When I returned to the sober house, I told myself things would be different. This time, I was going to do it right—get a job, find a sponsor, and actually work the program.
Each time someone relapsed, their belongings were packed into black trash bags, and when they returned, they were moved to a new room. I unpacked once again, trying to settle in, trying to believe that this time would be different.
Two weeks later, I turned 21. There was an outdoor strip mall by the beach, and that night, Live was playing a concert. After my meeting, I wandered through the mall, watching people in bars laughing, celebrating, living. I thought, This is my 21st birthday. I should be in there, normal, with my friends. The thought stung, but then the music started.
They had fenced off the concert area, allowing entry only with a wristband. I followed the fence until I found a small opening where I could see the stage. Then Lightning Crashes began to play. I stood there, feeling every note, every word. I danced—sober. And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like forever, I was present.
My family, still holding onto hope, did what they could to support me. My mom planned a visit, staying at my uncle’s condo just fifteen minutes from the sober house.
I had started to notice a pattern—day 30 always felt impossible. Early in recovery, I had convinced myself that if I could just reach 30 days, I’d be okay. But now, as I neared that milestone again, I felt no relief. If anything, the cravings were worse.