the first one—but once you take it, you will realize that you were never as alone as you thought, and that, in itself, is the beginning of healing.  Asking for help was the hardest thing I ever did, but it was also the best decision I ever made.  If you’re struggling right now and you feel trapped in that same cycle, I want you to know that you have that strength too. You just have to take that first step and pick up the phone.

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.

83. Lessons from a Jail Cell

The last time I was in jail is a memory etched deeply into my mind, a turning point that, though profound, did not result in an immediate change for me.  It began one fateful afternoon when my reckless decisions came to a head.  I crashed into a parked car, and when the police arrived, they discovered I was in possession of 550 Xanax pills.  I was charged with a class B felony of criminal possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, along with driving while intoxicated (DWI) and leaving the scene of an accident.  The gravity of those charges didn’t fully hit me until I was processed at the police station, standing under the fluorescent lights, being fingerprinted and photographed for my mugshot.  That evening, I was arraigned in court.  The judge’s stern words were a blur as my mind raced through the events from earlier in the day.  Shortly after, I was transported to Orange County Jail, where I would end up spending Easter of 2019.  It wasn’t just the humiliation of incarceration that awaited me; I was also about to face the brutal physical toll of detoxing cold turkey—a term used to describe abruptly stopping the use of substances without any medical tapering or substitutes.

Upon arriving at the jail, I was sent to the medical ward, where I was placed in a single cell to detox.  The cell was barren, containing only a metal cot, a toilet, and a sink.  They gave me a thin blanket, a set of jail-issued clothes, a few toiletries, and a handbook containing the rules of the jail.  I was not allowed anything else.  I spent 23 and a half hours a day locked in that small, cold cell.  The only time I was let out was for a 30-minute window to take a shower and make a phone call.  On some days, even that half-hour was taken from me because the guards were busy dealing with other prisoners.  I remember staring at the walls for hours, counting the holes in the concrete blocks to pass the time.  It was maddening because time seemed to stand still for hours on end.

The detox itself was a cold turkey withdrawal.  It was pure agony.  My body rebelled against me, desperate for the substances it had grown dependent on.  I was drenched in sweat, my blanket soaked through and offering no comfort.  Despite shivering uncontrollably, I couldn’t get warm.  The showers barely got above lukewarm, adding to the discomfort.  Every muscle in my body ached, and the nausea was relentless.  My head pounded as if it were in a vice, and sleep was nearly impossible.  Every moment felt like an eternity.

The food was another ordeal.  The trays they slid through the slot in the door contained meals that were barely edible. Everything seemed to resemble potato salad—a pale, mushy concoction with a nauseating smell that I can still recall vividly.  I was barely able to eat anything they served.  Most days I only ate a single slice of bread that I washed down with tap water.

Amid this bleak environment, one guard stood out to me.  While most of the staff treated inmates with indifference or disdain, this particular guard—I never learned his name—showed me an unexpected kindness.  One day, during a brief interaction, he said something that has stuck with me ever since: “The only difference between me and you is that you got caught.”  His words hit me hard.  They reminded me of the thin line separating those who end up in jail from those who don’t.  He treated me like an equal, not just another inmate, and that small gesture of humanity meant more than I can express.

Spending Easter in jail was a sobering experience.  It was a day that should have been filled with family, hope, and renewal, but instead, I spent it isolated and reflecting on the choices that had brought me there.  For most people, an experience like this would serve as a wake-up call, a lesson learned the hard way.  And while I wish I could say that it did for me, the truth is far more complicated.

Not long after my release, I returned to the same destructive patterns. The pull of addiction proved too powerful, and I found myself unable to break free.  The disease of addiction doesn’t care about your intentions or the lessons you’ve learned; it consumes your thoughts, your willpower, and your ability to see a way out.  It wasn’t long before I landed in a nearly identical situation, repeating the same mistakes despite knowing where they would lead.

Looking back, my time in jail should have been enough to scare me straight.  The isolation, the physical pain of detox, and the loss of freedom were things I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but addiction is a relentless force, one that doesn’t yield to logic or fear.  It took many more mistakes, losses, and moments of despair before I truly began to fight for my recovery.  For those who have never experienced addiction, it can be difficult to understand why someone would continue down such a destructive path after facing such severe consequences, but addiction is not a choice; it’s a disease, one that hijacks your brain and convinces you that you need the very thing that’s destroying you. It’s a battle that requires not just willpower but also support, treatment, and an unrelenting commitment to change.

My time in Orange County Jail is a chapter of my life that I’ll never forget.  It’s a stark reminder of the depths I’ve been to and the pain I’ve endured.  While it didn’t immediately change my path, it planted a seed of awareness that would eventually grow into the determination to seek a better life. Today, I’m still fighting that battle, one day at a time, and I’m determined to use my experiences to help others who are struggling with the same demons.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that recovery is possible, but it’s a journey that requires patience, resilience, and an unwavering belief in the possibility of change.

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.

82. Letters That Saved Me: A Lifeline in My Darkest Hour

This past week, as I was organizing my closet, I stumbled upon a box that stopped me in my tracks.  It was tucked away in a corner, its edges worn and its lid slightly askew, as if it had been waiting for me to find it.  Inside were nearly one hundred letters, each written during one of the darkest times in my life: my stay at The Odyssey House rehab this past summer.  These weren’t just pieces of paper.  They were lifelines—tangible reminders of hope, connection, and humanity at a time when I felt like I was drowning.

I remember the first letter I received.  It was from my best friend’s mom; someone I’d known for years but never truly spoken to in a meaningful way.  Her words were like a warm hand on my shoulder, grounding me when everything else felt chaotic.  She shared excerpts from the Bible and her unwavering belief that I had the strength to overcome the battle I was fighting.  That letter sparked something in me—a small flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness of my early days in rehab.

Then the letters began pouring in.  Some were from my readers—people who had followed my column and reached out to tell me that my words had touched their lives in ways I couldn’t have imagined.  They spoke of their own struggles, their triumphs, and their belief that I could find my way back to the person I wanted to be.  Many of these people were strangers, faceless names who felt like friends when I read their heartfelt words.  They didn’t know me personally, but they believed in me.  That belief was something I desperately needed, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

Others were from people I had never heard of, complete strangers who had learned about my situation through friends of friends or community groups.  These letters were filled with words of encouragement, Bible verses, poems, and simple notes that said, “I’m rooting for you.”  Some included little gifts—cookies, handmade bookmarks, or even pictures of some of the soccer players I coach.  Each one was a reminder that I wasn’t alone, even when it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on me.

At The Odyssey House, I was at one of the lowest points in my life.  I had relapsed after nearly four years of sobriety.  I felt like I had let everyone down—my family, my friends, my readers, and myself.  I was battling intense feelings of shame and guilt, emotions so heavy they threatened to crush any hope I had left.  And yet, almost every day, I would sit in my room, open a letter, and feel a little less alone.  These letters became part of my routine.  In the quiet hours of the evening, when the restlessness of withdrawal crept in, I would reach for the box on my bedside table.  Each envelope held a new story, a new piece of encouragement.  Some nights, I’d tear up as I read, overwhelmed by the kindness of people who took the time to write to me.  Other nights, I’d laugh at a funny anecdote or a quirky doodle someone included.  Those letters didn’t just distract me from the pain; they reminded me that there was still good in the world and that maybe—just maybe—I could be part of it again.

Even now, with nearly eight months of sobriety behind me, those letters continue to hold power.  On hard days, I revisit them.  I run my fingers over the inked words, rereading the messages that carried me through some of the toughest moments of my life.  The letters remind me of how far I’ve come, but they also remind me of the responsibility I carry to honor the faith so many people placed in me. They serve as a testament to the fact that, no matter how broken we feel, there are people who see our worth and want to help us piece ourselves back together.  What moves me most about these letters is how they represent the best of humanity—people reaching out to someone they might never meet, offering their time, their words, and their love without expecting anything in return.  They didn’t fix me; that work had to come from within, but they gave me the strength to believe that I was worth fixing, and that was the first step.

Today, that box isn’t just a collection of letters—it’s a treasure chest of resilience and hope.  It’s proof that small acts of kindness can ripple outward, touching lives in ways we may never fully understand.  It’s a reminder that connection, even with strangers, can be one of the most powerful tools we have in the face of adversity.  As I reflect on those letters, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the words that lifted me when I couldn’t lift myself, for the people who reminded me that I mattered, and for the lessons they taught me about the importance of community and compassion.  I don’t know where I’d be today without those letters, but I do know that they helped me find the strength to keep going when giving up felt so much easier.

To everyone who wrote to me—my family, my best friend’s mom, my readers, and the strangers who chose to care—thank you.  Your words were more than ink on paper.  They were hope, love, and life itself.  I promise to carry them with me, always.

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.

81. Grief, Guilt, & Grace: My Return to My Best Friend’s Gravesite

The drive to the cemetery felt endless.  Each mile stretched out, heavy with good memories my best friend and I had shared over the years. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than they needed to, my knuckles pale against my skin.  A part of me had always known this moment would come, but I had convinced myself I wasn’t ready—maybe I never would be.  Returning to my best friend’s gravesite for the first time since his passing was something I had avoided for too long-seven months to be exact.  The weight of grief mixed with guilt made it easier to stay away, to pretend that not going meant I wasn’t really running.

He had passed away in May 2024, and now, in January 2025, I was finally facing what I had spent months avoiding. In the months since his death, my life had been a spiral, one I was only just beginning to climb out of.  Addiction had stolen so much from me, turning the world into a haze where loss and love blurred together in the fog of my using.  I had numbed myself against the pain of losing him, convincing myself that as long as I kept moving—kept using—I wouldn’t have to face it. Now, sober and forced to feel everything I had once tried to escape, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. His absence had never left me, and neither had the guilt of surviving when he hadn’t.

As I pulled into the cemetery, my heart pounded against my ribs.  I sat in the car, gripping the keys in my lap, staring out at the rows of headstones.  The air felt thick, pressing in on me as if the universe itself knew how heavy this moment was.  For minutes—maybe longer—I couldn’t make myself move. I had pictured this day so many times, rehearsed what I would say, how I would stand before his grave and somehow make things right.  Now that I was here, nothing felt right at all.

Finally, I forced myself out of the car.  My legs felt unsteady beneath me as I walked toward the spot I had avoided for so long.  The winter wind bit at my skin, the leaves rustling softly around me.  And then, there it was—his name carved into a metal plate, the finality of it stealing the air from my lungs. I had imagined this moment for months, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of standing there, sober, with nothing but my raw emotions to carry me through.

For a long time, I couldn’t speak.  I traced the letters of his name with my fingers, feeling the coldness of the plate beneath my touch.  My mind flooded with memories—his laughter, our late-night talks, and the shenanigans we got into as kids.  He had been my brother in every way that mattered, the one person who had always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking.  The words felt hollow, inadequate.  Sorry wasn’t enough to undo the years of self-destruction, the times I had chosen a pill or a bottle over facing this loss.  It wasn’t enough to erase the nights I had drowned my grief in substances, convincing myself it was easier that way.  But “I’m sorry,” was all I had at that very moment.

Tears burned my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks.  I let them fall.  For the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to fight it.  I let myself feel every ounce of the pain I had been running from.  I let it crash over me like a wave I knew I couldn’t outrun.  At that moment, something shifted.

I wasn’t just mourning him—I was mourning the person I had been, the years I had lost to addiction, the version of myself he had loved and believed in.  I had spent so long punishing myself for surviving, convincing myself that I wasn’t worthy of healing, of happiness, of a second chance but, standing there, I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to believe before: He wouldn’t have wanted that for me.  He had always wanted more for me.  He had seen something in me even when I couldn’t see it myself.  I truly believe that if he were here, he wouldn’t be telling me to drown in guilt—he would be telling me to live. To fight.  To keep going.

I took a deep breath, wiping my eyes.  The wind had died down, the air around me still and quiet.  I knelt beside his grave, tracing the words one last time before I finally found the courage to say what I had really come here to say.

“I’m gonna be okay.”

It wasn’t a promise, not in the way I used to make them.  It wasn’t a desperate vow that I would break the moment things got too hard.  It was a truth I was finally ready to accept.  I was still here. Still fighting. And that had to mean something.  As I stood up, I felt lighter.  The pain was still there, the grief still present, but it no longer felt like it was crushing me.  Instead, it felt like something I could carry—not as a burden, but as a part of me.  It was a reminder of the love we had shared, the memories that were mine to keep.

Walking back to my car, I didn’t feel like I was running away anymore.  I had faced what I had feared for so long, and somehow, I had survived it.  More than that, I had found something I hadn’t expected—peace.  As I started the engine, I glanced back one last time.  The setting sun cast a golden light over the cemetery, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t saying goodbye.  I was saying, “See you later.”  As I drove away, I knew I would keep going—not just for me, but for him.  He had believed in me and now, finally, I was learning to believe in myself, 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.

I.L.M.O.C.G. <3

80. New Year’s Resolutions from an Addict in Early Recovery

The dawn of a new year is a beacon of hope, a clean slate, and a chance to redefine ourselves.  For me, as an addict in early recovery, it is also a moment to confront the ghosts of my past while carving a path toward a brighter future.  New Year’s resolutions carry a deeper meaning—they are not just goals; they are lifelines tethering me to my commitment to sobriety and a renewed sense of purpose.  As I stand at the crossroads of reflection and hope, here are ten resolutions that embody my journey as an addict in early recovery.

1.     To Remain Sober, One Day at a Time
This resolution is the cornerstone of my existence.  Sobriety is not an achievement but a daily choice, a battle I must fight each morning when I open my eyes.  Each day I remain sober is a testament to my strength and the unwavering support of those who believe in me.  I resolve to honor that belief, to fight through the cravings, the triggers, and the moments of doubt.  Sobriety is my anchor; I will cling to it with all I have.

2.     To Mend Broken Relationships
My addiction left a trail of destruction, severing bonds with family, friends, and loved ones who once held me dear.  This year, I resolve to rebuild those bridges.  It will not be easy; some wounds run deep, and trust takes time to restore.  I will show up, apologize, and prove through my actions that I am not the person I once was.  Forgiveness is not owed, but I will try my best to earn it through consistency and love.

3.     To Embrace Vulnerability
Addiction thrived in my silence, in the lies I told to protect myself from judgment.  Vulnerability is where healing begins.  This year, I resolve to continue being honest about my struggles and to share my story with others who may be battling their own demons.  In doing so, I hope to inspire others and remind myself that I am not alone.  Vulnerability is strength, and I will wear it proudly.

4.     To Prioritize My Mental Health
Recovery is more than abstinence; it’s a holistic journey of mind, body, and soul.  My mental health, once neglected, must now be nurtured.  I resolve to seek therapy when I need it and to surround myself with people who uplift me.  Depression and anxiety are shadows I’ve carried, but this year, I will work tirelessly to keep them at bay.

5.     To Give Back
The support of others saved my life.  This year, I want to pay it forward. Whether it’s mentoring someone new to recovery, volunteering, or simply being a listening ear, I resolve to give back to the community that helped me find my way.  Service is a powerful reminder that I am part of something greater, and it keeps me grounded in gratitude.

6.     To Strengthen My Physical Health
My body has endured the ravages of substance abuse, and it deserves healing.  This year, I resolve to nourish it with healthy food, exercise, and adequate rest.  It’s not about vanity but about reclaiming the vitality that addiction stole from me.  Every step, every meal, every night of restful sleep is a victory over the self-destruction I once chose.

7.     To Rediscover Joy
Addiction robbed me of my ability to feel true joy.  It dulled my senses and stole the beauty of life’s simplest pleasures.  This year, I resolve to rediscover what makes my heart sing.  Whether it’s coaching soccer, writing, or spending quality time with my family, I will seek out joy in its purest forms.  Recovery is not just about surviving; it’s about learning to live again.

8.     To Cultivate Gratitude
Gratitude is a light that cuts through the darkness of shame and regret. This year, I resolve to practice it daily.  I will keep a journal, jotting down the moments and people I am thankful for. Gratitude shifts my focus from what I’ve lost to what I’ve gained.  It reminds me that, despite my struggles, life is still a gift worth cherishing.

9. To Set Boundaries
Recovery requires a space where I can heal without interference from toxic influences.  This year, I resolve to set and maintain boundaries.  I will distance myself from people and situations that threaten my sobriety, even if it’s painful.  Self-preservation is not selfish; it is essential for growth.  My recovery is sacred, and I will guard it fiercely.

10. To Believe in Myself
Perhaps the hardest resolution of all is to believe that I am worthy of a better life.  Addiction thrived on my self-doubt and insecurities, but this year, I resolve to silence those voices.  I am not my mistakes.  I am a work in progress, deserving of love, peace, and happiness.  I resolve to forgive myself and to trust that no matter how daunting the road ahead may seem, I have the strength to walk it.

These resolutions are more than words on a page; they are promises to myself and the world around me.  I know the journey will not be linear.  There will be setbacks, tears, and moments when the weight of it all feels unbearable.  I also know that I am not alone.  I have the support of my family, my community, and the unwavering belief that change is possible.  This New Year, I will step forward with courage, hope, and determination to become the best version of myself—not just for me, but for everyone who never stopped believing in me.  The path to recovery is not easy, but it is worth every step.  As I stand on the precipice of this new year, I resolve to walk it with my head held high and my heart full of hope.  I am more than my past, more than my addiction—I am a survivor, and this is my time to shine.

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.

79. The Weight of Integrity

Integrity is a word we often throw around lightly as if it were a simple thing to embody.  We think of it as honesty, doing the right thing when no one is looking, and staying true to our word.  But what happens when the foundation of your life is shaken to its core—when the very values you once held sacred become blurred in the chaos of addiction?  I’ve wrestled with this question in ways I wish I hadn’t, and yet, I’m here to tell you that even in the darkest moments, integrity can be a light worth fighting for.

I wasn’t always the person who currently writes this column today.  There was a time when I believed I had my life together, a time when I wore integrity like a badge of honor.  I coached youth soccer, inspiring kids to be their best selves on and off the field.  I had a platform where my words could reach hearts and minds.  I gave a TEDxGoshen Talk about the struggles and triumphs of recovery, standing on a stage as a symbol of resilience.  But behind all those achievements, there were cracks in my armor—cracks that widened when I relapsed after nearly four years of sobriety.

Relapse is a word that doesn’t just sting—it cuts.  It feels like every promise I made, every ounce of trust I’d earned, was shattered in an instant.  I thought of the people I had let down: my family, my friends, my boss, my counselor who always believed in me, and even the readers of this very column who had cheered me on from afar.  Most of all, I thought of myself—the version of me who had clawed my way out of the pit of addiction only to stumble back in.  The shame was suffocating.  But integrity isn’t about perfection.  It isn’t about never falling.  It’s about what you do after the fall.

When I checked myself into detox, I was met with the harsh realities of withdrawal—nausea, sleepless nights, an appetite that vanished like a ghost.  The physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional weight I carried.  Sitting in those group sessions, surrounded by people who knew the depths of my struggle, I started to understand that integrity isn’t a destination.  It’s a daily practice, a commitment to yourself and others, even when it feels impossible.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to face is how my addiction eroded my ability to be honest—with myself and with those I love.  Addiction is a liar.  It whispers that one more drink, one more hit, or one more pill will make the pain go away.  It tells you that you can stop whenever you want, that no one will notice, that you’re still in control.  In believing those lies, I betrayed the very essence of integrity.  I became someone I didn’t recognize—someone who broke promises, someone who hid the truth, and someone who hurt the people who mattered most.

Rebuilding integrity after addiction is like piecing together a shattered mirror.  Each shard is a truth you must face, a conversation you must have, a wound you must heal.  It’s apologizing to your family for the nights they stayed up wondering if you were safe.  It’s looking into the eyes of the kids you coach and knowing that they deserve a role model who practices what they preach.  It’s writing this column with the raw honesty that scares me because I know someone out there needs to hear it.

One of the moments that brought me back to myself was a simple yet profound realization: integrity isn’t about never falling; it’s about rising again, stronger and more self-aware.  It’s about owning your mistakes and making amends, not just with words but with actions.  It’s about choosing to fight for the person you want to be every single day—even when it feels like the odds are stacked against you.

I think about my dog, Bumpy, who has been a source of unconditional love through it all.  Animals don’t care about your accolades or your failures—they care about the energy you bring into their lives.  Bumpy reminds me of the pure, unspoken bond that integrity creates: a trust that doesn’t need words, only presence and consistency.  This might sound crazy but if I can strive to be the person my dog thinks I am, then I know I’m on the right path.

To anyone reading this who feels like they’ve lost their way, know this: integrity isn’t something you’re born with or something you lose forever when you make a mistake.  It’s something you build, brick by brick, moment by moment.  It’s in the apology you offer when you’ve wronged someone.  It’s in the effort you put into being better today than you were yesterday.  It’s in the courage to face yourself honestly, no matter how painful it might be.

I’m still rebuilding. There are days when the weight of it all feels unbearable and when the shame tries to creep back in and tell me I’m not worthy of redemption. Then I remember the people who have stood by me, the kids who look up to me, and the readers who believe in second chances. I remember that integrity isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being real. And so, I keep going. I keep writing. I keep showing up to coaching and to life. Integrity isn’t just about the promises you make to others—it’s about the promises you keep to yourself. And I promise, no matter how hard it gets, to never stop fighting for the person I know I can be.

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.

78. Journals from Rehab With a Sober Reflection

During my time in rehab, I committed to keeping a daily journal—a space where I could pour out my thoughts, struggles, and reflections as I faced the challenges of recovery head-on.  Writing became a vital outlet for me, helping me process the rollercoaster of emotions that came with detox and healing.  These passages reflect the highs and lows of my journey, from the depths of withdrawal to moments of clarity and growth.  Each entry is a raw reflection of my battle with addiction and my determination to rebuild my life.  Please keep in mind that I was fresh off a relapse when these entries were written, so my thoughts may not be as clear or organized as usual.  What you’ll find here is raw, honest, and deeply personal—my unfiltered experience of trying to piece my life back together.

Day 4 – Rehab (05/31/2024)

I’m trying to write this out, but the words feel heavy, like dragging my heart across the page.  Today was harder than I expected.  There’s a constant noise in my head—a sharp ache of guilt and shame. Every corner of my mind reminds me of the times I let people down: my family, my friends, the kids I coach, and even Bumpy.  I keep replaying those moments like a bad movie I can’t turn off.

In group today, someone said something that hit me like a punch to the gut: “We’re not just recovering for ourselves.  We’re rebuilding trust, one brick at a time.”  It made me realize how far I still have to go.  I know I’ve taken steps forward, but the road ahead feels endless.  Sometimes it’s hard to imagine ever earning that trust back and even harder to imagine forgiving myself.

I miss my old self—the one who could laugh freely, the one who wasn’t drowning in this fog.  But then I wonder if that person ever really existed.  Maybe I’ve always been running, hiding, numbing.  The truth hurts in ways I wasn’t ready for.

But there’s this tiny flicker of hope.  It’s quiet, almost fragile, but it’s there. I felt it today during my one-on-one with my counselor, Tawanda.  She told me, “The fact that you’re here, fighting, means something.  Don’t forget that.”  I want to believe her, but believing feels dangerous, like hope might shatter me if it slips away.

Tonight, I’ll pray for strength.  Not just to stay sober, but to face the parts of myself I’ve been too afraid to look at.  I’ll pray to hold on to the small things—writing, soccer, my dog’s wagging tail, my family’s love—even if I don’t feel like I deserve them yet.

For now, that’s enough. It has to be.

My Reflection (While Sober Today)

Reading this again after so much time feels like stepping back into a storm I barely survived.  It’s strange how distant that version of me feels, and yet, the pain I wrote about is still so vivid.  I can almost smell the sterile rehab walls and hear the hum of the fluorescent lights.

I want to hug that person, the me who wrote this, and tell them they were stronger than they thought.  That flicker of hope I wrote about wasn’t fragile; it was the beginning of something unbreakable.  I’ve rebuilt so much since then—my relationships, my career, my faith in myself.  It wasn’t easy.  It still isn’t some days.  But that little prayer for strength?  It worked.

Looking back, I see someone who wasn’t broken, just bruised.  Someone who hadn’t yet learned that forgiveness isn’t a gift you wait for; it’s something you give to yourself, piece by piece.  And trust?  It comes back too, slowly, like the tide.

I’m proud of that person. They fought to be here today. And if I could, I’d tell them this: You’re a work in progress. You’re on the right path.

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.

77. Time Stolen by Addiction

Addiction is a thief.  It takes from us so many precious things: our health, relationships, dreams, and sometimes even our lives.  Among the most devastating losses, however, is time.  Time is irreplaceable—a resource that, once gone, can never be recovered.  Addiction robs us of the days, months, and years that we could have spent building meaningful connections, chasing our aspirations, or simply living life fully present.  Today, I want to focus on the time addiction stole from me: the time I could have spent with my family, my friends, or bettering myself instead of losing countless hours sitting in a bar, chasing a high that never truly satisfied.

One of the cruelest realities of addiction is how it separates you from the people who matter most. During the years I spent in addiction, I missed out on countless moments with my family and friends—moments I will never get back.  Instead of being present for them, I was lost in the haze of alcohol and drugs, isolating myself in bars or darkened rooms where my only companions were my next drink or hit.  I remember times when my family tried to reach out to me, hoping to connect or check in on how I was doing.  They’d invite me to family gatherings, celebrations, or even just a quiet dinner at home.  But too often, I made excuses or didn’t show up.  When I did, I wasn’t really there.  My mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with when I could slip away to drink or use.  My addiction turned me into a ghost of myself, and the people I loved most were left to grieve the person I used to be, even though I was still alive.

My friends, too, drifted away.  I wasn’t the kind of friend anyone could rely on.  Plans were canceled, birthdays were forgotten, and promises were broken.  I chose substances over meaningful relationships time and time again.  It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much it hurt them to watch me spiral, powerless to pull me back.  Some of them tried, but addiction is selfish.  It blinds you to the pain you’re causing others, even when they’re pleading with you to stop.  The laughter, the late-night talks, the shared experiences I could have had with my friends—all of it was stolen by my addiction.

Addiction doesn’t just take you away from others; it also robs you of the opportunity to grow and build the life you deserve.  Looking back, I can see so many years where I could have been working toward something meaningful.  I could have been developing a career, furthering my education, or chasing dreams that once seemed so vivid.  Instead, I wasted those years sitting in bars, numbing myself to the world and letting time slip away like sand through my fingers.  I’ve always had ambitions, but addiction has a way of silencing them.  When I was deep in the cycle, I told myself there was no point in trying to achieve anything.  Why bother when I couldn’t even get through a day without drinking or using?  So, I stopped dreaming.  I stopped believing in myself.  Instead of taking steps forward, I stood still—or worse, I moved backward.

There were days when I’d think about going back to school, picking up a new skill, or pursuing a passion.  But those thoughts were fleeting, drowned out by the immediate need to feed my addiction.  The time I could have spent learning, growing, and striving for a better future was instead wasted in a haze of self-destruction.  I’ll never know what I could have achieved during those lost years, and that’s a grief I carry with me every day.  The realization of how much time I lost to addiction is one of the hardest truths I’ve had to face.  Time is the one thing we can never get back. We can rebuild relationships, repair our health, and even rediscover our dreams, but we can never reclaim the hours, days, and years we spent lost in addiction.  That knowledge weighs very heavily on me.  I think about the memories I missed out on—family vacations I wasn’t a part of, milestones I didn’t celebrate, and quiet moments I could have shared with loved ones.  I think about the opportunities I let slip away, the potential I never lived up to, and the person I might have become if I had spent those years differently.  The regret can be overwhelming, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.

But regret, as painful as it is, also fuels my determination to move forward.  I can’t change the past, but I can choose how I spend my time now.  I can make amends to the people I’ve hurt and rebuild the relationships I’ve damaged.  I can chase the dreams I abandoned and create new ones.  I can live each day with intention, making the most of the time I have left.

As I reflect on the time addiction stole from me, I’m reminded of something a counselor once told me: “It’s never too late to start over.” While I can’t reclaim the time I’ve lost, I can honor it by making better choices moving forward.  Each sober day is an opportunity to create memories with my family, reconnect with old friends, and work toward the future I want.  Recovery has taught me to value time in a way I never did before.  I no longer take it for granted.  Instead of spending hours in a bar, I now spend them coaching youth soccer, writing my column, or simply being present with the people I care about.  These moments of clarity and connection are a gift—one I will never let addiction take from me again.

Addiction steals many things, but the loss of time is perhaps the most profound.  It robs us of the chance to be with our loved ones, to grow as individuals, and to live a life of purpose.  For me, the time I lost to addiction is a constant reminder of what’s at stake.  But it’s also a powerful motivator to make the most of the time I have now.  While I can’t undo the past, I can choose to live fully in the present, cherishing every moment and working tirelessly to create a better future.

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.

76. A Thanksgiving of Renewal & Gratitude

Thanksgiving has always been a time to reflect on the blessings in our lives—a chance to pause amid the rush of everyday responsibilities and reconnect with family, friends, and the values we hold dear.  This year, however, Thanksgiving carries an even deeper meaning for me.  After walking the difficult road of addiction and finding my way back to sobriety, I see this holiday as more than a day of celebration.  It is a powerful reminder of the second chances life offers and the importance of embracing them with gratitude and purpose.

For many years, the joy of Thanksgiving was overshadowed by the struggles of addiction.  While my family gathered around the table, exchanging smiles and laughter, I often felt disconnected—physically present but emotionally absent.  Addiction has a way of isolating you, even when you’re surrounded by love.  It strips away your ability to be truly present, replacing connection with guilt and a gnawing sense of inadequacy.

This year, things are different.  After my relapse earlier this year, I had to face some hard truths about myself and my recovery journey.  By checking myself into detox and rehab at Bon Secours Hospital, I made a choice to fight for my life.  It wasn’t easy—detox was brutal, and the emotional work of rehab challenged me in ways I never expected.  But slowly, I began to rebuild, one day at a time.  Then, as I prepared to celebrate Thanksgiving, I was filled with gratitude not only for the progress I’ve made but for the chance to begin again.

This past Thanksgiving marked the first time in months that I could sit at the table fully present and genuinely grateful.  Sobriety has given me clarity, allowing me to appreciate the moments that once slipped by unnoticed.  I no longer take for granted the warmth of my family’s laughter, the familiar smells of a home-cooked meal, or the simple pleasure of being included in the traditions that bind us together.

This holiday was special because it represents more than a celebration—it is a testament to resilience and the power of second chances.  I now understand that Thanksgiving isn’t about perfection; it’s about showing up, being present, and appreciating the opportunity to grow and heal. For me, this means cherishing every moment with the people who stood by me through my darkest days and finding hope in the promise of a brighter future.

Gratitude is a cornerstone of my recovery.  In the past, I often overlooked the small blessings in my life, consumed by the chaos of addiction.  Now, I make it a daily practice to acknowledge and appreciate the good in my life, no matter how small it may seem.  This past Thanksgiving, my gratitude felt boundless.

I am deeply thankful for my family, whose unwavering support has been a lifeline throughout my journey.  Their patience and understanding remind me that love truly is unconditional.  I’m also grateful for the professionals who guided me through this difficult process, particularly my counselor, David.  His wisdom and encouragement helped me believe in my ability to recover, even when I doubted myself.

I am grateful for the opportunity to continue coaching youth soccer—a job that allows me to inspire and guide others, just as I’ve been inspired and guided.  Seeing the determination and joy in the faces of my players reminds me of the importance of resilience and teamwork.

Finally, I am grateful for the chance to share my story.  Whether through my column in the Independent Republican or the TED Talk I gave on addiction and recovery, I’ve found purpose in using my experiences to help others.  Each word I write and each story I tell is a step toward healing—not just for myself but for anyone who may be struggling in silence.

This Thanksgiving, I want to create a new tradition rooted in gratitude and reflection.  As I sit down to enjoy the meal with my family, I plan to take a moment to share what I’m most thankful for this year. Beyond that, I want to use this day as a reminder to carry gratitude into every day of my life.

Gratitude isn’t just about acknowledging the good times; it’s about finding the silver lining in the challenges we face.  It’s about recognizing that even our darkest moments can lead to growth and transformation.  This past Thanksgiving, I reminded myself that recovery is not a destination but a journey—and every step, no matter how small, is worth celebrating.

While Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on the past and give thanks for the present, it’s also an opportunity to look ahead.  Sobriety has taught me that life is filled with possibilities, even after setbacks.  I may not know exactly what the future holds, but I am committed to approaching it with hope and determination.  I will savor the food, the laughter, and the love that fills the room this Thanksgiving.  But more importantly, I will carry with me the lessons I’ve learned in recovery: that gratitude is a powerful tool, that connection is essential, and that every day offers a chance to start anew.  This Thanksgiving is more than a holiday; it is a celebration of resilience, renewal, and gratitude.  After years of struggling with addiction, I am finally able to approach this day with a clear mind and an open heart.  Sobriety has given me a second chance at life, and for that, I am profoundly thankful.

As I sit at the table with my family this year, I will cherish the moments that once felt out of reach.  I will honor the journey that brought me here and look forward to the future with hope.  Most importantly, I will remind myself that gratitude is not confined to one day a year—it is a way of life, a daily practice that keeps me grounded and inspired.

This past Thanksgiving is special not because it marks the end of my struggles but because it symbolizes the beginning of a new chapter.  And for that, I am deeply, endlessly 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.