Sober Shepherds, West Chester, PA (2026)

01/10/2026

🕊️ Without Mercy

January arrived without mercy, and the noise followed me in. Not the calendar kind of loud. Not fireworks or resolutions or gym memberships. This was the kind of loud that lived behind my eyes. The kind that starts talking the moment you wake up and doesn’t stop just because you ask it to.

Especially if you’re getting sober for the first time.

My name is Evan, and I didn’t quit drinking because the year changed. January just happened to be when the noise finally got so loud that I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The noise didn’t scream. It narrated.
It analyzed.
It negotiated.

It told me I wasn’t really an alcoholic.
Then told me I absolutely was.
Then told me it didn’t matter either way.

It replayed every mistake like a highlight reel nobody asked for. It predicted futures that hadn’t happened yet and sentenced me for them anyway. It reminded me of every drink I ever took and convinced me that one more would make everything quiet again.

The problem was, I knew better now.

So instead of drinking, I paced.

I paced my apartment until the floor felt smaller. Until the walls felt closer. Until silence itself felt dangerous. Silence is where the noise does its best work.

That’s when I went downstairs.

I didn’t go looking for peace.
I went looking for sound.

The train station was three blocks away. Concrete steps, flickering lights, a schedule nobody really followed. It smelled like metal and rain and people passing through without staying long enough to matter.

Perfect.

I sat on a cold bench and waited.

The noise in my head kept talking, but now it had competition. Trains shrieked as they cut through the tunnel like something alive and angry. Steel on steel. Wind ripping through open doors. Announcements echoing just distorted enough to be unintelligible.

The noise in my head didn’t like that.

It tried to talk louder.

It told me I was wasting time. That everyone else was home with families or drinks or answers. That this was a stupid way to live. That sobriety was just boredom wearing a halo.

I watched a train pull in anyway.

The sound hit my chest before it hit my ears. A deep, physical roar. The kind that rattles loose thoughts you didn’t even know were stuck.

For a moment — just a moment — the noise inside me had to pause.

I realized something sitting there on that bench:
I wasn’t looking for escape.
I was looking for relief.

Addiction isn’t always about pleasure. Sometimes it’s about quieting a mind that won’t shut up. Sometimes it’s about turning down the volume long enough to breathe.

The train doors opened. People stepped off carrying bags, backpacks, entire lives. Nobody looked at me. Nobody needed anything from me.

That helped too.

The noise tried again. Softer this time. Sneakier. It told me I could leave sobriety later. That I didn’t have to decide anything tonight. That one drink didn’t count if no one knew about it.

I stood up instead.

I walked the length of the platform. Counted steps. Counted breaths. Let the cold bite my face just enough to remind me I was still here.

Another train came. Louder. Faster.

And something unexpected happened.

The noise didn’t stop — but it thinned.

Like static when you finally tune the dial close enough to the station. Still there, but no longer in charge.

I didn’t feel happy.
I didn’t feel fixed.
I felt less hunted.

I stayed until my hands went numb. Until the crowd thinned. Until the platform felt like it belonged to no one again.

When I finally walked back upstairs, the noise followed me — but quieter. Tired. Like it had spent all its energy trying and failing to run the show.

That night, I didn’t drink.

Not because I was strong.
Because the obsession loosened its grip just enough.

I learned something important in that train station:
Relief doesn’t always arrive as peace.
Sometimes it arrives as permission to stay.

Stay sober for this hour.
Stay breathing for this minute.
Stay alive inside the noise without obeying it.

January was still loud.
The noise didn’t disappear. It never does.

But for the first time, it stepped back.

And in that small pocket of space — between the noise and the next decision — I stayed sober.

That was enough for today.

01/07/2026

🕊️ My Ultimate Bottom

I want to start by saying that I grew up in what looked like a happy home — two parents, good grades, sports, friends. That’s the version of my story that sounds comforting. It’s also not the truth.

I did play sports, but that ended once I started smoking pot in high school. I did well in school for a while. And I did have parents who loved me — but they were not happily married, and I never felt like I truly fit anywhere. So I turned to drugs and alcohol to feel connected, accepted, and whole.

What started with alcohol led to pot, then acid, Adderall, ecstasy, Percocet, OxyContin, co***ne — and eventually my number one love: he**in.

He**in turned me into someone I didn’t recognize. I became a liar, a manipulator, a thief — someone willing to cross any line to get high. My bottom wasn’t just one moment; it was a series of humiliations that stripped me of all dignity.

It was stealing my mother’s engagement ring — the ring my father gave her — and pawning it for twenty-five dollars.

It was sleeping with a drug dealer for two bags of he**in.

It was being arrested at my job and charged with drug paraphernalia.

It was sleeping with an older man for money to get high.

It was picking up dirty needles off the streets of Kensington Avenue because I couldn’t get a clean one.

It was robbing my ex-boyfriend.

It was maxing out my mother’s credit card.

My ultimate bottom came after I stole more of my mother’s jewelry and sold it for $250. I took that money straight to Kensington Avenue and bought he**in. I sat in my car, on the avenue, shooting up and writing my su***de note. I planned to end my life right there by overdosing.

What stopped me was a phone call — a friend asking me to come over. And something else, quieter but deeper: the knowing that this wasn’t the path God chose for me.

A few days later, I entered what would become my final rehab. By then, I had no family or friends left. I hated the rehab and I left — but I hated myself and the life I was living even more. That time was just enough to clear my head and show me the truth: my life was a disaster, and if I didn’t change, it would end exactly where it was headed.

So I did everything I didn’t want to do.

I gave my car to my father.
I got rid of my cell phone.
I got a job.
I handed my money to my parents to hold.
I went to meetings.
I got a sponsor.
I stayed away from everyone still using.

Letting go of my drug friends wasn’t hard — by the end, I didn’t have any friends left anyway.

Today, my life looks very different. I have friends. I have a job. I have my family back. I have a car, a bank account, and a phone. But more than anything, I have something I thought I’d lost forever: my self-respect.

I can look in the mirror and like the person looking back at me.

I’m still working on myself, and I always will be. But I appreciate life now in a way I never could before. And I wouldn’t trade who I am today for anything.

01/07/2026

🕊️ The Final Red Flag

My ex-husband is an alcoholic, and I am codependent. I have attended Al-Anon on and off since 1991. After many attempts to save both the marriage and my husband, it became clear that he was not going to change. Our divorce was finalized in January 2011, after twenty-three years of marriage.

That was when I decided to begin a new journey — one focused on self-love, self-help, and changing myself: body, mind, and spirit. I committed to addressing my codependent behaviors. No more controlling. No more trying to change people. No more forcing outcomes. I immersed myself in self-help books, daily meditation, prayer, healthy eating, and exercise. I was determined to rebuild myself.

Although I knew I wasn’t ready to date, curiosity — and loneliness — got the better of me. I joined an online dating site “just to look.” I told myself I could leave at any time. Deep down, I knew it was too soon. I was still wounded, needy, lonely, and insecure. But the anticipation of meeting someone new was intoxicating.

I met several people. Some I liked; some I didn’t. I believed I had learned how to recognize red flags, especially behaviors that resembled my ex-husband’s. Friends warned me that we often attract the same type of person again and again. I felt confident that wouldn’t happen to me.

Then I met him.

He was funny, charming, and attentive. We texted and talked on the phone often and decided to meet in person. On the drive there, I remember thinking, I really hope this works. When I saw him, my first reaction was disappointment. He dressed just like my ex-husband — unkempt, careless. I noticed it immediately. I buried the feeling.

I stayed. I enjoyed the attention. He called and texted daily, saying all the right things. He made me feel wanted — something I had been starving for. Deep down, I didn’t fully trust it. I ignored that feeling too.

The next red flag appeared when he told me he had plans during the day on Saturday but would see me that evening. He said he’d call when he got home. Saturday came and went. I never heard from him.

I felt it instantly — a serious red flag. I should have walked away then. He stood me up. That should have been enough. But I couldn’t let go.

Over the next few months, I allowed him to do this three more times. Each time, I reacted with anger and desperation — texting, leaving messages, demanding explanations. I told him repeatedly it was over, yet I couldn’t stop reaching out. I knew my behavior contradicted everything I claimed to be working on. It was obsessive and compulsive. Eventually, I stopped reading, meditating, and doing the very things meant to ground me.

Then, unexpectedly, he called. He apologized and asked me to hear his explanation. We talked for hours. I felt relief. Hope crept back in.

The following weekend, while I was away, he called again. We spoke for hours. He asked me out for Sunday night. I felt excited — and then something else surfaced. I asked myself quietly, Do I even like this man? The answer was no. I ignored that too.

He told me to call when I got home so we could make plans. I called at 5:30 p.m. No answer. I texted at 6:30. Nothing.

This time, something shifted.

It was a light-bulb moment. I suddenly saw the truth: this man was exactly like my ex-husband — and I was reacting the same way I always had. Memories flooded back: missed dinners, unanswered calls, broken promises. The emotional familiarity was undeniable.

I felt the anger and hurt rise again, but this time, I recognized my role in it. I had ignored my instincts. I had abandoned myself.

I lashed out — something I believe no one has the right to do — and told him never to contact me again. His reply was immediate:

“Let it go. I’m not worthy of you.”

The exact words my ex-husband had used for years to deflect responsibility and turn my pain against me.

That was the final red flag.

This time, I didn’t ignore it. I didn’t respond. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I finally understood that I repeat the same lessons until I learn them.

I am no longer on the dating site. I am not ready for a relationship. I accept that I still need to work on myself. I have returned to reading, meditating, and praying — not to fix myself, but to listen more closely.

God, help me to stay aware.

01/03/2026

🕊️ Pound for Pound

I came from a “look good” family, which meant I had to look perfect on the outside. Everything had to match—from my headband to my socks. I was controlled in what I wore, what I said and didn’t say, and especially in what I ate.

I was 5’2” and wore a size 6, while my mother and sister wore a size 2. I wasn’t allowed to eat baked potatoes—only peas. Oreos after school were forbidden; apples were acceptable. I remember being painfully hungry and asking my mother for an extra half sandwich, which she refused.

The diets started in high school—cottage cheese, fruit, hard-boiled eggs, matzah. I once flew to Boston to visit my sister and brought my own food on the plane. I became ashamed of my body and deeply self-conscious around food. I believed I was chubby, even though by most standards I wasn’t.

After my first semester of college, I came home twenty pounds heavier. My mother immediately called our family doctor, who prescribed diet pills. They worked like magic. Not only did they take away my appetite, they made me talk nonstop. This marked the beginning of a five-year addiction to diet pills and Black Beauties.

After my sophomore year, I transferred colleges and met a woman who would change the course of my life. One night she gathered the girls on our dorm floor and we gorged ourselves on vending-machine food. The trick, she said, was to drink a lot of water. Then she led us into the bathroom and taught us how to throw up—two fingers down the throat, back and forth until you vomit.

It was exhilarating.

I could finally eat anything I wanted and still be thin—perfect, like my mother and sister. That night began an addiction that would last the next twenty-five years.

I binged and purged most days. I threw up into trash bags and sent them down the incinerator, working quickly so my roommate wouldn’t notice. As the weight dropped, I felt elated. Even with a distorted body image and a disordered mind, I finally reached a size 2. I thought, Maybe now my mother will accept me.

My mother once wrote me a poem called Pounds. One line read:

“Fat-day clothes and skinny-day clothes are too much of a bother and more expense all the time for your lovable father.”

I was proud of that poem. I hung it in my dorm room.

As my disease progressed, I discovered laxatives. When vomiting wasn’t enough, they finished the job. Eventually, I couldn’t chew another piece of Ex-Lax, so I turned to Correctol—those wonderful pink pills. I drove from pharmacy to pharmacy, embarrassed to buy large quantities in one place. I swallowed sixty pills a night and binged and purged two to five times a day.

Things spiraled. I would eat an entire pizza, a steak sandwich, and a huge tuna fish sandwich in one sitting. I nicknamed my car The Binge Mobile, racing to McDonald’s for three burgers, nuggets, and fries, finishing before I got home. I scratched my stomach so violently while purging that my chest began to bleed.

In the end, I ate food from garbage cans inside my own house. I stole food from children’s lunch boxes and from other people’s refrigerators. The scale became my closest companion and traveled everywhere with me. I crawled between my bathroom and kitchen, surviving on Gatorade.

My glands were swollen. I had sores at the corners of my mouth. My hair thinned. My skin broke out. My legs spasmed uncontrollably. I was emaciated.

Near death, I finally met another woman with bulimia who urged me into treatment. In rehab, staff monitored me closely, convinced I was at risk of a heart attack from years of laxative abuse. I cried the first night when I felt full. At forty-two years old, I had to learn how to eat again.

I stayed inpatient for three weeks, outpatient for twelve, and in therapy twice a week for a year. The journey has been painful and profound. I have now been bulimia-free for eighteen years.

I no longer live in a self-constructed prison. I no longer live with shame around food or fear of my feelings. I feel safe in restaurants and at parties. I am no longer a hostage to the monster within.

The world I once feared is now a place I belong to. I eat to survive. I live to live. And everything you see on the outside of me is strengthened by the work that has finally healed what lived within.

01/01/2026

🕊️ The Gift of Desperation by David Weitz

Whoever would dare to define the gift of recovery as just a mere coincidence has surely never lived our misery.

As it was once explained to me, the opportunity to recover appears only when the sufferer is ready to admit complete defeat. And when that brief moment of clarity arrives, we begin to formulate a passageway into a new unknown.

The population of the world around us narrows from millions to a room filled with strangers who speak a different language. Although our heads are shattered by deception, what seems foreign to such sore ears somehow transforms our desperation into a position of consideration.

By pure magnetism, we return—again and again—trying to capture the phenomenon of what we’ve been seeking our entire lives. Unsure, we keep revisiting these rooms filled with unfamiliar faces, as optimism becomes a factor for the first time in our existence.

The elimination of isolation is what ignites the fuse to demolish the lifelong obstruction of spiritual light.

This transformation in a terrified newcomer is, in fact, what we speak of when others around us witness a miracle. As the seed of willingness germinates in the beginner, they become a new life form—one that requires unconditional compassion from those with much stronger roots.

Hope becomes the driving force between what has always been, and what could possibly be.

Understanding and kindness are offered without condition to those who continue to fall. Eventually, the handicap of never having been able to walk through one day sober begins to stand on two firm feet.

It is truly unexplainable to those who have never stood in our shoes. And so, we keep coming back—if only for the simple fact that we’ve finally found hearts that match our own.

Anyone who receives a daily pardon through the course of submitting their will can attest to some of the most horrid stories ever heard by sober ears. And if the desperate are willing to go to any and all lengths to beat the odds already stacked against them, then there should be no contest when an insane newcomer begs you to help save their life.

Still, I’ve known the names of many anonymous souls who never saw another day’s dawn.

How many of us find such liberty on a daily basis, only to return to the ruins we swore off forever?

It’s the insidiousness of this incurable disease that baffles even the minds of those with doctorates who study us. It’s sinister to watch others lurk outside our programs, writing books about a cure to try and sway us—or the greedy in Hollywood, spending millions of dollars entertaining the majority who are not us.

How quickly the world forgets about the thousands who perish each day—wishing only that they had found us.

Every morning a recovering addict opens their eyes, they are conditioned from the very beginning to give thanks to a power greater than themselves for another chance at life. We learn, through self-awareness and working with others who share this common bond, to never take for granted the twenty-four-hour reprieve from a nightmare we once couldn’t wake from.

Through this new understanding, we become attuned to the fact that this priceless gift we’ve acquired can vanish—just like that—in the course of one bad decision.

So we assess carefully how we respond to each moment that confronts us.

And we use honesty and faith to guide us into a new foundation for how we live our lives.

12/31/2025

🕊️ Love The One You’re With

By David Weitz

I once heard in a meeting that the reason people suggest staying out of intimate relationships for the first year of sobriety is that most don’t dare to tell you five. Sure, once grounded as a regular meeting-goer, avoiding people, places, and things that trigger you becomes second nature. When you lose the desire to use, seeking stimulation outside of yourself can feel like a treasure hunt. However, pay close attention to the fools around you — they will teach the open-minded just how unmanageable we can become when we lend our hearts out too early. It’s a hard lesson to learn for a newcomer whose dark side continuously echoes, “I want, I need, I demand, I deserve.”

Recovery is like a jigsaw puzzle. You begin to rebuild your life by first getting sober and using meetings and a sponsor to sort through the thousands of tiny pieces scattered everywhere. Putting it all together requires patience, tolerance, serenity, and concentration. Somewhere during this process, however, you realize that the pieces of this puzzle are really just patterns of self-centered fear. Through a lengthy, painful, but spiritual evolution, the puzzle that once appeared as a thousand scattered pieces now begins to form the edges of endless possibilities.

When we first get sober, the unmanageability of learning how to be with ourselves is unbearable. When the fear and rage eventually subside, we become willing enough to write a Fourth Step. Shortly after, we engage in a Fifth Step and begin to witness — for the first time — the patterns that would continue destroying any new structure within us if we didn’t keep the focus on ourselves. What once seemed like a distant dream is fulfilled through a meaningful relationship with a Higher Power, as we understand Him. Only then are we able to continue constructing the puzzle.

After years of turning our will and our lives over to a power greater than ourselves — and somewhere between patience, service, and working with others — it becomes difficult not to acknowledge the miracles we witness. Among the thousands of tiny pieces that were once poured out in front of us, a beautiful picture of who we are today slowly and miraculously appears.

Therefore, the message to all newcomers is simply this:

Don’t love the one you think you want.

Place your trust in a power greater than yourself,

and learn to love the one you’re with.

12/30/2025

🕊️ Liquid Handcuffs

In 1978, I was a skilled machinist making precision parts for the U.S. Navy’s national security. I was trained to manufacture components for the F/A-18, the V-22 Osprey, the Seawolf submarine, nuclear triggers, and even parts for NASA satellites. I had a real career, real responsibility, and real pride in my work.

Five years in, everything changed.

One day at work, I fell and broke four discs in my back. I was put on workers’ compensation and sent to a long list of doctors. Every one of them prescribed painkillers — a lot of them — all fully covered by insurance. I took six Percocet a day for five years.

Eventually, the case was settled. I walked away with $55,000. I was also discharged from all of my doctors — and from a five-year, fully sanctioned op**te habit.

That’s when I met he**in.

I was twenty-nine.

At first, I snorted it. It wasn’t long before I was shooting it. From there, I was hooked. I didn’t drive, and I didn’t live near where I copped, so I started taking the bus down what everyone called “The Way.”

One day, I noticed a guy at the back of the bus — someone I saw often. We started talking. I asked him where he was headed. He told me he was on his way to the clinic.

“What kind of clinic?” I asked.

“A methadone clinic.”

I went home and researched it. Everything I read made it sound like methadone would save me from impending doom. Looking back now, everything that followed seemed to happen in reverse.

I started drinking methadone and, for the first week, it did help me physically. Mentally, though, nothing changed. I still had to pass the same places where I used to cop just to get to the clinic, because it was all in the same area. As I got to know people standing in line with me every morning waiting for our juice, I realized I had access to just about anything I wanted.

I had to go seven days a week. I never missed a day. And instead of getting better, I sank deeper into addiction.

I went to the clinic looking for help and found myself surrounded by addicts and a handful of therapists who seemed completely disconnected from whether I lived or died. For the next thirteen years, I went year-round without fail, putting methadone — and the lifestyle that came with it — ahead of everything, including my family.

Most of my life during that time was spent alone.

Before he**in, both my wife and I worked. After my accident, I was so heavily medicated on op**tes and other drugs that even after my settlement and physical therapy, I became unemployable. I spent most of that settlement on dope. When the money ran out, I was left to con, cheat, steal, and manipulate every single day just to get well — either before or after the clinic.

After early mornings at the clinic, I’d come home, nod out on the couch, burn holes in my clothes, and stay that way until the next morning, when I’d do it all over again.

During those years, my wife became a terrible enabler — not out of malice, but out of denial. She couldn’t accept that I was an addict, or worse, a legal hostage to methadone. My daughter was two years old when I started using. Throughout her entire childhood and well into her teenage years, all she knew was an angry, impatient father. We barely communicated. I showed her no affection. She was afraid of the monster I had become.

That was twenty-two years ago.

A neighbor who lived above me — someone I’d known for over ten years — was also a dope fiend. Over time, we became like brothers, and I still consider him one today. He had gone on methadone too, but after a year, he transitioned to another op**te blocker called Suboxone.

One day, while we were hanging out, he told me how well it was working for him. I was jealous of his freedom. I trusted him, and if it worked for him, I thought maybe it could work for me. He offered to take me to his doctor, help me get in, and even sit with me and my family through the brutal detox and transition — about three days — because methadone and Suboxone do not mix.

I was terrified of change. But after thirteen years of hell, I told myself the truth: at this point, the only other option was death.

I followed the doctor’s instructions. My neighbor, my wife, and even my daughter stood by me through those three days until I stabilized. Within two years of leaving the methadone clinic, my anger had nearly vanished. I’m still on Suboxone today, but being removed from the lifestyle of the methadone clinic changed me profoundly.

I may not fit everyone’s definition of sobriety. I don’t attend twelve-step meetings. But I live with a healthy fear of ever returning to the life I escaped. I’ve always been an isolator, and I know that about myself. Coming off methadone was the greatest thing that ever happened — not just to me, but to my family, who were beaten down by that life right alongside me.

There is a kind of freedom that comes from not having to stand in line and report to a window every morning — a freedom only another hostage who has broken free can truly understand.

My wife, who has stood by me for nearly three decades, deserves much of the credit for why I’m alive. When she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and fought for her life, I thank God I was finally present enough to fight beside her.

My daughter, now almost twenty-three, just graduated on the Dean’s List from Jefferson University Hospital and is studying arterial ultrasound. She has never used drugs or smoked ci******es. I can’t describe how proud I am that she never followed in my footsteps. I was her example of what happens when addiction takes hold: you lose everything and everyone you love — even if you see them every day.

There was a time when I prayed to die in my sleep.

Today, I close my eyes at night in peace, knowing I have nowhere I’m required to be in the morning.

12/28/2025

Self-Centered by David Weitz

If you think attending a meeting once a week in a church basement is tough, try recovering in a clubhouse — where your program doesn’t get tested weekly, but daily. When I first arrived, I couldn’t tell if I was seen as “new” because of the literal definition or because of my outlandish behavior. By the time I earned my third coin, half the room was cheering me on to say whatever was on my mind, while the other half probably wished I’d find a clubhouse on the other side of the planet.

“Principles Before Personalities” wasn’t just a tradition I saw hanging on the wall or heard repeated in meetings — it became a mantra I whispered to myself like a madman. Because when you recover in a center full of personalities, you quickly learn how self-centered you still are… even while sitting in the very place designed to help you stop being that way.

Picture this: walking into the same room with the same people — not just on Mondays, but Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays… and let’s not even talk about the weekends. At that point, all I was missing was a halfway decent bed. I might as well have brought my toothbrush and moved in. If recovery is about finding balance, then I had officially made the clubhouse the center of my universe.

Anyone who’s lived this knows exactly what I mean.

And then something happens.

Those who make it far enough in recovery eventually reach a moment where they realize it might be time to venture outside the clubhouse. That’s when the real bravery kicks in. You plan the occasion like it’s a date — not with someone else, but with yourself. Romantic, right? You clean yourself up, maybe dress a little sharper than usual, and show up early to a new meeting in a new place, pretending you’re not internally screaming.

The meeting starts, people share, coffee is poured… and suddenly it hits you.

You miss your usual clubhouse crew — even the ones you don’t like. Heck, you miss not liking them. You miss your seat. You miss the familiar chaos. You miss the strange comfort of being surrounded by people who know exactly how self-centered you can be — because they see it every day.

After that surreal experience, you go home, sleep it off, and the very next day find yourself back in your regular chair, oddly comforted by the realization that no matter where else you might go, there’s still no place like home. Sometimes growth doesn’t mean leaving the center — it means learning how to behave while you’re still in it.

One day, I’ll gather the courage to evolve beyond my little habitat. But for now, I can honestly say the good I gain from where I recover far outweighs the challenges posed by the personalities around me. It’s where I’ve learned to welcome newcomers — people looking for a safe haven, a place that stays open, where you can keep showing up until you’ve exhausted yourself into wellness.

In truth, I consider myself lucky. Most people don’t have the luxury of a place like this — the very place I’ve worked so hard to complain about. Maybe it’s just the self-centered part of me… the same part that brought me to my knees in the first place.

Then again — at least I’ve got a center where I can finally be myself.

Sober Shepherds

01/10/2026

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