A Note to the Reader
This is a condensed account of a much longer story. It is not a story of instant freedom or permanent arrival. It is the record of a slow undoing—of discovering that knowing the truth is not the same as being changed by it. If there is hope here, it is not in my resolve, but in the grace that met me when my resolve finally ran out.
From Exile to Surrender
For most of my life, I tried to escape addiction through understanding. I believed that if I could think hard enough, analyze deeply enough, or gain enough insight, I could break free. I understood theology. I understood surrender. What I did not know was whether I could survive without the thing that had been keeping me alive.
I used to ask, “How do I let go?”
But the truth was, I already knew the answer. I just didn’t like it.
Letting go isn’t symbolic.
It means surrender—total surrender.
Not giving up the fight, but giving up fighting.
I was a child of God living in bondage to addiction. I didn’t want to be an addict. I hated the life I was living, and I hated myself for being unable—or unwilling—to stop living it. Every relapse felt like betrayal—of God, of my wife, of myself. Shame kept me coming back. But it never made me well.
In trying to escape, I thought knowledge would do it for me. Theology. Insight. Self-awareness. Instead, I experienced a prolonged beatdown. This disease beat the heck out of me.
I had to remember that I am powerless.
Not helpless.
Not choiceless.
But powerless.
“The source and center of all my problems is selfishness.”
Even my desire for recovery was selfish. I didn’t want transformation—I wanted relief. I just wanted to feel better.
For years, I lived divided. I wanted God—but I wanted my sin too. I wanted forgiveness—but I didn’t want surrender.
Then everything collapsed.
By late 2022, my body began to break down. I was exhausted, isolated, and afraid. Social withdrawal had become complete. I had no close friends. No lifeline. Fear, exhaustion, and isolation closed in together.
And exhaustion does what it always does. It drives us back to whatever once worked.
So I returned to the only coping mechanism I knew.
The addiction came roaring back—stronger, more insidious, demanding more and giving less. I moved it outside my home, telling myself I was protecting my family. I wasn’t. I was spiraling.
On February 28, 2023, my hidden life came fully into the light.
I was arrested.
Cold was my first constant companion.
Booking was sterile and disorienting. Fear narrowed my thinking until there was room for little else. I slept on the floor for two nights with no blanket, no pillow—just the clothes I had been arrested in. And the cold.
One question echoed through the room again and again: “What are you here for?”
I reminded myself constantly to stay quiet, to stay observant, to avoid attention.
The world grew smaller by the day. I learned the sky in fragments—thin slices visible only at certain angles. I missed the feel of grass beneath my feet. I missed ordinary beauty.
And suddenly, I had time.
We were locked down nearly twenty-three hours a day. Two men, sometimes three, in a space barely meant for one. And nothing to do.
So I read.
Over twenty-two months of confinement, I read the Bible fourteen times.
In the long silences of the cell, God spoke.
He showed me my sin.
He showed me His love.
I was no longer reading Scripture to prepare lessons for others. I was reading to listen. My prayer shifted into something simple and honest:
“Thank You for bringing me here where I can finally hear You. I know You brought me here for a reason. I don’t want to leave until Your purpose here is complete.”
I did not pray for release. I prayed for wisdom, endurance, and clarity. I welcomed trials as God’s agents of change, because I was desperate for that change.
Slowly, I began to see that addiction was not the root, but a symptom. My failures flowed from a heart that had resisted surrender for decades.
Only a spiritual experience could keep me sober.
“For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh.” —Romans 7:18
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” —2 Corinthians 12:9
Powerlessness wasn’t humiliating—it was accurate.
I am powerless—but not helpless.
Powerless—but not abandoned.
Exile felt like punishment. It felt like the end.
Instead, it became the place where everything changed.
In confinement, stripped of distraction and illusion, I encountered the presence of God in ways I never had before. My prayer life truly began there. What surprised me most was not how desperate those prayers were, but how focused they became.
I sought a spiritual experience, not control. I began praying each day for willingness—“God, give me the courage and willingness to do whatever You need to do so that You can keep me sober today.”
The question finally changed.
I used to ask, “Why me? Why do I have this problem?”
Now I ask, “Why me? Why am I finding recovery?”
Today, I live sober by grace alone.
Not because I figured it out.
Not because I became strong.
But because I stopped pretending I could save myself.
I am still learning what surrender looks like one day at a time. I still wake up self-centered. I still need help I cannot provide for myself.
But I am no longer hiding.
And by grace alone, I live sober today.
Happy.
Joyous.
And free.
For the full story, read:
Fractured Light