Why I Became a Recovery Coach

Ten Years In Recovery

I want to be precise about this, because it matters. This is MY story and what worked for ME.

I did not spend ten years drinking and then get sober. I spent ten years in recovery, battling to stay sober. AA. Psychologists. Counselling. Therapy. Outpatient treatment. Group programs. I went. I did the work. I wanted it.

And I struggled the whole way through. I did not fully succeed in any of those years.

It was very difficult. And it was hardest on the people around me — the ones who wanted nothing more complicated than for me to be healthy and to find some peace in my life. They watched me try, and try, and come up short. If you love someone in that place right now, I understand what it is costing you.

If you are the one in that place, if you have done the work and watched it slip away more than once, then you already know the kind of tired I am talking about. Please keep reading. I want to tell you why I think it kept happening to me.

Where It Started

I took my first drink when I was fourteen years old. It felt like nothing I had ever experienced before. That first drink brought a calmness to my mind that I was not expecting, but it did for me exactly what I needed at the time. It quieted something I had carried since I was a little boy — anxiety, restlessness, uncertainty, confusion, and fear. These emotions were something I wasn't even conscious about. They were just there under the surface, but there nonetheless.

What made me feel like this? I am not sure, but for some reason I felt very shy, not comfortable in my skin at times, and really hard on myself to be perfect at everything I did. If I wasn't understanding something at school I felt stupid. If I had to get up in front of the class to speak I was extremely anxious. If I missed a breakaway goal that could have helped my hockey team win I felt a lot of embarrassment and anger. If I made a mistake on a test that I could have easily corrected by reviewing my answers I felt ashamed. My childhood was riddled with feelings that I was not good enough.

When I found alcohol as a teenager, it did exactly what I needed. It separated me from myself.

Whenever life became uncomfortable, alcohol was there to numb the pain, reduce the anxiety, and help me escape. What I didn't realize was that every time I reached for it instead of facing life, I was losing a little more of my ability to handle hard emotions, solve problems, and build resilience. I wasn't learning how to live. I was learning how to escape.

Looking back, I can see three things I was missing. I didn't have language for them at the time. I do now, and they are the foundation of my approach to coaching.

I wasn't willing. I thought the goal was to stop drinking. There were many times I stopped drinking — for a month, for three months, but I was not able to sustain it. Eventually I would fool myself to believe I could go back to “normal” drinking. I was more miserable when I was abstaining. The same problems I had when I was drinking were the same problems when I was not drinking. What I had never done was learn how to live sober. Those are two completely different projects, and I kept signing up for the easier one.

I hadn't surrendered. In 2014, I agreed to try and quit, and I meant it. But I was quitting for my family. I was quitting so the people I loved would stop worrying. A recovery built to satisfy someone else has a shelf life, and mine ran out. I lasted about 4 months before I decided that I wasn't that bad, and I could control my drinking. I wasn't hurting anyone but myself and it is everyone else's problem, not mine. Who are other people to tell me what I am and what I am not. I am in control of my own life. Nobody is going to tell me how to live. I was stubborn and arrogant.

I wasn't open-minded. I sat in AA rooms and judged everyone in them. I catalogued the ways I wasn't like these people. I decided I didn't belong there, and I stopped going to meetings, dumped my sponsor — and in doing so I threw away the one thing that might have helped, because I was too certain I already knew better. The mind of an alcoholic is sick, and our egos are our worst enemy.

Ten years. A revolving door. Nothing lasting longer than about four months. And the most frustrating part was that I genuinely wanted to stop. I could not understand why I kept returning to the very thing that was hurting me. Just like when I was a young man, I judged myself harshly, felt like a failure, beat myself up, felt less than and quit quitting.

The Day That Changed

I lost my job. Not because of downsizing, but because of poor performance. Because of my own bad choices. Instead of spending my afternoons building customer relationships, I had been spending them sitting in a pub. I knew I wasn't doing what I should have been doing. I didn't enjoy what I was doing for a living and instead of admitting it and finding something else for work, I sunk into a bad place. I hated myself for not asking for help. I was afraid to admit my mental health was not good. I was procrastinating every day because the role I had was causing me anxiety. The daily tasks required to be successful did not match my strengths.

I did what I had done my whole life. I ignored my problems. I hid the truth. I sabotaged my life.

The day finally came where it all came crashing down. I logged into what I thought was a routine weekly video meeting with my boss, and I saw her and the Human Resources Manager on the screen. I knew immediately what was coming, and I got let go.

I was working from home that day, and I packed up my briefcase and drove straight to the pub. And I drank. That night I lied about where I had been that day because I was too ashamed to admit what happened earlier.

The next morning, I told the truth.

Something in me had changed. I was exhausted. Exhausted from pretending. Exhausted from lying. Exhausted from trying to convince everyone — including myself — that I had my drinking under control. I was hiding it. Lying about it. Now I was sick of it.

For the first time in my life, I surrendered. Not for my family. Not because of the job loss. Not because I got caught in my lies. Not because I had no other choice.

I surrendered because I finally wanted recovery for myself. I called a recovery centre, and I checked myself into treatment a few days later. It was the best decision I have ever made for myself.

Thank goodness, that day came — the day I found true, sustained recovery. Life has been different ever since.

What I Found

I didn't go to treatment because I needed to learn how to stop drinking. I went because I needed to learn how to live sober.

This time I was willing to do whatever it took. I surrendered to a new way of thinking and a new way of living, one day at a time. And I stayed open-minded, because I had finally admitted that my way had not worked and that I would have to find what would work for me.

I surrendered my will and life to God. No longer would I live on my terms. I knew God all my life, but I never truly gave all of me. I only gave the easy parts. I had to smash my ego, become open-minded, and rebuild my life around spiritual things. For me, that included routine, accountability, discipline, community, prayer, meditation, self-reflection, service, and gratitude. I had to give away my life. When I did, I got back more than I ever gave up. One day at a time.

And then something I hadn't expected happened. I found peace, joy, and contentment in my mind and soul. Not just the absence of drinking. Actual peace. Eventually I built a life so fulfilling and beautiful that I no longer wanted to escape it.

What I Am, and What I'm Not

I'm not a therapist. I'm not a counsellor. I'm not a doctor. Recovery coaching is not treatment or medical care, and it never replaces them. If counselling, medical care, or treatment is part of your journey, I will encourage and support you every step of the way.

What I am is someone who genuinely cares about your future. I believe you already have the strength and the wisdom you need. My job isn't to tell you how to live. It's to help you find the path that is right for you.

Every conversation is confidential. Every recovery journey is different. And every decision belongs to you.

You don't have to walk this journey alone. I'd be honoured to walk beside you.