In late 2019, everything started to change. I was a happy husband and father of two boys. We had fun together—I was the one always laughing, cracking jokes, and doing whatever I could to make memories with my family. But suddenly, I started feeling sick and weak all the time. Pain like I’d never known crept into my body, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake it.
I was the only one working at the time, pulling 10- to 12-hour shifts just to keep us afloat. I pushed through the pain, day after day, because I had to. But eventually, I broke. I needed something—anything—to help me get through the day. That’s when someone I thought was a friend introduced me to fentanyl.
At first, it worked. The pain dulled, and I felt like I could function again. But fentanyl has a cruel way of convincing you that you're in control—until you're not. I lost my job. I found small gigs, but the addiction followed me. My relationship with my wife began to crumble, even though she never stopped trying to pull me back.
Finally, she convinced me to see a doctor. That’s when we got the news: colon cancer. I felt like I had been handed a death sentence. Depression hit me harder than the pain ever had. I gave up. I turned deeper into drugs and nearly lost everything.
But my wife didn’t give up on me. Neither did my kids. Even when I shut down, they kept showing up with love. That love became a mirror—I could finally see what I was losing. Not just my health, not just my job—I was losing the life I had helped build.
It started with small wins. Just getting out of bed. Talking to my wife. She helped me find a methadone clinic, and that was the beginning of my recovery. The months that followed were some of the most painful and emotionally exhausting of my life. But my wife and kids were there every step of the way, giving me hope when I couldn’t find it on my own.
Somewhere in that healing process, something unexpected happened.
One of the counselors at the clinic mentioned meditation—how it had helped them during their own recovery. I had tried meditation as a kid but never stuck with it. Still, something about the idea felt right. I needed something to give me strength, not just physically but mentally and emotionally too.
Meditation didn’t cure my cancer or erase the damage from addiction. But it gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time—clarity. The more I practiced, the more I understood myself. It helped me sit with my pain instead of running from it. It helped me find peace in moments of chaos.
Today, I’m still in the fight. I’m still recovering, still undergoing treatment, still rebuilding. But I’m not who I was. I’m a man who nearly lost everything—and found a way back.
This journey isn’t over. But now, I walk it with my eyes open and my heart full of gratitude. For my wife. For my kids. For another chance.
And for the quiet strength I found inside myself—when I finally stopped to listen.
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