On May 25, 1983, I was 21 years old—lost and heading nowhere fast. That night, I was fspeeding down 4th Street in my hometown of Hattiesburg, headlights off, 90 mph, foot on the gas. It was 2 a.m. Three police cars chased behind me, blue lights flashing. Reckless. Irresponsible. Dangerous. I don’t remember much else—except the DUI. I was due.
And it was the best thing that ever happened to me.
The next day, I was in rehab in Jackson. From there, I went to a halfway house in Omaha. I didn’t know it then, but both places saved my life. I haven’t had a drink since. Not even a sip. Nothing stronger than an aspirin.
That was forty-two years ago this week.
Back then, I didn’t expect to live to 30—though at the rate I was going, I likely wouldn’t have made it to 25. I’d given up on myself. But God hadn’t. That made the difference.
There’s something I’ve learned about rock bottom: you don’t have to claw your way back to the surface, rung by rung, just to reach the neutral ground of normalcy. At the bottom, for those of us in recovery, there’s a door. A door that opens—not back to the life we had, but onward to a completely different life. A better one—healthier, more spiritual, more fulfilling. It’s not easy, but it’s worth every step.
When I was out there—drinking, drugging—I was chasing pleasure. That’s it. Liquid pleasure. Chemical pleasure. Sexual pleasure. The whole game was about feeling good fast. Pleasure isn’t bad. But it fades. It’s surface-level. It’s fleeting. Mostly empty. Once I removed the alcohol and drugs, I experienced happiness. Then, as I worked on the spiritual side of life, I found joy—and I learned that joy was what I’d been looking for in the alcohol and drugs.
Joy is available to me today. I don’t walk around in some constant state of bliss, but it’s there. And it comes without the complicated pain and consequences that life in active addiction brings.
Bottom line: my brain processes alcohol differently. Always has. From the time I took that first drink, it was fun. For a while. Then it was fun with problems. And before long, just problems. That’s the arc—a straight shot downhill.
I used to think recovery was punishment. Turns out, it was freedom. That halfway house in Omaha wasn’t a dead end. It was the beginning of a life I couldn’t have imagined.
I still don’t understand why I was given another chance. Why I got help when so many don’t. Why grace showed up when I had nothing to offer. But it did. And I’m thankful every day for that undeserved mercy.
I wish someone had told me then to write down what I hoped for in life. A list. Just a few honest lines about what a sober life might look like. I know now I would’ve undershot it. By a mile. Because this life—this clean and sober life—has given me more than I ever thought to ask for. Not through merit. Through grace.
Not money. Not status. Not stuff. The real things. Love. Peace. Real friends. Faith. A clear head. A steady heart. A way to live. The chance to help others. The strength to show up. Day after day. Year after year. The quiet joy of a life without consequences.
I’ve made plenty of mistakes over the years, but I haven’t had to pay the price that drinking used to demand. I still have problems—life guarantees that—but not the kind tied to addiction. That’s the gift of a recovery program: problems are part of life, but consequences don’t have to be.
The men and women who sat with me in meetings when I had nothing to give… who shared their stories without judgment and carried me until I could stand… I owe them more than I can ever repay.
There was a time I was embarrassed to be labeled a recovering alcoholic or addict. I went into rehab at 21, and it felt like a stigma. What I eventually learned is that it’s a disease. Some people have psoriasis. Some have diabetes. Some end up with cancer. I’m an alcoholic. People with psoriasis use a cream. Diabetics take insulin. Cancer patients undergo chemo. I work a spiritual program built on 12 steps and community. I don’t spend time lamenting the fact. My life is much better than I ever could’ve imagined outside of recovery.
None of this came from grit or willpower. If I got what I deserved, I wouldn’t be here writing this. I’d be dead or in jail. I’m not sober because I’m strong—I’m sober because grace caught me before the fall killed me.
I’ve got a program that works. Twelve steps. A fellowship. Service. Prayer. Honesty. Gratitude. And when I live by those principles—not just talk about them, but live them—I have a life worth living. I’m not perfect at it. But I try to get a little better each day.
Sobriety has given me things alcohol only promised. Alcohol promised confidence. Sobriety gave me peace. Alcohol promised fun. Sobriety gave me joy. Alcohol promised connection. Sobriety gave me solid, honest relationships.
And the biggest surprise? I haven’t missed a thing. Not one. The life I thought I’d lose by getting sober turned out to be no life at all. This is the real thing. And I’m more grateful than I can express in words.
These days, I’m vocal about my recovery. I never kept it anonymous, but about a decade ago, I decided to be more public with it. If my story can help even one person who’s struggling, I’m happy to share it. I get phone calls all the time—from folks in trouble or their loved ones—asking questions, seeking guidance. I don’t have all, or even most, of the answers. But I can share my experience, strength, and hope. I can tell them what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like for me now. If that helps them, great. If not, it still helps me. Keeps me grounded. Keeps me sober.
If it worked for someone like me—a scared, ashamed 21-year-old kid with a DUI and a head full of fog—it can work for anyone. I’m nothing special. I just reached out and held on.
If you’re in early recovery, do me a favor: make a list. Write down everything you want out of your life. Be honest. Dream big. Bigger than you think you deserve. Fold it up and put it away. Stay sober. One day—maybe five, ten, or even forty-two years from now—you’ll pull it out and see how small it really was. And how big your life became.
I’ve been trusted with work I love—six restaurants, teams I care about, trips I get to share with people I enjoy. I never expected it. I don’t take it for granted. Every bit of it feels like borrowed light.
But none of it matters if I’m not sober. None of it exists without recovery. That’s the cornerstone. Everything else is just brick and mortar.
God can. God will. If sought.
I’ve seen it again and again. People who seek a new life, and put one foot in front of the other, find one.
Forty-two years later, I’m still on the journey. Still learning. Still growing. Still showing up. And still grateful. That’s the key to all of it: gratitude. For the people who helped me. For the program that changed me. For the God who never gave up on me.
I say “thank you” a lot more these days. Sometimes under my breath. Sometimes with tears. Always with my whole heart.
That door at the bottom? It’s real. It opens. And behind it is a life full of meaning, connection, and grace.
If you’re struggling, please know this: I’m no expert. Just a grateful man who was shown a better way. And I’m here, if you ever need someone who understands.
601-270-7129.
Onward.
