Recovery-Learning to Breath Again

Valentine’s Day is a holiday for love. Restaurants fill with couples sharing romantic meals, toasting to their bond.

On Valentine’s Day, 2018, I made a different choice. I chose to love myself.

That night was the last time I ever took a drink.

Knowing I was checking into rehab the next day, I went to my local liquor store and picked up the “usual.” I didn’t even have to ask the clerk anymore. As soon as I walked in, he had my pint of Jack Daniel’s ready—like clockwork.

I went home and drank alone.

The next morning, my sisters drove me to a satellite treatment center. After checking in, we exchanged hugs, said our goodbyes, and I was off. Off to heal. Or at least, try.

I didn’t know what to expect. I remembered visiting my dad at various rehab centers over the years—some as part of court mandates, others voluntary. I always remembered them being peaceful. The people seemed calm. My dad always looked healthier afterward. Like rehab gave him a chance to reset.

Maybe that’s what I needed, too.

The drive from the intake center to the actual rehab facility felt like forever. It was way out in the middle of nowhere—which I later learned was by design, to deter people from leaving mid-treatment. Still, we heard stories about people who managed to “fly the coop.”

Checking in was humbling. I weighed in at 500 pounds and had to strip naked so a female security guard could search me for paraphernalia. Not exactly the introduction I wanted—but I got over it.

Detox was the first step.

It was raw. Guys were curled into balls, shaking, sweating, battling withdrawals from all kinds of substances. I’d seen my father detox from heroin, so I knew the signs. I felt anxious too—over 24 hours without alcohol and nothing to numb me. I had to sit with the discomfort. No escape.

To my surprise, the other patients were comforting. The ones not violently detoxing were approachable, friendly. Judgment stayed at the door. We were all there trying to get back some kind of control.

The first night was rough. The bed was hard as concrete, and my snoring? Unpopular. I got a few hours of sleep. Mostly, I stayed in bed except to walk to the main building for meals—shoutout to the kitchen staff, though. The food was solid.

The nurses gave me some pills to ease the withdrawal symptoms. That first night, I had a wild dream: I was riding a purple unicorn through a meadow. It was so vivid that I literally rolled off the bed and hit the hardwood floor like a bowling ball.

The thud echoed through the room.

“Yo, Moe just fell out of the bed!”

Nine guys laughing hysterically at 3 a.m.—I’ll never forget that sound. And honestly? I needed it. I sat on the floor and laughed with them.

The next morning, I asked to be taken off the pills.

Recovery is complicated.

You’re stepping out of your old life, but you’re not sure what’s waiting on the other side.

One of the most comforting things was the support from my friends and family. People sometimes see addicts as weak, shady, or lost. But the people I met in that rehab? Doctors. Teachers. Plumbers. Musicians. Chefs.

Some were there for the second or third time—but they showed up. Just like when a dish doesn’t land right in service—you go back, fix it, try again. That’s all rehab is. Trying again.

Our days were structured: group sessions, one-on-one counseling, shared meals, downtime. The counselors? Many were recovering addicts themselves. They got it. They didn’t just speak at us—they related to us. That made all the difference.

For the first time in my life, I stepped outside of myself and took a real look at who I’d become. At the people I’d hurt. At the control I’d handed over to alcohol.

I was there voluntarily—and that mattered. Some patients were already talking about going right back to their dealer or corner liquor store once they got out. I didn’t judge them. I got it. You can’t be forced to change. You have to want it.

The 12 steps of AA and NA were part of the program. Not every step hit home for me—but Step 12 did: help others who are still struggling.

That’s a chef principle too. When someone’s in the weeds, you help. You don’t ask if they deserve it—you show up.

At the end of every evening, we’d say the Serenity Prayer:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Serenity. Courage. Wisdom.

Those became anchors. Small but powerful reminders of what healing required.

One night during “talent night,” I got on stage and rapped. I told my story—about drinking alone after long shifts, about getting pulled over in my own driveway, about the panic attack at my desk.

I don’t know if it helped someone else, but it helped me.

It was like an exhale. I got it out of my head and off my chest.

Another night, a speaker told us how “the disease” took his father.

That broke me.

That was the night I cried—not just tears, but soul-deep sobs I’d been holding in for years. I couldn’t hide behind the stove. I couldn’t pour a drink to numb it. I had to feel it. Raw.

I had to grieve.

I had to heal.

Those tears saved me.

That moment let me breathe again.

After completing inpatient, I started outpatient treatment. I went to meetings after work. I stayed connected. I saw people relapse, and I saw them come back. And I realized—just like in the kitchen, not every dish is perfect.

But if you show up,

If you care,

If you try—

You can get better.

And I was getting better.

One breath at a time.