I never planned to share this. Honestly, for years I thought: “This is who I am.” But there I was, 151 days ago, standing in my kitchen, the oven turned off, alone—my body trembling, tears streaming unbidden down my face. It was the moment my life began to fracture. I realized I was losing—losing everything that mattered. Two kids depending on me. A shrinking sense of self. And alcohol, my brutal companion, pushing me further from who I used to be.
In that moment of collapse, in the rawest wince of pain, I picked up my phone. I didn’t call for money. I didn’t cry out for pity. I just trembled and said: “Can someone tell me I can do this?” And for the first time in a long time, voices answered. My mom. My sisters. Even my ex-wife. They didn’t solve my pain, but they reminded me I wasn’t alone.
February 20th marks the first sober morning I can remember—free of the fog, free of the weight of the previous night’s bottle. The next two weeks were excruciating: night sweats like molten rivers, tremors that rattled my bones, waves of nausea that made every breath feel like a mountain to climb.
But the darkness was the price of rebirth. Then came March 7th. That morning I awoke not just alive—but present. Hydrated. Clear-headed. Energized. The world looked different—as if all the colors had been muted for years and suddenly bled back into view. I felt… unstoppable.
Twenty years of drinking hadn’t changed who I was meant to be—it almost erased him. But today, I’m reclaiming those 20 years. Sober. Present. Fighting. Alive.
To the folks who answered that call: thank you. You looked beyond my darkness and reminded me that life—my life—is good, worth saving.
“My name is Dan, and I am sober.”
I don’t share this to be lauded. I share it because one day, I hope this becomes someone else’s survival guide. Because if I can stand in that kitchen and choose not to quit… maybe someone else can, too.