January 3rd: The Day I Finally Gave Up

January 3rd will always be a special date for me.

It’s the day I entered rehab.
The day I finally gave up.

Walking through those doors, I knew two things with complete clarity:
I needed help — and I didn’t want to lose everything.

Both of those truths became the foundation of my recovery.

I had tried to stop drinking more times than I can count. I wanted help. I needed help. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do it on my own. Every attempt ended the same way — promises broken, confidence eroded, shame piling higher. Walking into rehab wasn’t a moment of strength; it was a moment of surrender. A final admission of I’ve tried everything I know how to do, and it’s not enough.

The second truth was just as heavy.

At the height of my addiction, I could feel everything slipping away. Family. My kids. Friends. Work. Trust. Stability. It was all evaporating right in front of me, and for the first time, I couldn’t explain it away or tell myself I’d fix it later. There were no more excuses left. No more “just one more.” No more negotiations.

There was only me — and detox ahead.

That’s where my sober journey actually began.

Not in clarity.
Not in confidence.
But in detox — shaking, foggy-headed, barely sleeping, waking up to night terrors and fear. It was miserable. It was terrifying. And it was exactly what it needed to be.

Slowly, day by day, the fog began to lift. The shaking eased. My thoughts became clearer. And like a newborn deer on unsteady legs, I began to stand. I was wobbly. I had no idea what I was doing. I needed structure. I needed direction. I needed people around me who knew the terrain I was walking into.

Rehab gave me that.

It gave me solid ground to stand on when everything inside me felt unstable. It taught me something critical — that the drinking was only part of the disease. And for the first time in a long time, it gave me something I desperately needed but didn’t yet know how to name.

Hope.

Those first days in detox, and that decision to walk into rehab, will always be etched into my memory. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t brave. They were scary, humbling, and uncomfortable. But they were necessary.

They gave me a place to stop running.
A place to face the future — one day at a time.

That’s where this journey truly began.

Still Working It

Two years later, I don’t look back on that day as a victory or a dramatic turning point. I look back on it as the day I stopped pretending I could do everything on my own.

I’m still working it.

Sobriety didn’t remove life’s challenges. It didn’t erase stress, fear, or uncertainty. What it gave me was the ability to face those things without numbing, without running, and without losing myself in the process. It gave me structure. It gave me awareness. And over time, it gave me back a version of myself I could trust.

That’s why I built Quiet Strength Coaching.

Not for perfection.
Not for quick fixes.
But for men who know they need help and are tired of doing this alone — men who are willing to show up honestly, even when it feels uncomfortable.

If January 3rd means something to you — if you’re standing at the edge of change, unsure but willing — know this: asking for help is not giving up. It’s often the first real step forward.

I started this journey shaking, scared, and uncertain.
I continue it grounded, supported, and still learning.

One day at a time.