Sober Shepherds

Sober Shepherds Guiding Recovery, Inspiring Sobriety. A faith-based recovery community built on honesty, connection, and hope. We don’t pretend to be experts.

Sober Shepherds: Because Every Voice Matters

At Sober Shepherds®, sobriety isn’t a finish line — it’s a journey we walk together, one day at a time. We don’t hide behind numbers or titles. We are fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, and friends — ordinary people learning to live with honesty, courage, and faith. We believe in the power of honesty. We believe in the courage it takes to tell your sto

ry, and the healing that comes when someone else hears it and realizes they’re not alone. We don’t offer coaching. We don’t sell easy answers. We simply offer truth, connection, and the reminder that you don’t have to be somebody to mean something. Our community exists to reach those who feel out of place, those who’ve been told they don’t belong, those who carry shame in silence. We are not here to glorify success stories packaged for validation and tailored for recognition. We are here for the raw, the messy, the ones who wonder if they matter. Because here — you do.

12/22/2025

🕊️ Ode to Toxic Love

Once upon a time
is how I want to see
The way things started out
between this toxic love and me

So far from any fairy tale
and not exactly fun
Our time together wasn’t still
but always on the run

Through sixteen states across the land
with many saddened tears
All built upon imaginary fallacies and fears

And still when push came hard to shove
I was right there again
Though deep within my heart I knew
this path was a dead-end

At times I thought the moment came
to say my last goodbye
And still I heard the broken plea
beg me not to try

There comes a time in all our lives
when leaving means to win
To give up power and control
and let God’s work begin

Begin to trust
develop hope
and pray for all His might
And lean on Him
and all His strength
to hold on very tight

There are no words to say to thee
expressing how I feel
This toxic love knows deep inside
how hard my heart’s to steal

Commitment to this toxic love
is why I stand to fall
With no conviction under God
I hear no morals call

Need is still the driving force
that pulls me coming back
Forgiveness is so spiritual
that many humans lack

Trust can be a scary move
for two already scarred
By those who came before we met
who left us just as scarred

Yet still we stand
and here we are
right by each other’s side
And never do I want to live
inside a love that’s lied

Each morning brings a new sunrise
and with it comes the day
Whatever happened yesterday
will only just replay

What I choose to do today
will shape tomorrow’s pain
I have a choice
to heal my life
or stay locked in this chain

Still on the fifteenth of this day
we call them April showers
I hope and trust they’ll bring to May
a million budding flowers

So on this day I kneel before
this sickness without end
A defect buried in my soul
no act I can pretend

So toxic love of mine,
I need you now to know
I’ve been chained to you too long
and now it’s time to go

And when I fall again into
the arms that give no rest
You’re like a drug
that feeds the need
inside this fragile chest

I hope someday I’ll clearly see
this fracture and this cost
And run for good
to save my life
no matter what is lost

And leave behind this poisoned love
this dark and silent prison.

And choose my life — then walk away
and live with that decision.

12/19/2025

Attitude - Platitude = Gratitude

Here we are, right in the middle of the unstoppable holidays, already past Thanksgiving and barreling toward Christmas like a dark cloud on the horizon. This season seems to bring to the forefront of our meetings another round of endless shares about how grateful people are trying to be. Twisting many of our personalities into uncomfortable positions, we’re reminded that when the student is ready, the teacher appears. Yet for many of us—still wounded from within—gratitude can feel like an impossible mission.

Surrounded by button-pushers and distant family members who travel great lengths only to unravel us, we must prepare for the challenges this time of year brings to those of us wired a little differently than the rest of the world.

From the perspective of an observer who shares this same commonality, it often seems that simply praying for gratitude doesn’t produce meaningful results. Telling others in the program how grateful you are to be clean and sober becomes a hollow, trite expression if it isn’t accompanied by action.

Gratitude isn’t something we declare—it’s something we do.

You can only truly share gratitude while in motion, being of service to others and showing it through action. That’s when gratitude stops being a platitude and becomes something lived. That shift alone can transform an “attitude of gratitude” into something real.

There’s no question that relapse rates rise during this season, with three major holidays stacked back to back. Outside our programs, the culture promotes cheer with beer, while many of us fall into self-pity watching everyone else get loaded but us. The pressure placed on our hyper-sensitive, over-exaggerated spirits challenges us to work harder at what our programs offer to those who are willing.

If fear feels close this holiday season—if the future feels heavy—take a chance and give of yourself to those less fortunate than you. Go earn your gratitude. Share those experiences in the meetings you attend. Be a living example to your recovering peers of how service has benefited others.

What comes back to you from within will empower you with the very tools we’re taught to use—not just to survive the holidays, but, most importantly, to get another day clean and sober.

12/17/2025

Anonymity, a Spiritual Principle

Back in 1994, I was newly twenty-two years old, living in Los Angeles. I’d been there less than a year, working in the entertainment industry and trying to find my footing. Most of my friends were in the same orbit — and most of us were in recovery from one addiction or another. Making meetings kept me safe in a town that could chase you away as fast as it welcomed you in.

One Friday afternoon, I heard a rumor that Eric Clapton was speaking at a meeting called AA-NA-CA in Culver City. It met on Monday nights. Because anonymity is the spiritual foundation of every twelve-step fellowship, someone had created a separate meeting where public figures could be announced without breaking tradition.

It was just a rumor.
I didn’t know if it was true.

That Monday, I bolted from Venice Beach to Culver City and arrived two hours early. When I pulled up, the place was empty. I sat in my car for a moment and thought, Maybe it was nothing.

I went inside anyway.

There were three men sitting in the front row talking. As I walked closer to ask if they’d heard the same thing I had… there he was. Sitting quietly between them.

All the blood rushed to my head. My body went numb. I couldn’t speak.

He looked straight at me — not like a rock star — but like a man lost at sea who’d just spotted a buoy.

He stood up, reached out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Eric.”

I wanted to say, Of course you are.
Instead I said, “Hi, I’m David. Nice to meet you.”

He asked if I wanted to step outside for some air.

We sat on the front steps of the church for about twenty minutes and talked about everything — except who he was to the rest of the world. And somewhere in that quiet space, I understood why he’d excused himself from the other men.

Because whatever followed him outside those walls didn’t belong there. And whatever brought him inside was the same thing that brought the rest of us.

In that moment, fame didn’t disappear — it just didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were two men, sitting on the same steps, trying to stay sober one more day.

Eventually, a couple hundred people arrived. I listened as he spoke — calm, melodic, honest. When the meeting ended, everyone lined up to shake his hand.

I didn’t.

I walked out, smoked a cigarette, and drove home.

I don’t know if Eric Clapton would ever remember that moment.

But I will — for as long as I live.

12/12/2025

Just a Little Patience: By David Weitz

It had been years since I had found myself seated across from another person in pursuit of what I love most — journalism. Life has a way of pulling us away from the things that give us meaning, sometimes quietly, sometimes violently. I know what it’s like to battle he**in. I also know what it’s like to lose nearly everything in the process — relationships, trust, momentum, and pieces of yourself you’re not sure you’ll ever get back.

Along the way, boundaries were drawn. Some people stepped away. Others disappeared entirely. The cost of addiction is rarely paid alone, and the weight of it lands hardest on the people who love us most. In my case, that was my mother — the one person who never walked away, even when others did. When the fight seemed over to everyone else, she laced up and stepped back into the ring for me.

That truth has stayed with me.

Throughout my life, I often heard people say that being a parent is the hardest job in the world. Then I became one. Years later, I can say with certainty that parenting isn’t a job at all — it’s an oath. A job comes with compensation, recognition, and the option to walk away. Parenthood offers none of that. It’s a lifelong contract signed internally, without instruction, applause, or escape clauses. You don’t clock in. You don’t clock out. You simply show up — again and again — no matter what.

It was with that understanding that I picked up the phone one afternoon and called Jamie Adler after nearly six years of silence. When I asked if he remembered me, he said yes without hesitation. In the same breath, he told me he believed I was calling for a reason. He asked me to purchase his mother’s new book, Sweet Child of Mine, and extended me the honor of interviewing her.

I sensed something larger at work, even if I couldn’t yet see it clearly. I reminded myself that I was not in charge — God was. I was simply the instrument.

I read Deanna Adler’s book in four days. Somewhere near the end, everything connected. This wasn’t just the story of a mother loving her rock-star son long after fame had faded. It was the same story I had lived — a mother who refused to quit on her child. The realization broke me. Not long after, I found myself on my way to New York City.

I met Deanna Adler in the lobby of the Paramount Hotel in Times Square just before 9:00 a.m. She stepped off the elevator, and I immediately felt drawn to her warmth. Her smile reminded me of my own mother’s. She mentioned she was starving and asked if I would join her for breakfast. The restaurant was empty as we settled into a quiet booth by the window. As I set my things down, Deanna began to cry.

When I asked what was wrong, she explained that everyone had been so kind to her during the trip — something she wasn’t used to. I excused myself briefly to pray. When I returned, I put my notes back into my bag. This interview wasn’t meant to follow an outline. It was meant to unfold.

What followed was not just a conversation, but a shared understanding between two people shaped by addiction from different sides of the same wound.

Deanna spoke candidly about her childhood — growing up without affection, without reassurance, without being told she was loved. She explained how that absence shaped her determination to love her own children differently. When her first marriage ended and she returned to her mother for help, the conditions placed on her were devastating. She was young, terrified, and without resources. The price of help was control — even over her children.

She spoke through tears about being forced to give up autonomy as a mother, about changing her children’s names, about living in fear and confusion. And yet, when the conversation turned to Steven’s addiction, her clarity sharpened.

“I never once thought to quit on Steven,” she said. “When your child is an addict or an alcoholic, the only thing you can do is be there when they need you.”

She described years of nagging, pleading, and pressure — and how none of it worked. Eventually, she learned that recovery cannot be forced. Presence mattered more than persuasion.

We talked about the height of Guns N’ Roses’ success, the long absences, and the quiet suffering of Steven’s brother, Jamie. We talked about enabling — how love, when mixed with fear, can unintentionally cause harm. Deanna spoke openly about taking Steven to dealers, to methadone clinics, about pretending not to see what she knew was happening.

She didn’t excuse herself. She told the truth.

When the conversation turned to hope, her voice changed.

“The best is here,” she said. “I finally have my son back.”

She explained how Steven lives by The Four Agreements:
Be impeccable with your word.
Don’t take anything personally.
Don’t make assumptions.
Always do your best.

Every day.

Today, she said, their family meets at the gym each morning. They laugh. They talk. They tease one another. The chaos has given way to connection.

When I asked her what she would say to mothers who have lost children to overdose, she was clear: it is not their fault. And to those still living in the daily battle — she offered the same advice she had learned the hard way: be there, seek help, and don’t try to survive it alone.

The epidemic of addiction continues to claim lives at an alarming rate. Families across the country find themselves navigating fear, shame, and confusion with no roadmap. While Deanna Adler may be known as the mother of a famous drummer, her story is no different from countless mothers whose children will never appear on magazine covers.

The courage required to stay present through repeated disappointment cannot be sustained in isolation. Extending a hand for help does not signal weakness — it creates the possibility of healing for both the addicted and those who love them.

It may feel overwhelming.
It may feel endless.

But sometimes, in the end, all it takes is just a little patience.

12/11/2025

🕊️ The holiday spirit that matters most is a sober one

12/08/2025

Sober Shepherds® Podcast: The Ache of Waiting

12/06/2025

Fine Tooned: By David Weitz

Long before Sober Shepherds became what it is today, I stumbled across the Recovering Cartoonist online purely by accident. One cartoon turned into ten, and ten turned into an entire deep-dive into his archive — because for me, one is never enough. I reached out immediately, hoping to get permission to share a few of his thousands of recovery-themed drawings. In true Ben fashion, he didn’t just send the ones I loved; he even created a couple of new sketches specifically for this piece.

Over the months that followed, Ben and I developed an easy creative friendship. At one point, he even started sketching cartoons of me as “the editor,” complete with a recurring joke he titled a D.W.I. In Ben’s world, that didn’t stand for Driving While Intoxicated — it meant a David Weitz Interview. Only someone in recovery could flip an old scar into a punchline that lands with warmth instead of shame. It quickly became one of my favorite running jokes between us.

I already assumed from his clever work that Ben Canha had been recovering for quite some time. Then, after talking with him further, he revealed that he had been clean and sober for over thirty-seven years at the time — which now places him at over thirty-six years sober today. Before our fall issue went to print, he sent me three of his published books, and I was awed by his ability to capture the comical situations that recovery brings to those who can identify with the lifestyle.

After his first contribution to my work back in the day — long before Sober Shepherds ever existed — I knew Ben’s story deserved a spotlight of its own. His blend of honesty, humor, and long-term devotion to his pencil made him the perfect subject to revisit now. His life, his recovery, and his art form a story he refuses to erase, if only to remind himself — and the rest of us — exactly where he came from.

When Ben Canha is not doodling, he teaches nursing at the University of Maryland. Before becoming a teacher, he worked in a government nursing position with an associate’s degree. Twenty-four years ago, that almost came to an end.

“What was life like for you, Ben, twenty-four years ago?” I asked.

“I was not going to work. I was not making my mortgage payments. I was even debating whether or not to make my car payments — just living in that fear of impending doom,” Canha replied.

“So how did you eventually find your way into recovery?” I asked.

“By the grace of God — and it was no merit of my own — my boss at the time staged an intervention and told me that I was going to lose my job. She told me she would report me to the Maryland State Board of Nursing if I didn’t get help. So I went inpatient, kicking and screaming, I might add,” he explained.

“I know it’s been a long time, but do you still know her?” I asked.

“I do. She actually supported me in my recovery after I got clean and sober. I credit her for being my mentor and such a role model. She came to my anniversaries for a number of years — even my wedding. She encouraged me to go back to school, too. I eventually got my bachelor’s degree and then my master’s degree, which led to promotions and a career change. This past year, after thirty-one years of government service, I retired with a full pension.”

“And now you’re teaching?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m now teaching nursing at the University of Maryland,” Canha said.

As hard and uncomfortable as sobriety may seem at first, it’s astonishing what happens once an addict fully surrenders his will. Working with a sponsor and learning to trust in a higher power of your own understanding can bring new meaning to life — a depth you didn’t know existed.

Although Ben Canha was working in the field of nursing long before he ever considered getting sober, what he had not discovered until sobriety was his natural ability to sketch cartoons — a gift that would reveal a part of himself he never knew was there.

“When did you discover your ability to draw, Ben?” I asked.

“Somebody introduced me to a book called The Artist’s Way. I read it, and it said something like true creativity is a rewarding and expanding experience of who we really are,” he said.

“So when did you draw your first recovery cartoon?” I asked.

“Soon after reading that book, I drew my first recovery cartoon, and it sat on a friend’s refrigerator for over a year. One day someone announced at a meeting that they were looking for submissions for a recovery newsletter. So I took the cartoon off my friend’s fridge, made a copy, submitted it — and they published it.”

“And when, after that first cartoon, did you really start getting into it?” I asked.

“I realized that at every meeting there was always a one-liner that made everyone laugh. So I said to myself, ‘All you have to do is write it down, find the essence of what made it funny, and draw it into a cartoon.’ That was in the year 2000. And I swear — for the next eighteen months I drew like a madman. One or two cartoons a day. Then I realized I had enough to publish a book. And then the idea came to organize them according to the steps and traditions,” he said.

“What would you tell someone who’s new in sobriety and wants to find their creative side?” I asked.

“I feel it opens up so much self-worth, and it’s incredibly fulfilling to find creative expression. Whatever creativity you have, you need to find what’s true for YOU. I can only speak for myself, but when I’m drawing, I feel so connected to my higher power. It feels like, ‘Yeah, thank God,’ and also, ‘Way to go, Ben!’” he replied.

When he’s not recording every Boston Red Sox game, jamming out to Frank Zappa, or going for a long therapeutic run, you may find Ben Canha deep-sea fishing for something much bigger than goldfish. If he’s not at a meeting before sunrise giving back what was so freely given to him, he’s most likely teaching nursing at the University of Maryland. He’s not only a dedicated father to his 21 year old-old twins, Kevin and Karen — he’s also a loving husband to his wife, Beth, of twenty-four years who shares his spiritual principles.

Ben Canha is not only an unbelievable example that creativity can be discovered in recovery — he is a living testament that recovery works if you work it.

12/05/2025

🕊️ The best gift you can give your kids this holiday season is to be a sober parent.

12/04/2025

🕊️ A Cop’s Christmas

In recovery, we call them war stories. The difference here is there are many times during a police officer’s career that he genuinely finds himself, “at war”. Every day, we don bulletproof vests, pray for protection, and hear sincere “Be Careful” from our families. With butterflies in our stomachs, automatic weapons, and state-of-the-art communications systems in hand, we are ready for attack in the event of a crisis. It’s us vs. them…WAR. Sometimes officers can be at war with either themselves or with others. Who the enemy is in this true story, is for the reader to decide.

It is 2 am on Christmas morning, 1985. I am a veteran cop, working another holiday on The Graveyard shift. Just my luck, I knew I should not have gone to that Christmas party last night. I was only going to have “one” beer. Now I need coffee, Tylenol…and more coffee! Here I am again, hungover. The party was lousy anyway!

There is nothing worse than trying to look normal and act professionally when you are desperately hungover. The bulletproof vest seems to be chafing more than usual and my head is pounding. The police radio is eerily quiet, albeit the routine es**rt calls, making it even harder to stay awake. Why can’t I ever have just one beer?? Damn it.

The streets are normally quiet in the early morning hours of any holiday but Christmas is always, unusually peaceful. Even in the worst areas of our country, booze and drugs have long since been put away for the night, and even the bad guys are fast asleep or passed out at this hour. The only people out and about after 2 am are the other police officers…. and Santa.

I was patrolling on the midnight to 8:00 am shift, in one of the many suburban areas that surround a snow-laden and frigid, Philadelphia. My job was to patrol in a marked car and look for signs of trouble. That’s what police officers do; they patrol their area looking for trouble. If I didn’t find it, the police radio dispatcher would surely call my car # and GIVE me the location of someone else’s trouble. This Christmas morning proved no different.

“All Units respond for a man going berserk at a residence! Neighbors are reporting glass breaking. Occupant is screaming. Subject sounds like he is in a fight”.

I arrived along with two other officers to find neighbors pointing at the offender, who was perched on the exterior windowsill of his second-floor bedroom. He was naked, covered in blood from head to toe, and oblivious to the hypothermic elements of snow and ice that he had his ass propped on. We could see that the entire home was blacked out. The electricity had short-circuited from him pulling out ceiling fixtures. Every window on the first floor was broken out. My first thought: Be careful, your family needs you! Help ME, God!

Upon seeing the patrol cars, he abruptly jumped back into the bedroom, out of view, and began to scream, “Help, help! They are killing me!”

Then he would re-appear, beg us to come to help him, disappear from view again, followed by more glass breaking and more cries for help. Whose blood was he covered in? Was he baiting us in? Was he armed with weapons? Did he KILL anyone?

The man refused numerous orders to come downstairs and let us into the property. In police work, this situation is called an “Exigent Circumstance” or an emergency condition that makes the securing of a Search Warrant, unnecessary. We then made entry through the front door using a “street key”, more commonly known as, my right foot.

Immediately it was like entering another world, completely dark, except for our breath in the air. The assisting officers’ bodies were silhouetted by our flashlights. It was surreal. There was no heat, no electricity, empty Vodka bottles everywhere, and disposable syringes on the coffee table. This guy has been partying! Blood covered walls, railings, and tabletops. It was everywhere. We even found blood pooled in a teacup, on the coffee table! HELLO, we are the Police. We are now at the party…and we would like to meet the host”!

“They are killing me! Help!” (Crashing glass, thuds, screams)

I made my way to the bottom of the stairs, only to have the subject violently fling half of his body over the top step! S**T! My gun and flashlight are shaking, but I am no longer hungover! I hear myself and the other officers chanting, “Come down here! Let me see your f’in hands! Do it now!” Our flashlights waver with cold and fear.

He refuses to move. Like it has so many times before, training kicks in; I begin to move cautiously up the stairs, and DOUBLE S**T! The idiot pushes himself off of the upstairs wall, sending his body down the blood-stained stairs. His blood-soaked, naked body slides rapidly down the stairs like a stuffed pig. Wham! I slam my foot down on his neck and grab him by the throat in a submission hold. Somebody else handcuffs him. His screaming is now replaced by pathetic whimpering, “Keep the light in my eyes so they don’t get me!”

Now, we had to search the entirety of the home to determine if this guy had killed anyone. He had not. There was no “they”, to be found. A search of the house in daylight hours revealed a more horrific scene. Windows, mirrors, and doors that reflected the subject’s own image that night, were destroyed. He could not bear to look at himself. He had also become highly paranoid and hallucinogenic, after consuming a half-gallon of Stoli Vodka and injecting Methamphetamine.

He was transported to the hospital and admitted to the detox unit, while I prepared Criminal Complaint charging, on his behalf. This is a true story. The man involved was a high-level attorney, who represented one of the largest lobbying groups in the continental U.S., during the 1980s. If he is reading this story, he will know who I am.

His problem: Addiction. Who were “they”, which he kept referring to? We will never know, but I am sure that he will never forget.

I didn’t know it at the time but having that one beer was never my problem. It was all the ones after that first one. I got sober 11 years later and have been sober for forty years. Thank God for the program and the people of unbelievable measure, who are a part of it.

12/03/2025

🕊️ ’Twas the Holiday Season

Twas the holiday season
like thunder that rumbled.
We pack into meetings
and pray to be humbled.

The newcomer’s lineup
is filled with such fright
conditioned for vigilance
and ready to fight.

Some share with concerns
about this time of year
that brings lavish parties
and holiday cheer.

What seems so inviting
that makes our heads chatter
while some ask themselves:
what the hell is the matter?

Why can’t I do this?
Why can’t I go there?
As faith turns to dust
and molds to despair.

I’ll just go this time,
I’ll show you, you’ll see.
I’ll prove to you all,
and I’ll go—hurt me.

Then left to their will
as they become prey
in this animal kingdom
that just lasts one day.

Still many go out
without such a thought
they forget in one blink
what took years to be taught.

Don’t think that it’s true?
Stick around and you’ll see.
I’d rather welcome you back
than you welcome me.

So don’t lie to yourself
and pretend that life’s great.
Good decisions determine
the role of your fate.

Stick up your hand
and scream if you must
these thoughts in your head
will slowly adjust.

Just don’t sit and bathe
in all this self-pity.
Remember your head
is a dreadful committee.

The ones who stay sober
through holiday hype
are those who help others
similar to our type.

They always arrive early
and try to stay late
these sensitive moments
they never debate.

The hole in your fabric
of life you must stitch
it’s like poison ivy,
this holiday itch.

Now go and stay strong
and hold your head high.
A meeting is close
and always nearby.

And try to forgive
but never forget
it’s not that you won’t,
you just haven’t yet.

12/02/2025

🕊️ One down — two to go.

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West Chester, PA

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