It’s hard to imagine now, but there was a time when I felt utterly helpless—trapped in darkness with no way out.
My life slowly spiraled out of control. For years, I wore a mask—playing the clown, making light of everything, pretending I had it all together. But beneath the surface, I was unraveling.
Eventually, I found an escape: substance. What began as a way to unwind became a way to survive—a daily ritual that morphed into a full-blown nightmare.
There were sleepless nights… quiet 2 a.m. trips to the liquor cabinet. Sometimes I’d look down at my dog and feel like even he saw through me. But it wasn’t him—it was my soul, trying to break through the denial, whispering: You’re lost.
I didn’t seek treatment willingly. My ego’s façade had shattered, leaving my family in the rubble of destruction. The illusion of control was gone. I was a broken man with nothing left but desperation. That’s when I cried out—to a God I wasn’t even sure was still listening.
Reluctantly, I entered rehab a shell of myself—a walking corpse, just looking for a hole to disappear into. Every conversation was strained. Every meeting felt like a blur of hollow words. I showed up physically, but I wasn’t truly there. One day, they took us bowling—something that should’ve been lighthearted, maybe even fun. But even that felt miserable. That’s when it hit me: if I couldn’t feel joy doing something as simple as bowling, I was far more lost than I realized.
It was the beginning of COVID when I walked into Bridges to Life rehab. As the world outside fell apart, I was confronting my own collapse within.
A few weeks later, I returned home. On my way to outpatient IOP, my brother called to check in. I told him I was scared—scared I might never feel joy again. I couldn’t even remember the last time I laughed. He told me to give it time. That I’d been through a lot. And that healing has its own pace.
Maybe it was pandemic boredom. Maybe it was restlessness. But I started taking long walks—silent walks, just me and the sound of my own thoughts. So many walks, even the dog started hiding from me.
Then one day, a walk turned into a kind of pilgrimage—a pathway to surrender. Something felt different. The more I let go, the more I began to notice.
I stopped mid-walk. My dog looked back at me, confused. But something had caught my attention. The wind had picked up. The trees around me began to sway—not wildly, but with rhythm and grace. I felt the breeze on my face. I could hear the leaves rustling in a strange, haunting harmony.
And suddenly—I was aware of something bigger.
A presence.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was holy.
And it scared me.
Not like a movie scare—but like standing at the edge of a cliff, or under the weight of a thunderstorm rolling in. I felt exposed. Small. Known. There was shame… and yet something else—adoration. A trembling awe. I stood there, completely undone.
In that moment, I felt God.
And though it shook me, it also set something free inside me. Because in that strange, sacred stillness, I heard something—not out loud, but deep within:
"I see you. I’ve never left. And I still love you."
I don’t tell this story often. It feels too sacred, too personal. Who would believe someone like me—wrecked by addiction, burned by my own choices—could encounter the divine in the middle of a quiet sidewalk beneath a swaying tree?
But I did.
And I believe now that awe was the beginning of healing. That being undone in the presence of God is where true wholeness begins.
So keep walking. Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s terrifying.
Because the wind still moves through the trees.
And God still meets us there.
“You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.”
— Jeremiah 29:13
God,
Thank You for never leaving me—even when I walked away.
Thank You for showing up in the silence,
In the stillness,
In the swaying trees.
Help me to surrender daily.
Open my eyes to Your presence,
My heart to Your mercy,
And my soul to Your love.
Amen.
