Five years ago, on Christmas Eve, my fifteen-year battle with addiction reached a critical breaking point. I was detoxing during a family gathering on my aunt and uncle’s couch after days of consecutive cocaine use, numbing myself with counterfeit pills I later discovered were laced with opiates, purchased from my dealer. My grandma turned to me and asked, “Are you okay?” I wasn’t—but it would take another five months before I admitted that to myself.
Today, as I finished errands before celebrating the holiday at that same family member’s house, I received a text from an unknown number: “Hey, I know it’s been a while, but I have a ton of pills if you want to buy some. I know how much you like them. It’s Z, by the way.” Five years ago, this text would’ve felt like a lifeline. Today, it reminds me of how far I’ve come and how grateful I am to no longer live that way.
Growing up, I struggled with insecurity – feeling out of place after my family moved from Darien to Norwalk and comparing myself to my more athletic and accomplished peers. Like many, my addiction started innocently enough – drinking and smoking with friends as a teenager. Despite warnings about my family’s history with addiction I was convinced that I was different and had control. Those feelings of being “less than” lingered into adulthood, driving me to chase validation in all the wrong places by hanging out with the heavy partiers at my high school.
When I went to college at UMass Amherst, cocaine became part of my routine, fueling a cycle of highs and lows. At the beginning, cocaine helped me hold things together and allowed me to graduate and go on to attend law school at Penn State. By the time I passed the bar exam and started working, I was using just to keep up with the demands of my career. Depression and anxiety became overwhelming, and a friend introduced me to prescription medication for anxiety. For a moment, I thought I’d found a solution—something to silence my inner chaos. But what started as an occasional pill turned into daily use, and before long, my life revolved around staying numb.
On the surface, I had it all: a flashy career working as a lawyer in the M&A world, the Range Rover, expensive watches, designer clothes and bags, apartments in luxury high-rise buildings in Manhattan, along with a long-term relationship. But I was empty. My achievements didn’t bring the happiness I expected. My substance use isolated me emotionally. By Christmas Eve five years ago, I had run out of solutions. I was hanging on by a thread at work after switching jobs to go in-house at a public company. At the time, I planned to use the time I gained back to focus on getting better. I ended up just using that time to do more drugs. The substances weren’t working anymore, the material things didn’t matter, and I was withdrawing from everything and everyone who cared about me.
When the pandemic hit, my drug use spiraled further. I wasn’t just struggling to show up – I couldn’t. I cycled between sleepless nights and days where I barely got out of bed. My fiancé, Dad, and Stepmom staged an informal intervention in May of 2020. I didn’t want help. I begged, pleaded, yelled—anything to avoid giving up the only things that kept me going by that point. But the ultimatum was clear: accept help or lose the people who mattered most to me. When faced with that choice, I found myself genuinely weighing the options – considering whether I was willing to sacrifice the people who loved me most in the world for a few more fleeting highs. The realization that I could even contemplate such a thing cut deep. I was scared of myself, of what I had become, and of how far I had fallen.
Before I could be admitted, I had to wait a week and produce two negative COVID tests. My fiancé kicked me out of our shared apartment, and I was forced to stay with my parents where I continued using up until being admitted at Silver Hill Hospital for their 28-day Transitional Living Program.
I entered treatment with no intention of getting sober long-term. I planned to stop for 28 days, then return to my old life but cut out the “hard stuff.” But something unexpected happened three days in – I realized I was tired. Tired of hating myself, of counting down the minutes to my next high, of living a life I didn’t recognize. I didn’t have some dramatic epiphany or a spiritual awakening that people often speak about in the traditional sense. I just knew that I couldn’t keep living the way I had been.
I made a deal with myself to give recovery my full effort just for that month in treatment. By that point I didn’t have much to lose. I worked with my clinicians, went to meetings, and connected with others in recovery. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one who had made mistakes, and I wasn’t beyond hope. About ten days in, I made one of the hardest calls of my life. I told my fiancé where to find the rest of the drugs I’d hidden. It was a moment of profound shame and freedom.
When I left treatment, I still wasn’t sure about long-term recovery, so I made another deal with myself: commit to 90 meetings in 90 days, then reassess. My fiancé agreed to let me return to our apartment and was my rock during that time. She stayed sober with me during those first 90 days, locked up any alcohol and cash we had at the house, cleared out my paraphernalia, and supported me every step of the way while I attended meetings and worked with my sponsor to start the 12 Steps of AA. In addition, my therapist, my parents, stepparents, and future in-laws all continued to support the choices I was making and reinforce how proud they were that I was really giving recovery a shot. To this day, they still remind me of how proud they are.
By the end of those 90 days, my life had improved beyond what I could’ve imagined. Slowly, I began to rebuild what addiction had taken from me – my confidence, my relationships, and my sense of purpose. I extended the deal with myself another three months out to six months, and then one year. By one year, I knew no drink or drug was worth risking everything I’d gained. I wasn’t willing to go back. I entered recovery at the beginning to appease my family and fiancé. It wasn’t for me. It was purely to maintain the things I didn’t want to lose. Each time I extended the deal with myself, my reasoning for staying in recovery become more for me, and less to appease others. It became something I wanted.
To say that I have a life beyond my wildest dreams feels like an understatement at times. Since entering recovery I have gotten married, moved into a house, started a family, opened a business helping coach people through their own recovery, grown that business into an amazing community, and gained the ability to wake up every day feeling so grateful to be alive. None of these things would have been possible if not for the support of my wife, family, clinicians, sponsor, and recovery program. I can’t do this alone, and I know I never have to again.
Recovery also hasn’t been perfect. At a year and a half sober, I planned to try drinking again when I hit two years. But when the time came, I chose not to risk what I’d worked so hard to rebuild. At three and a half years, my wife and I had our first child – a beautiful son. Shortly after he was born, he was diagnosed with a rare heart condition.
That diagnosis shook me. Recovery had been easy when life was good. In that moment, I wanted to run back to old patterns to escape the fear and pain. Despite everything my program had taught me I struggled to turn it over and trust the process. Ultimately, I did though and leaned into my recovery. I leaned on my community, my family, and the tools I’d gained. Over the next year, my son underwent multiple procedures and a surgery that repaired his heart. Today he is healthy, thriving, and loved by a father (and amazing mother) that’s able to show up for him every single day, good or bad. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
Sometimes I wish someone had told me earlier: “You can have everything you’ve ever dreamed of – you just have to give up one category of things.” But in truth, I wouldn’t change my story. Every struggle shaped who I am today and gave me the resilience I carry forward to others.