I had my first joint at 15. Sitting in a circle with school friends, passing it around like it was nothing. It wasn't nothing. For the first time, my brain went quiet.
I was always the bright one. Good grades, sharp mind, big expectations. But underneath all of that was a kid who felt like he was wearing someone else's life. Like the pressure on his shoulders belonged to somebody more capable, more deserving. I felt like an imposter in my own skin.
By college, I was rolling my own. Cannabis became my escape hatch from real life. Every problem, every expectation, every feeling I didn't want to sit with -- I could make it all disappear in a cloud of smoke.
Around 19, I turned away from religion. I'd tried it. It wasn't for me. But when you remove one crutch, you reach for another. That's when alcohol stepped in.
At first, it was just fun. Drinks with friends. Nights out. Laughing. But I was never the one who could have two drinks and call it a night. I always drank too much. Every single time. And I loved it. Not the taste, not the social side. I loved what it did to my mind. For a few hours, the weight lifted. The imposter disappeared. I was free.
I knew it was a problem a long time ago. Years before I did anything about it. I'd wake up, check my phone, and feel my stomach drop. The messages I'd sent. The things I'd said. The people I'd hurt. Every time I'd tell myself the same lie: "That was the last time."
It was never the last time.
This went on for over a decade. The same cycle. Drink, regret, promise, repeat. Each time the lows got lower and the promises got emptier.
By 30, I'd nearly lost everything. My family. My siblings. The people who loved me most were running out of reasons to keep trying. And the worst part? I couldn't blame them. I'd earned every bit of distance they put between us.
Then came the morning that broke me.
I woke up to chaos. Angry messages from friends who'd had enough. My mother upset. My father disappointed. My siblings frustrated and tired of the same cycle. The people who loved me were angry, and they had every right to be. I had taken their patience and burned it, over and over again.
That was my rock bottom. Not a movie scene. Not a dramatic collapse. Just the cold reality of waking up and realising I'd exhausted the love of everyone who mattered. And I couldn't tell myself "that was the last time" anymore because I could see in their eyes that there might not be another chance.
I walked into an AA meeting that day. I sat down. I listened. And for the first time in years, I heard people describing my life back to me. The shame. The lies we tell ourselves. The way alcohol promises freedom but delivers a smaller and smaller cage.
I stood up in front of 40 strangers and said out loud what I'd been running from: that I was a freeloader. That I'd used the people who loved me. That the whole world could see it, even when I couldn't.
It was the most exposed I'd ever felt. And somehow, it was the beginning of everything.
Why This Exists
I'm not writing this as an expert. I'm not a counsellor or a therapist. I'm someone who has been at Day 1 more times than I care to count. Someone who built this site because I needed something real when I was struggling at 2 AM and the whole world was asleep.
This site, this app, these words. They exist because I couldn't find what I needed when I needed it most. No corporate wellness. No motivational posters. Just honest words from someone who gets it.
If you're reading this and you're at the beginning, or starting over again, I want you to know something: the fact that you're here means you haven't given up. And that's everything.
One day at a time. That's all any of us have.
-- The Survival Herbalist