One Year Clean

February 1st, 2026 marks one year clean for me. I’m not writing this to sound inspiring—I’m writing it because I remember exactly who I was a year ago, and I don’t want to forget what it cost to crawl out.

The last 24 hours using

Pinellas County got hit by two hurricanes in 2024, and I knew plenty of people with FEMA hotel vouchers. While I was using and selling drugs, getting a place to stay during that time wasn’t hard.

Living there was hard.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to my kids since the weekend after my Father died. He passed January 9th. I didn’t turn into some saint because of it, but his death stacked on top of everything else—and it pushed me closer to the edge of “I can’t do this anymore.”

A little over a year before that, I had what I thought I wanted: a beautiful girlfriend, two sons I loved more than I knew how to show, and a business that was growing. I was building something real.

Addiction doesn’t care.

It doesn’t care who you love. It doesn’t care what you built. It doesn’t care what you promised yourself. It just takes until it leaves you holding the empty frame of your own life.

I used for the last time around 4 a.m. on February 1st, 2025. I looked at a guy I knew and said, “Man, I am tired of living like this. There is so much more out there for me. I’m ready to quit, I just don’t know how I’m going to fully quit.”

By then I’d already cut way back. A couple weeks earlier I’d had a run-in with law enforcement. I avoided jail that time, but I knew it was coming. I just didn’t know when. Or how bad it would be when it did happen. In active addiction, it is always just a matter of time.

When the sun came up, I went outside.

I had a motorcycle I’d been rewiring—trying to get all the lights working. I still had to put the carburetor back on and check the wiring. In my head, I was already gone. I planned to leave town for a few days and ride, just to get away and see what I could figure out about myself.

I finished the wiring. Checked the connections. Carb back on. Hoses and cables in place. I remember smiling because the work was finally complete. Hooked up the battery last. Started putting the tools away.

And when I stood up, I looked around.

Six sheriffs.

They had circled up around me without me noticing them coming from different angles.

That morning I got arrested—three counts of possession of methamphetamine and three counts of sales and distribution. I’d been set up by two different criminal informants.

I was angry because I was facing years.

But underneath the anger, I felt relief.

And I felt this brutal reminder: be careful what you ask for. You might get it. You just might not like how it shows up.

The first 30 days: grief, fear, and a pen

I waited for transport and tried to sleep. I got processed through county faster than I ever had. They put me in what we call the “Hyatt” of the jail—central, microwave, hot water.

And then it was mostly just me.

The mother of my children sent a couple care packages later. I noticed that. I’ll never forget that.

The first 30 days were an emotional roller coaster. I was dealing with the unknown—what my charges were really going to do to my life. I’ve done time before: Missouri, and then down here about a decade ago. I had promised myself I’d never face another prison bid.

Yet there I was.

My Father had died in January and I was trapped with grief, fear, and my own choices—no running, no escaping, no “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

So I started writing. A lot. Not because I was trying to be deep. Because I was trying to survive my own head.

I started digging into the “why’s” that had piled up over the years: anger, fear, resentments, old pain I kept pretending didn’t matter. I tried learning everything I could on the Edovo app on the jail tablets. At first I had to borrow one from another inmate.

I walked in circles for hours in a space about half the size of a basketball court.

I learned to meditate. I learned to journal. I learned to let remorse and ideas flow instead of stuffing them down. I learned to look at my past and say, “Yeah. I did that,” without instantly trying to numb it.

I couldn’t get my kids back in that moment. But I could choose to live in a way where they wouldn’t be completely embarrassed by me forever.

For whatever reason, I didn’t get hit with the extreme sleep schedule that can follow meth withdrawal. Maybe I got lucky. Maybe cutting down before I got arrested helped.

But emotionally?

I paid.

Five months of fighting for treatment, not prison

That emotional roller coaster followed me for five months—five months of fighting to stay out of prison. The pressure was constant. The stakes were real. I was probably looking at something north of four years inside. Maybe less, maybe more.

I’ll never know.

Because I pushed for one outcome like my life depended on it: long-term treatment.

The courts agreed to a Department of Corrections–funded long-term program and three years probation. I’m not going to pretend that’s a “soft” outcome. It was a gift, but it also came with consequences and accountability. It meant I had to change for real, not just talk about it.

I hit the halfway point of the program on February 5th—four days after my year clean.

“You were locked up, so it was easy”

I already know what some people think when they hear this: “Oh he was in jail and long-term treatment, so he hasn’t had to fight to stay sober.”

I’m going to laugh at you.

If you think you can’t get drugs in jail, you’re naive. If you think you can’t get drugs in a DOC long-term program—especially one where half the program is basically re-entry and work release—you’re a fool. Florida’s community release/work release structure exists specifically to place people into the community for paid employment and other reentry activities, and that comes with exposure and temptation whether people want to admit it or not.

I chose to stay clean anyway.

What actually changed in me

This year gave me time to face myself—without excuses and without the ability to run.

I attended voluntary AA and NA meetings, basically doing my own version of 90 in 90 here, and I plan to repeat it when I’m released in August. I still go multiple times a week because connection matters and I need people in my life who are serious about staying sober.

I’ve cost myself a lot in my life. This year gave me time to start forgiving myself—not pretending what I did was okay, but understanding that hating myself isn’t the same thing as changing.

I’m learning how to build an identity that isn’t just what society stamped on me. I’m learning how to be a man a woman could be proud to have in her life. I’m trying to become the kind of father who rebuilds the relationship with his sons and shows them a better way to live.

Not perfect.

But real.

RawRecoveryJourney.com

I also learned how to build a website: RawRecoveryJourney.com.

I came to view active addiction, any addiction to behavior or substance, created catastrophic storms in our lives. Thus, “Stormborn Sobriety” was born.

This isn’t just for other people. It’s for me too. It keeps recovery in my face. It keeps me honest. It forces me to put words to what I’m living instead of letting the days blur together.

I want it to grow into something that helps people—especially the ones who still think they’ve got time. The ones who think they’ll choose treatment later, after the next run, after the next arrest, after the next bridge burns.

I don’t want anyone to have to beg for treatment instead of prison like I did.

Year 2 intentions

Year 2 is about growth.

I’m not all of who I’m going to become. I’m still learning. Still peeling layers. Still trying to build a life that matches what I say I believe.

I hope next year I get to hear that I helped even one person get clean. Just one.

How awesome would that be?

I can’t wait to see what this next year brings.

Build Your Storm Shelter

Early Recovery Guide – Start here  (Our Foundation)
Relapse Prevention Plan (because when rebuilding, stress is real).
Boundaries (we need protection, not walls)
Rebuilding Life After Addiction (built upon our foundation)

If the Storm Has Turned Bad

SAMHSA National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) — free, confidential, 24/7/365 treatment referral and information for individuals and families; available in English and Spanish.
FindTreatment.gov: a directory for finding treatment options in the U.S.
If you’re in crisis or thinking about hurting yourself, call or text 988 (U.S.) for free, confidential, 24/7 support from the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

Some links below are affiliate links—if you click and buy, this site may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. It helps keep the lights on, and only services worth recommending get linked.

Talkspace provides virtual therapy (and also offers psychiatry services on its platform), so support can happen from a phone or computer instead of an office visit.
Online-Therapy.com is a CBT-focused online therapy platform that combines a self-guided program (sections + worksheets) with therapist support, including messaging and optional live sessions depending on subscription level.
Brightside offers an online Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP) for substance use disorder, built around a weekly schedule that includes group therapy, individual therapy, and psychiatry/med consults as needed.

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