It was my senior year of high school, two Thursdays before Thanksgiving. I was slouched in the rear bucket seat of my mother’s red Camaro, headed to my second rehab in two months. Nine hours and an entire pack of cigarettes got me to Nashville, to Last Chance. I had just finished thirty days in Jefferson Hall, a rehab center; one of those places that was owned by a behemoth healthcare corporation, and relapsed immediately. Last Chance was different. It was not a typical medic

I’m dying. We all are. Yet most of us live under the illusion that we’re going to live forever, caught up in the day-to-day grind of bills and jobs and responsibilities. Consider this: what would it be like to be on your deathbed, looking over your entire life with a bird’s eye view? What would you be proud of? Ashamed of? What would you regret? What memories would stand out the most? What relationships would you wish you would have repaired? I have things to be proud of, ash

I have spent the majority of my life in the meeting rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. Since I was first sent to rehab at 17, Twelve Step programs have been a backdrop of my life. In 1999, at the age of 22, I put down alcohol and drugs for good. When I was in the early years of recovery, I had certain boundaries in place that kept me strong in my recovered life. Abstaining from drugs and alcohol was the hardest line I drew that separated my drunk and sober self, and the most obvi

When the phases of lockdown first started rippling throughout the world, I downplayed it in my mind. I listened to early reports of the virus saying that the situation was being overblown, and felt assured that this was something I could watch go by, a blip on my radar, and that things would soon return to normal like the other viruses of the past 20 years. But the days passed, and numbers rose and borders closed. I wrestled with the idea that regardless of the legitimacy of

Then My eyelids are heavy and they don’t want to open. Yet the stark light is insistent, telling me that it’s late. I turn away from the window onto my right side. My left temple’s throbbing intensifies, an unwelcome reminder of last night’s overindulgence.  My whole body feels like it’s encased in lead. I want to escape again into sleep, but the incessant stream of thought has already begun to roar between my ears, preventing a relapse into unconsciousness. Fragments of last

Welcome to my blog! Below you will find my intro video where I explain why I am called to share this message of hope and encouragement for those in recovery who have found themselves depressed, dry and not sober, and possibly consumed with other addictions. Please like, comment, and subscribe to my YouTube channel and my blog here to learn how you can regain the joy of living again! Here is a general transcript of what my first video is about: Hi! I am here to share my exper