When I woke up the next morning, my mind was made up—I couldn’t stay in Florida any longer. I reached out to a few friends from the rooms, the ones who were really trying to do the right thing. I’ll always be grateful for the people who crossed my path at just the right time. They tried to talk me out of leaving, but deep down, they understood.
Being kicked out of the sober house meant there was no going back. No one was going to help me pay to return, and honestly, that place wasn’t helping me anyway. I needed more structure, more accountability—whether I was willing to admit it or not.
Going home terrified me, but staying felt just as scary. Shame, regret, and fear consumed me, and I couldn’t shake the hopelessness that came with failing yet again. Thirty days. That number haunted me. Why couldn’t I make it past 30 days?
As the plane took off, I stared out the window, replaying how hopeful I had been just months ago. Now, I was heading home, feeling more lost than ever.