These days, I’m learning how to breathe again. Not just the kind of breath that keeps you alive—but the kind that lets you feel alive. It’s different now. There’s a calmness I didn’t used to have. A quiet in my chest that used to always be full of noise—panic, shame, fear, cravings. I still deal with anxiety, of course. That hasn’t magically disappeared. But it’s managed. I’ve learned tools, I’ve built routines, and I have support. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel like I’m living instead of barely surviving.
Every sober day is a win. Every anxious day that I make it through without reaching for something to numb the feelings is a victory. And I’m proud of that. Truly. But if I’m being honest—and this space is where I have to be honest—I’m also angry. Not just at my addiction, not at the past circumstances that contributed to it. I’m angry at me.
The Weight of Lost Time
There’s a part of recovery that doesn’t get talked about enough: grief. Not grief for someone else, but grief for yourself—who you could’ve been, what you could’ve done. I spent so many years dreaming, setting goals, starting things I never finished, chasing highs instead of purpose. And now that I’m finally waking up to life again, there’s this ache in my chest for all that I lost.
I think about the time I can’t get back. The birthdays I missed, the friendships I ruined, the potential I buried under substances and self-doubt. I look at where others are in their lives and wonder where I’d be if I hadn’t taken that first hit, that first drink, told that first lie to cover it all up. That kind of regret can eat you alive if you let it.
But I don’t want to let it. I can’t let it. Because if I do, then I’m just continuing to live in the shadow of my addiction. And I’ve worked too hard, cried too many tears, and clawed my way through too many dark nights to go back there.
Learning to Forgive Myself
I’m beginning to understand that healing isn’t linear. It doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it looks like sitting with your sadness, allowing yourself to cry for who you used to be. Sometimes it means accepting that you did the best you could with what you had—even if that version of you was broken.
Forgiveness isn’t a switch you flip. It’s a choice you make every day to keep walking forward, even if you’re dragging your shame behind you. And slowly, with time and effort, that shame gets lighter. Some days, I even forget it’s there.
I’ve come to believe that the version of me who used was still trying to survive in the only way he knew how. That doesn’t excuse the harm I caused or the opportunities I lost. But it does help me be gentler with myself.
Making New Dreams
Yes, I lost time. Yes, I lost dreams. But I didn’t lose the ability to dream again. That’s the part I’m holding onto now. I’m not who I used to be—and thank God for that. But I’m not done growing. Not even close. There are still things I want to do, lives I want to impact, and love I want to give and receive.
Maybe the dreams I once had are gone, but new ones are already forming. And this time, they’re rooted in something stronger: clarity, purpose, honesty. Sobriety gave me back a future I thought I’d ruined. It’s up to me to build something beautiful with it.
Your Past Isn’t the End of Your Story
To anyone reading this who feels like they’ve wasted too much time or burned too many bridges to start over—let me tell you something I’m just now starting to believe: you are not too late. Recovery is not a return to who you used to be. It’s the beginning of becoming who you were always meant to be.
It’s okay to grieve the years addiction stole. It’s okay to feel mad at yourself. But don’t live there. Let that pain be the soil where something new can grow. You didn’t come this far just to come this far. Keep going. Your story isn’t over—and the best chapters might still be ahead.
