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.