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.

What January 1st Used to Mean

January 1st used to arrive with a familiar mix of hangxiety, regret, and shame.

I’d wake up telling myself this was the year. I wanted to quit. I’d set the goal. I’d make promises to myself — sometimes out loud, sometimes silently — but I never had it in me to sustain change for very long. Deep down, I knew alcohol wasn’t working for me anymore, but knowing that and actually changing were two very different things.

By January 1st of 2024, I was already on the list for rehab. And yet, even with that reality staring me in the face, I was still trying to squeeze in as much drinking as possible before I went. It sounds irrational when I say it out loud now, but at the time it made sense to a brain that had been wired around alcohol for years.

Again, I was forced to face the truth: this wasn’t working. I needed help.

My habits were so deeply ingrained into my daily life that no amount of willpower or “starting fresh” could undo them. I knew I wanted to be sober. I knew the cost of continuing. But no matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t see a path forward that actually stuck.

Rehab gave me something I hadn’t been able to create on my own — space.

Thirty days away from my environment, my routines, and my triggers allowed me to break patterns that had quietly controlled my life. For the first time, I wasn’t just trying to quit; I was learning how to live differently. Structure became my foundation: meetings for a while, outpatient treatment, regular check-ins with my therapist. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. Just consistent support.

Slowly, I began stacking days.

I wasn’t loud about my recovery like some people are — and there’s nothing wrong with that. For me, this was quiet work. I kept things close and leaned on a small circle of people I trusted. In those early days, I felt like a baby deer on wobbly legs — unsure, unsteady, but moving forward anyway. Each step built strength I didn’t yet realize would last.

That experience is why I built Quiet Strength Coaching.

It’s for men who need support but don’t feel aligned with traditional programs. Men who don’t necessarily need a room full of people or a rigid framework — but do need a place to check in, to talk honestly, and to understand that their thoughts, fears, and struggles are not unique or broken.

Sometimes what people need most is a steady presence. Someone to help them slow down, create structure, and make sense of what they’re feeling — without pressure or shame.

If you’re ready to breathe new life into your life, if you’re tired of doing this alone, or if you simply need someone to walk alongside you as you figure out what comes next — reach out.

I’m here.