That hit me hard. That was the moment things changed from “I’m here because I have to be” to “maybe I really do have a problem, and maybe I should take this seriously.”

Early recovery was rough. One of the hardest moments was getting kicked out of inpatient—on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. I felt like I failed again. My pride was loud. I was angry, defensive, and convinced I didn’t need help.

The truth is, I got kicked out because I was still living by my old rules. A group of guys were making pruno, and even though it wasn’t for me, I knew about it and didn’t say anything. I was still stuck in that mentality of “I’m not a snitch, it’s none of my business.” Looking back, that was my criminal thinking still showing up. I hadn’t fully surrendered yet.

At the time, I felt wronged. I was mad at everyone but myself. But that moment forced me to face something I’d never done before: swallowing my pride.

For the first time in my life, I picked up the phone and asked for help. I called Shelley. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but she told me, “Give me 30 days, and I’ll see what I can do.” I didn’t even know what that meant—I just knew it gave me something to hold onto.

Before I left, Jose caught me while I was waiting for my ride. He looked at me and said, “It’s not over. You can join outpatient. I’d like to see you there.”

That moment changed everything. I realized I hadn’t quit on myself. December was one of the hardest months of my life—my relationship was still rocky, the wounds were fresh, and the damage I caused was still very real. But after about 30 days, Shelley called and offered me a place in Recovery Bridge Housing. Those next six months were crucial. Being surrounded by sober people, having accountability, being checked on—it gave me the space to actually change.

One moment I’ll never forget happened on my very first day at Grandview. I was sitting in intake, overwhelmed, scared, and flooded with emotion. Then Becky came running over, jumped on my lap, and just sat with me like she’d known me forever. I remember you walking in and saying, “That’s a good spirit right there. Dogs just know”

That moment gave me hope when I didn’t have any. It felt like a God shot. I remember thinking, “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

There were a lot of people at Grandview who helped me along the way—Paula, Anna, and others who weren’t afraid to challenge me and hold up a mirror. Paula, especially, pushed me to stop the excuses and really look at myself. One thing that stuck with me was learning to forgive myself. That didn’t come easy. I used to believe that once something was done, that was it—you live with it forever. I held myself to that same standard.

Then someone told me, “You are not your past.” That line changed everything.

Another tool that helped me early on was the 10-minute rule. When cravings hit, I’d tell myself to sit with it for 10 minutes—then another 10, however many it took. That simple idea got me through some really hard days, and I still share it with people now.

There was also a moment at MacArthur Park that really tested me. I had every opportunity to make the wrong choice—and no one would’ve known. But I told myself, “If I do this, the rest of my life will be a lie.” I knew I’d still show up for the program for court, but I’d never be honest again. That day, I chose integrity when no one was watching.

Today, showing up looks different. First, I show up for myself—that’s how I protect my peace. From there, I can show up as a father, a partner, a brother, an uncle. I answer the calls now. I check in. I walk away when things get heated instead of escalating. I respect myself enough not to disrespect others—or myself.

My definition of success has changed too. It used to be about money and material things. Now success is the small wins: I didn’t drink today. I didn’t get high today. I made that phone call. I showed up to group and shared honestly. If someone takes something from my story, that’s a win.
I’m also in school now, working toward becoming a counselor. I never thought I’d say that—but here I am.

What gives me hope, even when things feel uncertain, is knowing that no matter what happens around me, I don’t have to go back to being the person I used to be. Even if my circumstances change, I can still be this version of myself.

If I could say one thing to someone just starting at Grandview, it would be this: Life can still be fun without substances.


I didn’t believe that at first. I thought that feeling was gone forever. It’s not.
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There is hope. I once believed the good in me was gone for good. It wasn’t. It never is. That person is still there—if you’re willing to give yourself a chance.