Harm Reduction Is a Beginning — Not the Destination

My Recovery Perspective on Harm Reduction

I believe in harm reduction.

If someone is overdosing, you reverse it. If someone is sharing contaminated needles, you reduce infection. If someone is at risk tonight, you reduce the chance they die tonight. Survival matters.

Especially now, in a fentanyl environment where a single relapse can be fatal, reducing immediate harm is not optional — it is lifesaving. The same is true with alcohol. Drunken driving kills people. Excess kills people. The consequences are real.

I would not be here writing this if I had not been given a few chances. Sobriety was not my first attempt. Over the years of returning to use — and sliding back into overuse — I tried moderation. I tried cutting back. I tried switching drinks. I tried rules and limits.

Moderation felt responsible. It sounded reasonable. It allowed me to believe I was in control.

But even one or two drinks lowered my inhibition just enough to weaken the next decision. Reduced use did not move me forward. It prolonged the instability. Each return to “controlled” use led back to the same place.

What finally broke through wasn’t a new strategy. It was a close friend who spoke plainly. The message, in essence, was this: you don’t have goals. You don’t have purpose. You’re drifting.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cruel. It was honest.

That clarity cut through every private negotiation I had been making with myself.

In early recovery, compassion matters. Shame rarely produces stability. Fear rarely produces insight. Addiction clouds judgment. It feels like choice but often behaves like compulsion. No one can be argued into sobriety. No one can be forced into willingness. At the same time, we eventually have to acknowledge the part we still control.

When someone is tangled in denial or confusion, the first step is connection. “Meet them where they are” is a phrase I often hear, and I agree with it. You cannot help someone you refuse to see. 

There is a difference between someone trying and stumbling, and someone not yet ready to move. Most of us in recovery failed before we succeeded. That deserves compassion.

Harm reduction belongs in that early stage. It can keep someone alive long enough for clarity to emerge. It can reduce chaos enough for treatment to become possible. Clean syringe programs reduce infectious disease. Naloxone reverses overdoses. Some medically supervised approaches help certain people reduce alcohol or drug use. These efforts reduce direct harm — and that matters.

But none of them guarantee recovery. Addiction is complex. People are different. Outcomes vary. Reduced harm is not the same as restored life.

At some point, the message must change.

Meeting someone where they are is a starting place. It is not a permanent address. Harm reduction without forward movement can quietly become maintenance of decline.

For some people, harm elimination — complete sobriety — may be the only stable goal. I know it was for me. Eliminating alcohol ended the negotiation. It restored clarity. It allowed me to set goals again. It helped me rediscover purpose and joy in living.

I am not opposed to harm reduction. I support it as a beginning. But it cannot be the destination for everyone.

If you are considering moderation, be honest about your own history. Patterns tell the truth. If every attempt at managing your use eventually collapses, that is information. If someone who cares about you is brave enough to tell you that you are drifting, listen. 

If you love someone who is struggling, lead with compassion. But do not confuse compassion with silence. Meeting someone where they are does not mean agreeing that where they are is working. It means starting there — and then expecting movement.

Harm reduction can save a life. 

But recovery is what rebuilds it.

A Year of Learning to See Clearly

Reflections from My First Year of Recovery

When I began my first year of recovery, my goal wasn’t to write a book. It was simply to stay sober.

Each week, I wrote a short reflection and paired it with a photograph from that same stretch of days. The writing helped me think clearly. The images helped me slow down. Over time, those 52 entries became a record of what that first year truly looked and felt like.

I’ve now gathered them into One Week at a Time: A Year of Learning to See Clearly and Live Soberly, available on Kindle.

My recovery path was secular and largely self-directed. It may not mirror yours — and it isn’t meant to. It’s simply one honest account of a year lived one week at a time.

If you’re walking your own path of recovery or rebuilding, I hope it offers steady company.

The Kindle edition is available here:

One Week at a Time: A Year of Learning to See Clearly and Live Soberly

Thank you for continuing to follow this project.

— Bob

Recovery52 – Year 2 Anniversary – A Photo Project: Two Years On

“Choosing sobriety opens the door to a journey of discovery: of self, purpose, and true freedom.”

Two years. It feels surreal to type those words, but here I am: two years sober. When I chose sobriety, I thought I was simply choosing to stop drinking. What I didn't realize was that I was opening the door to something much bigger—a journey of discovery: of self, purpose, and true freedom.

In the early days, the focus was on survival—making it through one day, one hour, one minute at a time. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I began to feel alive again. The fog lifted, and I started to see myself more clearly. For so long, I had used alcohol to dull the edges, to blur the parts of myself I didn’t want to confront. Sobriety forced me to face those parts head-on. It wasn’t easy. It was tough at times. But in doing so, I discovered resilience I didn’t know I had. I began to understand who I was, not through the distorted lens of alcohol, but as I truly am.

With that understanding came purpose. Recovery isn’t just about abstaining; it’s about creating. Without the distraction of alcohol, I had the time and mental clarity to ask myself: What do I want my life to stand for? What do I want to build? For me, that answer came in the form of creativity and connection. Whether it’s capturing a fleeting moment through my camera lens or writing reflections like this one, I’ve found outlets that bring me joy and fulfillment. More importantly, they allow me to share my journey and, hopefully, inspire others along the way.

And then there’s freedom. True freedom. Sobriety has given me something I could never find at the bottom of a glass: peace. No longer am I chained to the cycles of shame and regret. No longer do I wake up wondering what I said, what I did, or who I hurt. I am free to make choices that align with my values. Free to live with integrity. Free to dream big and chase those dreams with a clear head and an open heart.

A crucial truth I’ve learned is this: a person has to want sobriety for themselves. No one can make them get sober. The decision has to come from within, driven by their own desire to change and grow. Without that internal commitment, the journey cannot begin. That being said, I could not have done this without the compassion and support of family, friends, and loved ones.

Two years ago, I chose sobriety. Today, I celebrate everything that choice has given me. To anyone reading this who is on their own journey—whether you’re just beginning or well along the path—know this: choosing sobriety isn’t just choosing to stop. It’s choosing to start. To start discovering who you are, what you’re capable of, and the freedom that comes from living a life true to yourself. Here’s to the journey.

If my writings in this photography project can benefit someone in their recovery, I’m proud to have shared them.

Recovery52 – Week 52 – A Finish Line

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.”

— Aristotle

My 52-week photography and recovery project is complete. I expected to write about the pride of reaching this milestone and the transition to a new photography project—topics I will return to shortly. But life had other plans, and recent events demanded attention first.

A projected winter storm arrived last Saturday morning. I shrugged off the warnings, thinking a couple of “snow days” might be relaxing—an excuse to slow down. The snow came, and at 11:49 a.m., the power went out. At first, it felt almost playful. I pulled out my flashlight and headlamp, bundled up, and let the child-like excitement settle in.

But the outage didn’t last a few hours—it lasted nearly five full days.

In the early days, I managed with humor: making coffee and meals on my camp stove, layering up, doubling blankets, and keeping my phone alive with a battery bank. I checked outage updates, stayed connected with friends, and tried to make the best of it.

By day three, the novelty wore off. The cold felt deeper. The isolation heavier. Thankfully, I could visit my local gym to shower and charge my devices. But the dark and silence began affecting my mood. My sleep was poor, and I couldn’t use my CPAP. Early on day four, I felt depression settling in—not just sadness, but that familiar heavy pull that once led me toward escape.

On the fourth morning, sitting with a hot coffee inside my local grocery store, I watched people buying essentials—along with plenty of beer and wine. And I heard the old voice, faint but persistent:

“You could drink if you wanted to.”

Not this time.

I remembered a winter storm in February 2021, when I roamed icy streets and returned home with a box of wine each time—grateful no one was around to see. I drank to numb. I drank to disappear. It’s a wonder I didn’t freeze.

This time, I reminded myself why I started recovery: the harm, the pain, the self-destruction. And then I reminded myself of everything I’ve achieved since. Drawing on both negative motivation and positive momentum, I came home and endured another cold, dark night—but with pride and strength.

Power returned just short of the five-day mark. Relief washed over me. Then came the cleanup: dishes, laundry, sorting out spoiled food. And just as things stabilized, frozen pipes thawed, flooding several apartments. Mine stayed dry, but the water was shut off for another seven days for repair.

Nearly two weeks without basic comforts—and I stayed sober and steady through all of it.

Now, circling back to where I hoped to begin: I’m considering a shift in my photographic efforts to a new 52-week project centered on creativity and seeing creatively. I want to expand my identity beyond recovery and reconnect more fully with the creative community. I want to enjoy life with purpose, goals, and connection outside the context of addiction.

But I will remain active with friends and groups in recovery. I’ll keep the Recovery52 blog alive and post whenever inspiration arises. And I will stay humble—aware that the old voice may return, and committed to answering it with clarity, strength, and truth.

If my reflections have supported anyone else along the way, I’m grateful. My recovery continues forward—steady, mindful, and intentional, moving with purpose into whatever comes next.

Recovery52 – Week 51 – IntentRecovery52 – Week 51 – Intent

“Always stay humble and kind.”

— Tim McGraw

In the fall of 2022, I experienced a series of relapses with alcohol. In mid-December, a close friend shared an observation that hit me hard: I had no plan and no goals. She asked what I wanted in life. I had no answer—no rebuttal, no excuses. Her question left me shaken, but at the time I wasn’t ready to face it or do the deeper work required.

I stumbled again just before the end of the year—a hard lapse, a blackout binge. On January 1st of 2023, I woke up miserable, hungover, ashamed, and exhausted by the pattern I kept repeating. That relapse didn’t help me answer what I wanted in life. Instead, as I sobered up, a much clearer question surfaced: “What do I not want in life?”

The answer was immediate: I didn’t want to continue being who I had been. I didn’t want a life drained by drinking. I didn’t want to keep hurting myself and others. I didn’t want to keep wasting time, energy, or meaning. Something had to end—and something had to begin.

I’ve had stretches of sobriety before, some longer than a year, but those were stretches of abstinence, not recovery. Removing alcohol brought short-term improvement, yes, but I didn’t engage deeply with self-awareness. I didn’t examine the roots of my drinking. I didn’t explore my adverse childhood experiences or challenge the longstanding fears and beliefs connected to them. I was simply the same old me—just without the alcohol.

Throughout this project, I’ve written about developing healthy routines—mindfulness, journaling, movement—and about finding motivation not just to stay sober but to truly recover. I no longer want numbness. I no longer want escape. I no longer want the false comfort alcohol once provided. I’ve moved beyond cravings and urges. I’ve made changes in thinking and behavior that give me pride, confidence, and excitement about the path ahead.

There are four key differences in this recovery effort:

·       The questions asked by my friend—“Who do I want to be? What do I want to become?”—became foundational. I want to grow into someone humble and kind.

·       This time, I made my commitment to recovery known. I’ve been open with others instead of attempting sobriety in silence. Making the promise public keeps me accountable and highlights the importance of relationships.

·       I worked consistently with a therapist for several months and was fully honest throughout the process.

·       This photography project has kept me committed week after week. Accountability, creative expression, self-analysis, learning, and reflection have supported my recovery in ways I could not have predicted.

I’m not “recovered.” I still slip into negative thinking. I still procrastinate or distract myself when I don’t want to face responsibilities. I still struggle with trust—trust in myself and trust in others. I know there is more work ahead. But this time, I truly believe I can stay the course. I can grow forward. I can live with intent—being humble and kind.

(Next week will be the final post of this project. I may continue to write occasionally, but I will also shift attention toward a new photography project not centered on recovery.)

Recovery52 – Week 50 – One Year Sober

Recovery52 – Week 50 – One Year Sober

“Recovery is not simple abstinence. It’s about healing the brain, remembering how to feel, learning how to make good decisions, becoming the kind of person who can engage in healthy relationships, cultivating the willingness to accept help from others, daring to be honest, and opening up to doing.”

— Debra Jay

It is now just over one year into my current recovery effort. New Year’s Day 2023 has passed, and I moved through the holiday season with clear awareness and no hangovers, no memory loss, and no shame—the consequences that once defined my past drinking years. I recognized the familiar people, places, and situations that once triggered escape or celebration, and this year I stayed grounded in sobriety. Crowded spaces, heavy traffic, holiday consumption, noisy media, and polarized voices swirled around me, yet I remained centered.

Another difference this year was being fully present with loved ones and friends. I enjoyed Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve with a great friend. I spent Christmas Day and New Year’s Day alone, yet not lonely. I filled those days with creative work, healthy routines, and mindful awareness. I felt no urge to drink—not for escape and not for celebration.

For accuracy: Day 365 fell on January 1st. This project continues for a couple of extra weeks because, during that first week of 2023, I was still moving through withdrawal symptoms—acknowledging the problem but not yet committed to a clear plan. It took another week before this photography project took shape, alongside seeking professional counseling. My first blog post was published on January 20th, and I will not let that milestone pass unrecognized.

In past attempts at “sobriety,” I’ve had stretches longer than a year. But those were based only on abstinence—white-knuckling through without understanding the roots of my drinking. I made small adjustments but never did the deeper work of self-awareness. Abstinence without true change left me standing at relapse’s door over and over.

This time is different.

The weekly commitment of this project has been a powerful motivator. With 49 weeks behind me, I have written openly about my history, discoveries, and struggles. Putting thoughts on the page has strengthened both my thinking and my writing. Photography has brought creative joy, fueling my excitement and drive. I’ve built healthy routines—mindfulness, journaling, and exercise—that support sobriety. I’ve benefited from a skilled therapist and have learned to be more open and honest with loved ones and concerned friends.

I also understand the value of negative motivation in maintaining recovery. Sometimes I “play the tape,” asking myself if I ever want to return to my old drinking days—slowly killing myself, harming relationships, destroying trust, and living without meaning. Even remembering the physical pain of hangovers and withdrawal helps me stay grounded and grateful for the life I am building today.

I am committed to this recovery. I am proud of this photography project. In these final two weeks, I will reflect on the full arc of this journey and discuss how I plan to continue both my recovery and my creative work through photography and other media.

Recovery52 – Week 49 – Trinkets, Tokens, & Talismans

“Your mind is your invisible talisman. The letters PMA (positive mental attitude) are emblazoned on one side, and NMA (negative mental attitude) on the other. These are powerful forces.”

— W. Clement Stone

I am approaching a full year of complete abstinence from alcohol—nearly twelve months not just of sobriety, but of genuine, intentional recovery. Christmas of 2023 has passed, and I’m proud to say I moved through the holiday season with clear eyes and a steady spirit. No urges, no cravings. Instead, I recognized the people, places, and situations that once would have triggered escape or celebration, and I knew—fully—that I was in control of my thoughts, feelings, and behavior. So yes… yay for me.

This week’s reflection is about a small but meaningful part of my recovery: the growing collection of physical reminders that encourage me forward. Early in the year, during a counseling session, I shared with my therapist an idea sparked by an object I had found in a box from my past—something I had carved as a child with my first pocketknife. That simple piece of wood stirred memories of early creativity, long overshadowed by my years of substance use. With my therapist’s encouragement, I kept it visible on my desk during journaling and mindfulness practice.

Over time, I’ve gathered other objects that spark insight, symbolize lessons, or remind me of the journey I’m on. Here is my small collection—and the meaning each item holds:

·       Wood Carving: A reminder of my early creative spirit—proof that creativity is part of who I’ve always been.

·       A*Hole Gum: Picked up during an earlier recovery attempt as a joke; now a blunt reminder of truths I once avoided.

·       Toy Camera: A symbol of my current creative passion—to see, capture, and share the beauty in the world.

·       Dice: A reminder of life’s randomness. Some events we control, some we don’t—what matters is how we respond.

·       Coin: A symbol of choice. Every action is a decision. Even not choosing is a choice.

·       Chain Link: A broken, rusty link representing the chains of trauma and addiction that once bound me.

·       Rubber Band: A symbol of flexibility—staying open to possibility instead of remaining trapped in rigid thinking.

·       Lens Cleaner: A symbol of clarity—seeing the world, and myself, without the filters of fear or limiting beliefs.

·       Sucker: A reminder that simple pleasures are fine. A piece of candy is okay—but I will never again reach for the poison of alcohol.

In the photo associated with this post, the items are laid out clearly for the viewer. Normally, they sit together in a small container on the edge of my desk. When journaling or reflecting, I sometimes glance at them and feel old memories rising or new ideas forming. These items carry no spiritual or ritual meaning—they are simply objects. But for me, they are powerful reminders of sobriety, growth, and the choices I make daily.

Next week, I’ll move safely through New Year’s and reach the one-year mark of true, continuous recovery. I feel confident. I feel steady. And I look forward to writing that post.

Recovery52 – Week 48 – Praise & Apologies

“Apologies aren’t meant to change the past, they are meant to change the future.”

— Kevin Hancock

Early in this project, while talking with a close friend about the emotional and physical traumas of my childhood, I shared a vow I made long before I had the words for it: I would never hit a woman or harm a child. Given what I had witnessed and endured, this vow felt like a core promise—a line I would never cross.

He responded with something that stayed with me: “You broke the cycle. You didn’t repeat the pattern.”

He was right. I take genuine pride in that. I am proud of the vow I made, and proud that I lived by it. But there is another side to the story. My adverse childhood experiences—and the vow not to become what I witnessed—pushed the pendulum in the opposite direction. In trying to protect the feelings of others, I avoided honesty when honesty was needed. To avoid emotional discomfort in myself, I numbed, hid, and shut down. And by doing so, I caused harm—not through violence, but through absence, dishonesty, withdrawal, and emotional unavailability.

My emotional immaturity and my habit of retreating from difficult feelings kept me from being fully present as a father, partner, and friend. My worldview often became cynical, dark, and closed. I put distance between myself and the people who cared about me, missing opportunities for connection, growth, and possibility.

So here I am now, recognizing that apologies are not just appropriate—they are necessary. I offer apologies to anyone who suffered as a result of my choices: missed commitments, poor decisions, emotional distance, and the failures in sobriety that pulled others into my struggles. My apologies extend to everyone affected by my addiction and avoidance. (For some, this echoes the spirit of Step Five in AA.)

But those closest to me—the ones who stood by me through the worst of it—deserve more than a written acknowledgment. They deserve my presence. They deserve sincerity. They deserve real, face-to-face apologies. These apologies cannot change the past, but they can help create a better future. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I am finally learning to forgive myself.

I opened this post by accepting praise for breaking a generational pattern. I want to close with acknowledgment of something else: I am proud of my recovery. I am proud of breaking the cycle. And I am proud of not repeating the patterns of lapse and relapse. In less than two weeks, I will reach a full year—not just of sobriety, but of genuine, transformative recovery. And I intend to keep moving forward.

Recovery52 – Week 47 – Fears and Trust

Seeking light on the storm.

“You are afraid of letting anyone get close.”

— My sister

This week’s quote isn’t from a book or a public figure. It came from my sister during a phone conversation: “You are afraid of letting anyone get close.” The moment she said it, I felt the truth of it. This is the issue I need to face more directly—one that underlies many of my fears, beliefs, and behaviors.

I’ve written in earlier posts about fear, limiting beliefs, distrust, and the patterns that shape how I relate to others. But this week clarified something essential: two core fears form the wall around me, protecting me from both real and imagined harm:

·       If I allow others to get close, they may hurt me. Therefore, others can’t be trusted.

·       If I get close to others, I may hurt them. Therefore, I can’t be trusted.

The first fear makes sense, given the traumatic experiences of my early childhood—events I’ve described in previous posts. Those moments shaped my negativity bias, my tendency to anticipate danger, and my ingrained distrust of others.

The second fear also makes sense. I can remember too many times when I disappointed people I cared about—holding back honesty, withdrawing emotionally, filtering my thoughts out of fear of rejection, abandonment, or triggering someone’s anger. In many ways, fear #2 loops right back into fear #1. Both reinforce each other.

And even now, part of me worries that I could stumble in my recovery. I’ve promised myself I won’t relapse again, but because I’ve failed before, a piece of me still questions whether I can fully trust that promise.

This is Week 47 of my 52-week commitment—over 90% of the way to my goal. If this were a quarter-mile race, I’d have about 130 feet left to run. I will cross the finish line. And then I will turn this sobriety race into a recovery marathon: steady, persistent, and forward-moving, mile after mile.

I’m deeply engaged in learning right now—recovery, psychology, CBT, critical thinking, attachment theory, neuroscience, Stoicism, Buddhism. Books, audiobooks, podcasts, videos, websites—each helping me make sense of my experiences. These insights support my recovery, but immersion can be exhausting without time to rest.

So I’m stopping here for today. Time for a nature walk with my camera. Time for quiet. Time to let my mind settle and reset before continuing this work.

Recovery52 – Week 46 – Seeking Truth

“All too often we’re filled with negative and limiting beliefs. We’re filled with doubt. We’re filled with guilt or with a sense of unworthiness. We have a lot of assumptions about the way the world is that are actually wrong.”

— Jack Canfield

In last week’s post, I committed to staying mindful when negative and limiting beliefs surface—to pause, reflect, identify their source, and question their truth and usefulness. My intention was, and still is, to challenge the beliefs that continue to influence me today.

On Saturday, I went for a walk at a local nature park. The sky was dark with threatening rain, and I hoped to capture a few photographs while also giving attention to my internal landscape. The photography went well. But as I walked, my inner world began to mirror the sky—darkening with memories of events that have shaped my perceptions and behaviors throughout my life.

In a prior post, I described several early childhood traumas that contributed to my fear-based responses—reactions that pushed me toward substance use when pain or confrontation felt overwhelming. Here are a few more formative events that reinforced rigid, black-and-white beliefs:

·       As a young boy experiencing partial blindness and debilitating headaches, I traveled with my mom by bus to the city for a medical procedure. In the restroom at the bus station, a grizzled man approached me from behind, mumbling, and tried to push his hands down the front of my waistband. I froze, pushed him away, and he left when another person entered. I told no one. I felt shame, guilt, and a lingering fear that somehow I was to blame.

·       In my sophomore year of high school, our English class read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood and watched the film adaptation. Around the same time, we were assigned to write a news-style article, and I chose a local story about two teenage girls who had been murdered and left on a forest road. Immersing myself in those horrific accounts shaped my beliefs about justice and punishment, fueling a desire for swift, harsh consequences for “bad” men.

·       September 11, 2001, was another turning point. The horror of the attacks and the extremism behind them shook me. Until then, I had paid little attention to world events. Suddenly, I wanted revenge. I became hyper-vigilant about news and politics, looking everywhere for confirmation of my outrage. I was swept up in online arguments, consumed by anger, and drinking heavily during that era.

That’s enough examples for now. These experiences shaped my worldview and contributed to my urge to numb, escape, and resist feeling difficult emotions. I can’t change any of them. But I can learn from them and commit to a better way forward.

My beliefs have deep roots. Simply recognizing their origins doesn’t transform them. I need to question whether my automatic responses and underlying assumptions serve me—or distort how I see the world, other people, and myself. To support this work, I’ve begun studying critical thinking. I hope it will help me identify and challenge the cognitive biases that darken my perception and keep old narratives alive.

I’ll close with an audiobook I’m currently listening to, one I expect will be helpful in this effort:

Critical Thinking: What You Should Have Been Taught About Decision-Making, Problem-Solving, Cognitive Biases, Logical Fallacies, and Winning Arguments — Jerrel Forman

Recovery52 – Week 45 – Challenging Limiting Beliefs

“One of the hardest expressions of self-assertiveness is challenging your limiting beliefs.”

— Nathaniel Branden

Last week, I shared several early Adverse Childhood Experiences that shaped my core fears and beliefs. Since then, without adding anything new to the list, I’ve been reflecting on how those early experiences—and others throughout my life—have influenced my growth, my behavior, and my relationships.

Those early maltreatments instilled beliefs that taught me to avoid situations requiring self-protection. I learned to assume I wasn’t strong enough, that others would hurt me, and that freezing or fleeing were the only options when I felt threatened.

My insecurities and anxieties nudged me toward “safe” paths, avoiding opportunities that might expose my vulnerabilities, weaknesses, or fears. I remember being bullied in school and hiding in the library during lunch. My fearful demeanor made me an easy target, reinforcing those beliefs and deepening my shame.

For years, I resisted support from others and turned down opportunities for growth that felt unsafe. My relationships suffered because I withheld honest opinions, downplayed my needs, or avoided difficult conversations—even with people closest to me. If someone seemed angry, I assumed I must be at fault.

Having witnessed spousal and child abuse, I internalized a strong belief that I must never cause pain to a woman or child. This led me at times to lie in the name of protection—“white lies” intended to spare feelings. But lies only delay the truth; they never erase it.

As for substance abuse, the pattern is clearer now. I used alcohol to escape fear, pain, and shame—to numb what felt too heavy to face. Recovery has brought meaningful change: greater self-awareness, healthier habits, and renewed confidence. But the deeper work continues, and it can only happen through continued sobriety.

My intention now is to stay mindful when limiting beliefs arise—to pause, reflect, and identify their source. To question whether those beliefs are true, helpful, or relevant to who I am today. And with care, perhaps I can reshape them without becoming reckless or taking unnecessary risks.

Recovery52 – Week 44 – Happy Thanksgiving!

“Fear is a question. What are you afraid of and why? Our fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge if we explore them.”

— Marilyn French

“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.”

— John F. Kennedy

This week’s post opens with two quotes that feel especially relevant to where I am in my recovery. Last week, I committed to beginning deeper work on the fears rooted in my early childhood. That commitment still stands. But with Thanksgiving arriving, it also feels important to pause and acknowledge gratitude—something woven into this holiday from childhood onward.

With Marilyn French’s words in mind, I want to begin addressing a few of the fears that were shaped by traumatic early experiences—what we now label “Adverse Childhood Experiences.” I’m not going to list everything, nor will I share the most painful details. I don’t want to trigger anyone who may be reading this while navigating their own recovery. But I will share a few foundational experiences, both to honor the truth of how I learned to fear, and to lay groundwork for the posts ahead:

·       My biological father abandoned our family before I turned one. He struggled with depression.

·       My first stepfather beat and burned me. I don’t remember it, but I’ve seen the photos. My amygdala was wired to High Alert before I had language.

·       My second stepfather committed acts I won’t detail here.

·       My third stepfather was a drunk and a wife-beater. I remember the screams, the fear, and my seven-year-old brother being thrown against a wall when he tried to intervene. The town cops—his drinking buddies—hauled him away to sober up.

·       A later partner of my mom’s was emotionally unhealthy and refused to divorce his legal wife, choosing to stay for financial reasons while living with us.

Damn, they were all sons of bitches. Just writing this stirs up anger. These experiences taught me to fear pain, to fear being hurt, and to fear expressing myself. I learned early that shutdown, avoidance, escape, and retreat were the safest options. As a child, I escaped into fantasy, science fiction, and imaginative play. As an adult, I escaped through alcohol and other numbing behaviors.

I’m working on this now—learning to recognize and confront the fears that still influence me. I’m not holding resentment, nor am I assigning blame. Forgiveness is not something those men deserve. Forgiveness is something I can offer myself for not healing sooner. I take responsibility for my behavior, my choices, and my recovery. I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m not making excuses. I own my future.

Turning to President Kennedy’s quote, I want to express my gratitude this Thanksgiving. I’m grateful for 325 days of sobriety, and for growing in ways I never reached in prior attempts. I’m grateful for a skilled therapist whose guidance helped me rebuild the foundation I stand on today. I’m grateful for family and friends whose concern, honesty, and sincerity have helped me become more open and trusting. And I’m grateful for learning to trust myself—finally feeling a sense of pride in my recovery.

I still have work ahead, but I’m confident in the skills, awareness, and mindset I’ve built. I’m grateful for my relationships, my health, my resources, and the moments of meaning and joy that fill my days.

I’ll return to exploring the past experiences that continue to influence my present. For now, I’m grateful. And I wish everyone a peaceful, meaningful holiday season.