I will never forget this day. I had ended up in the backseat of a Jeep Grand Cherokee. It was metallic silver, with sleek and comfortable quilted leather seats. I traveled for what felt like hours on end. I didn’t know exactly where I was heading—only had an idea of what awaited me. Not that I cared too much at the time. I had no care for anything. I was in no rush at all.

Then, finally, my ride came to a stop. Day turned to dusk—the sun setting, the last of the daylight being absorbed by the Berkshires. Like many before me, I unnervingly walked through a set of heavy red double doors. My first thought was: what a scene this was. A scene I had certainly never played before. Then it hit me—the façade was up. The curtains had been drawn. My defenses had collapsed. The house of cards had fallen, ever so swiftly.

Minutes ago, I was just a passenger. Now, for the next month, I was to be a patient.

I stretched out the last part of my active addiction like it was a piece of taffy. The memories aren’t too detailed. They’re more like snapshots—concise and clear, like a film reel hitting the cutting room floor. Sequences.

I lived a lie, and defended lies, for a year. A whole year. Some days I was a good Jekyll. Some days I was a better Hyde. But every day, I ran a fool’s errand. I played some stupid games and earned some pretty stupid prizes.

Rock bottom is one of those crossroads moments when you’re all out of choices. I am a firm believer in rock bottom—I needed every ounce of pain it took. Some defeats can become integral instruments to victory.

I spent 28 days at Swift River. The best word I can use to describe that month of August is rebirth. There was no single moment of bedazzling revelation. It was more of an educational process.

I witnessed many different walks of life during those few weeks. I connected with others—through the highs and the lows. I shared laughs, and I shared cries. I learned a lot about the nature of addiction. And as the days progressed, I became more willing to look at my own behavior and history.

Swift River introduced me to the beginning of the solution. It was there that I finally and truly accepted that I was an alcoholic. It may be possible for me to disobey that voice—but never again can I disbelieve it.

Even in the safe and nurturing environment Swift River provided (to the utmost degree), there were still days that proved challenging. Early sobriety can, at times, be a difficult and lonely job. One might compare it to crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub. There’s plenty of opportunity for self-doubt.

At the time, I never would have thought (or admitted) how grateful and fortunate I am to have had the experience I did at Swift River. I learned countless lessons—and more continue to unfold.

What stands out most are the people I met, staff and patients alike. Their stories. The same language we all shared. We each had our own Everest we seemed determined to conquer.

Swift River not only provided a blueprint for my recovery—but, most importantly, as days turned to weeks and weeks to months, it revealed a bridge back to life. A sober life. An honest life.

We seek progress, not perfection. Nowadays, I try to keep things as black and white as possible. Grey areas in sobriety offer me no benefits.As I write this, I am 290 days clean. I go to multiple meetings a week. I chair meetings. I’ve spoken at meetings. I even have a greeting commitment at my favorite meeting—the Monday night men’s group.I’ll end with a share I heard at that same Monday meeting I treasure: