(As told to Melanie Warner Spencer)
For a long time, I didn’t think my life would ever look like it does today.
Growing up, my dad owned his own home improvement company, and my mom stayed home with me, my brother and sisters. I was the second oldest of four. All of us were into sports. My sisters took dance and a couple of us took piano. We loved music and going to the movies. My grandparents took me to Disney when I was young and I visited again with friends in middle school. We lived in Baldwin County, Alabama, but we’d often visit family in Pensacola, Florida. Our Christmas trips to Pensacola were always special.
Despite my idyllic upbringing and loving family, like many people, I carried things I didn’t yet have words for as I transitioned from childhood into adulthood: Pressure, not feeling comfortable in my skin, a quiet sense that I wasn’t fully OK inside, and, while I was friends with everyone, a feeling that I would never quite fit in. I didn’t know how to process emotions in a healthy way, and over time, I started reaching for anything that would change how I felt. But, drinking at parties in high school and experimenting with substances fell to the wayside at 22, when I met and married my now ex-wife. She wasn’t into that sort of stuff. She didn’t even drink much.
The Vicious Cycle
In my mid-20s, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease (a chronic, inflammatory disease that affects the digestive tract, often extending deep into the tissues). Along with the pain and stress of living with a chronic condition, I was introduced to prescription pain medication. At first, it seemed like relief, something that helped me function, helped me feel “normal.” But what started as a thing I thought I could manage slowly became a thing that started managing me.
At the time (and for about 20 years), I was working in the hospitality industry as a server and bartender. After a shift, late nights winding down from the adrenaline of a fast-paced shift with coworkers were typical. Addiction doesn’t usually show up as chaos on day one. For me, it was gradual. I started to realize my pain medication use was out of control when the doctors started to take me off of it, and I experienced withdrawal symptoms. I quickly realized that, if I was going to work that day, I would have to get drugs. That’s when I started getting the medication elsewhere.
It took more than it gave for a long time before I admitted what was happening. Once addiction had a grip on me, it impacted everything: my relationships, my priorities, the way I showed up as a father after our child was born, and the way I saw myself. For years, I was in and out of mental hospitals. My wife and I got divorced and I was having trouble holding down a job. Eventually, I reached a point where I was no longer living; I was surviving. I was exhausted, ashamed and stuck in a cycle I couldn’t seem to break. Looking back, the hardest part is that from the outside, people often don’t understand how complicated addiction really is. It isn’t just bad choices. It’s pain, coping, shame, escape, fear and a deep loss of identity.
Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired
Then came the moment that changed everything: I hit a wall that I couldn’t explain away anymore. My life had become small and dark. I didn’t just want a better life. I needed one. I realized I was running out of chances. I was tired of hurting people. I was tired of being someone I didn’t recognize. And honestly, I was tired of being at war with myself. I hit my rock bottom — which included living in a storage unit for about a month, and trouble with the law. I had been in rehab in the past and managed to stay sober for about a year before relapsing. After winding up in the hospital, my parents took me in and urged me to go back to rehab.
At age 38, three days into rehab at Door to Serenity, I was back in the hospital with sepsis, pneumonia and fluid on the lungs, and was in the ICU for a week. I was in the hospital for a month and Lisa and Laurye at Door to Serenity were my biggest support system. When I got out of the hospital, I was glad to be alive and desperate to get healthy. Nothing was bad about my recovery. I dove headfirst into it. Recovery wasn’t a single decision; it was thousands of small decisions stacked together.
My recovery community gave me structure, accountability and hope. Door to Serenity became a major part of my turning point. It wasn’t just a place; it was a reset. It gave me a chance to rebuild my life from the ground up: with honesty, responsibility and the kind of support you can’t replace. I also reconnected with faith. I was in and out of church with family growing up, but I rebelled against it. Now, my faith is not the version that’s about shame; it’s about grace. Mine is the kind of faith that says you’re not disqualified because of your past. The kind that says you can still become someone new. Over time, I started to change. Not just by staying sober, but by learning how to live. I learned how to feel emotions without running from them. I learned how to show up even when I’m uncomfortable. I learned how to be honest, how to make amends and how to build stability instead of chasing relief. I learned to pause and pray.
At age 41, I’m proud of my life. It’s not perfect, but it’s real. I went to college and got a job as a fiber-optic network maintenance analyst. I have a teenage daughter and my girlfriend has three kids. On Fridays, I work from home and the kids are in and out of the house all day. Always bringing friends over. Mom and Dad live 15 minutes away. I have a repaired relationship with them and my daughter. I show up for the people I love. I’m learning how to be a better dad and a better partner. I’m still growing, still healing, still building. I’m deeply grateful for the people who didn’t give up on me, and for the chance to live a life that feels peaceful instead of frantic.
The experience I’ve had since I got sober and got into recovery is incredible and unexpected. If there’s one thing I want people to know, it’s this: recovery is possible. You are not your worst chapter. You are not beyond help. And you don’t have to do it alone. When people are lost in addiction, that’s not who they are. They don’t want to do those things. They just can’t do the right things until they can get the drugs out of their system and can make good choices again. They really just need help.
It has been a good time since I got into recovery. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t have a smile on my face. There’s life after addiction — and it can be beautiful.
