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.
