By Keaton O., Renascent Alumni

I used to move through my life like a shadow, drifting without direction. My body was there, but my spirit wandered as if lost on a road I could not find my way through. Addiction did not just take my health. It turned every step into a detour, pulling me further from the life I wanted. Trust slipped away. Love grew distant. Even inside my own home, surrounded by family, I felt like I was walking in circles, never arriving anywhere. I was not living anymore. I was haunting the path of who I used to be, a ghost stranded at a crossroads.

My family carried the weight of those steps too. My parents stood on the edge of my path, unsure how to guide me back. My brother kept walking his own road, hurt by my choices and scared of where they were leading me. My grandma followed quietly, always just a step behind, her worry showing in her eyes even when she did not speak.

For a long time, I kept walking in the wrong direction. Each mile carried me farther from my health, my family, and myself. Then came the moment I could not outrun anymore. I finally stopped at the dead end I had created. I admitted to myself what I had refused to say for so long. I cannot do this alone. I need help. That surrender was my first step back, the moment I turned around to face the road home.

Recovery, I learned, is not a sprint. It is a walk, slow, deliberate, sometimes unsteady. At first, my feet felt heavy, dragging across unfamiliar ground. Each step was sharp, quiet, and uncertain without substances to dull the road. But as time went on, I began to notice the trail beneath me. The path became clearer. The fog lifted. I was not lost anymore. I was walking home.
Rehab gave me structure, like a steady pace on uneven ground. Early mornings, journaling, accountability, they became the rhythm of my walk. What felt small at first built into momentum. Every day I showed up, I moved further down the road, leaving the ghost I had been behind me.

Back home, the walk continued. My parents had heard promises before. My brother stayed cautious, walking beside me but not too close. My grandma still worried, though her encouragement never wavered. I did not try to run ahead toward their forgiveness or force their trust. I walked. Slowly. Patiently. I let my footsteps speak louder than words. Getting up each morning. Sitting at family meals. Staying present. Each choice was another step down the long road back to them.
There were victories along the way, little milestones marking the journey. The first time I laughed and it felt real. The first night I slept peacefully, without restlessness. The first time I looked in the mirror and did not see only shame. Each was a signpost reminding me that I was moving forward, that I was on the right path.

Walking home was not just about family either. It was about walking back to myself. To the part of me that could feel joy. To the part of me that could trust hope. To the part of me that could stand in the sunlight without hiding.

Recovery taught me something simple but powerful. You do not run your way back into life. You walk. Sometimes slowly, sometimes with shaky legs, sometimes on roads that feel uphill, but always forward. One decision at a time. One step at a time.

Now, I do not see the ghost I used to be. I see someone who turned around at the crossroads and chose the long walk home, even when the road felt endless.

For a long time, I was walking away from everything that mattered. But recovery taught me to retrace my steps, to follow the path back, and to put one foot in front of the other. Every step I take now carries me closer to life, closer to trust, and closer to hope.

I walked home. And step by step, I keep walking toward tomorrow.