Category: article

In an ever-changing world, building community resilience and ensuring mental health equity are more crucial than ever. This article explores the significance of community-centered approaches, including trauma-informed care and grassroots advocacy, in fostering resilience and recovery in the face of crises. (more…)

In the face of increasing adversity, community resilience building is vital for ensuring long-term recovery and mental wellness. By integrating trauma-informed care and leveraging crisis response networks, communities can nurture collective healing. This article explores essential strategies and innovative practices to promote mental health equity and emotional recovery, particularly in underserved populations. (more…)

In an era marked by frequent disasters and societal challenges, community resilience is essential. By integrating trauma-informed care and emotional support programs, communities can successfully navigate adversity and rebuild stronger than before. This article delves into strategies for enhancing mental wellness and resilience through collaborative efforts and innovative practices. (more…)

In today’s ever-changing world, communities need strategies to foster resilience and healing. From trauma-informed care to grassroots efforts in mental health, communities are adopting diverse approaches to navigate crisis and build stronger bonds. This article delves into effective practices and principles for fostering recovery and resilience. (more…)

In the face of adversity, communities thrive by fostering resilience, embracing trauma-informed care, and promoting mental health equity. This article explores the essence of disaster recovery support and the role of grassroots mental health advocacy in nurturing restoration and hope. (more…)

This article explores the interconnected methodologies utilized in community resilience building, focusing on trauma-informed care, mental health equity, and post-crisis healing. The importance of emotional support, grassroots advocacy, and inclusive care in fostering community strength after adversity is analyzed. (more…)

Communities face increasing challenges, and building resilience is essential. By integrating trauma-informed care, mental health equity, and collective efforts, communities can better navigate crises, support recovery, and foster wellbeing. (more…)

There’s this strange moment that happens after rehab.
People ask, “So… are you back to normal now?”
And I never really know how to answer that.

Because I’m not who I was before the drinking started.
And I’m not who I was when it was at its worst.
I’m… someone new, still figuring it out.

It’s funny—when I first stopped drinking, I thought everything would snap into place. I’d fix relationships. Be more productive. Smile more. But instead, life just slowed down.

And in that slowness, I noticed things.
How the morning light falls across my floor.
How good it feels to wake up clear-headed.
How awkward, but beautiful, honest conversations can be.

One afternoon, I sat on the floor with my nephew. He was building something out of wooden blocks. He looked up and asked, “Why do grownups always want to do everything fast?”

I didn’t have an answer. But I’ve thought about that question a lot since.

Recovery has taught me this:
Slowness isn’t a problem.
It’s a gift.

I still go to my weekly check-ins. Not because I’m worried I’ll relapse, but because I like being reminded that I’m not the only one figuring things out. There’s comfort in sitting next to someone who doesn’t need you to explain everything.

We laugh. We listen. Sometimes we just sit in silence.
And it’s enough.

What the Rehabilitation and Recovery Program gave me wasn’t just tools or therapy—it gave me space. Space to try again. Space to fail and still be seen. Space to grow at my own speed.

I don’t chase “normal” anymore. I don’t care about being impressive.
I care about being present.

Some days are hard. Others are light. But I stay. I show up. I live it.

And if you’re reading this and still wondering if it’s possible for you?
It is.
Not because I say so—because you’ll find out for yourself.

Just take the next step. One breath at a time.

It wasn’t a special day. Just another Tuesday.

I had no meetings, no plans, and no one waiting on me. A version of me from a year ago would’ve taken that emptiness and poured something into it—usually from a bottle. But today, I didn’t reach for anything. I just sat.

There was a warm breeze, a small bench under a tree near my apartment, and the sound of some kids kicking a ball nearby. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel like running from myself.

That’s when I realized something:

Healing isn’t loud.
It doesn’t always show up as a graduation certificate or a chip for 90 days sober.
Sometimes, it’s just a quiet moment where you’re finally okay with being where you are.

---

I’ve been through the Rehabilitation and Recovery Program for Alcohol and Drug Addicts. I could list the steps, the structure, the group talks. And yes, those were important. But what stayed with me was a single phrase someone once said during group:

“What if life isn’t meant to be fixed, but just felt—one honest moment at a time?”

That line hit me hard. Because for so long, I tried to “fix” myself with alcohol. To fix sadness. Fix anger. Fix boredom. Fix silence.

And now? I try to feel it instead. Messy, imperfect, but real.

---

Some days, I help out at a local kitchen. Nothing fancy—we serve simple meals for whoever needs one. I chop onions, wipe down tables, and sometimes sit and chat with the people who walk in. One of them once told me, “You’re always smiling. You look like someone who’s never struggled.”

Funny how life works. How you can survive chaos and somehow come out looking calm. But that’s the point of this phase in my recovery: not proving anything. Just showing up. Fully.

---

I still get urges. I still walk past bars that whisper old habits. But I also walk past them. That part matters.

People think healing means forgetting. But I remember everything. I just don’t bow to it anymore.

The program didn’t erase my past. It gave me new tools to carry it better. And maybe even—on some days—to set it down.

---

So if you’re reading this and wondering whether it’s possible to live without escaping—yeah, it is.

You might not believe me yet. That’s okay. I didn’t believe anyone either.

But one day, maybe not today, you’ll sit under a tree, feel the breeze, and realize…
You didn’t run.
You didn’t hide.
You stayed.
And that is enough.

This morning felt cleaner somehow. Not because the air was clearer or the sky looked any different—but because I woke up without a dry mouth, without that strange anxiety that creeps in after a heavy night. Most of all, I woke up without guilt.

When I left the rehab center five months ago, I thought something inside me would flip like a switch. I thought I’d walk out different. Better. Lighter. But I didn’t. I was still me—just without the alcohol.

It was… unsettling at first. Like removing something important, only to be left with a space you don’t know how to fill.

One Sunday morning at a café near Lumpini Park—where our support group sometimes meets—I overheard someone say,

“I never thought post-rehab life would teach me so much about myself.”

Those words stuck with me.

Recovery life isn’t big and loud like people imagine. It’s built from small, quiet decisions—over and over again. Choosing not to call the drinking buddy. Not turning into that familiar alley. Not letting loneliness turn into a reason to spiral.

These days, my life is full of boring things.
Fixing an old bicycle that had been rusting for years.
Trying to cook something edible from YouTube.
Strumming a guitar I hadn’t touched in two years.
To anyone else, it may sound ordinary. But for me, this is what freedom looks like—and I didn’t have to trade my health or dignity for it.

I’m not strong, to be honest. But I have people around me who didn’t let me walk this road alone. The program gave me a bridge back to normalcy. And not just any “normal,” but a version I actually want to live.

Once, in a peer support circle, a 22-year-old guy shared,

“Sometimes I’m afraid that without alcohol, I won’t have anything to hold onto.”

I told him,

“That fear is real. At first, everything feels empty. But give it time—that empty space becomes the room where you can finally place new things.”

What sobriety gave me wasn’t a perfect life.
It gave me the chance to start again—on my own terms, at my own pace.
Some days I still wobble. But even on the hard days, I choose this version of life over the one that nearly drowned me.