I got sober in 2010, but my education in addiction recovery started long before that.
For the better part of my teens and twenties, I was in and out of treatment—twenty-two centers in different states. Different philosophies. Different budgets. Different levels of professionalism. Some looked like high-end retreats with catered meals, beach trips, yoga instructors, and meditation gardens. Others were bare-bones white cinderblock detox units where getting an extra blanket felt like special treatment.
Somewhere around my third or fourth detox completion, I tried to end my life. I didn’t know how to live without drugs, and I didn’t know how to face what I had become—even after taking all the “right” steps in treatment. I woke up confused in a hospital in Wilmington, DE, after reconstructive surgery on my artery and nerves, and a blood transfusion. The shame I’d been carrying before I woke up now had a multiplier on it. This wasn’t a failure of the clinicians or the system. It was me—without the tools to carry life outside of a facility.
In every one of those programs, the language was the same. Completion. Successful discharge. Graduated the program. It didn’t matter whether I’d been there a week or three months—if I met the clinical requirements or my insurance ran out, my chart got stamped “success.” Those words never followed me out the door. Once the staff, schedules, and safety nets disappeared, “success” became harder to measure and even harder to keep.
The Part That’s Rarely Tracked
In most treatment settings, the scoring stops the day the client leaves. There’s no industry-wide standard for what “successful” recovery looks like sixty days later, six months later, or five years later.
The hardest part isn’t the thirty days inside a facility—it’s day 31. The first morning I woke up with no counselor checking in, I let out a sigh of relief. Freedom. Followed almost instantly by a silent panic. No colorful schedule mapping out my day by the hour. What am I going to eat today? How am I going to eat today? What do you mean everyone is still mad at me? I just did thirty days in rehab—everything isn’t forgiven and forgotten?
Now I’m standing on a boring sidewalk outside a job interview instead of in that quiet meditation garden. It’s here, in this space, that I’ve seen people either lean into the unknown or fold under the pressures of freedom. It broke me, over and over again. Almost like treatment was the easier part.
That gap between treatment and real independence is where most people stumble. Not because they learned nothing in treatment, but because treatment can’t replicate what it’s like to live sober in the chaos of everyday life. Treatment spends so much time on groups and setting boundaries, but—from what I’ve seen—very little on the realities of day-to-day living. How to face consequences. How to keep going when nobody’s looking.
Inpatient care can prepare you in theory. It can’t test you in reality. I’ve spent nearly fifteen years working with people in that in-between space—the one where the structure of treatment is gone, but the stability of long-term recovery hasn’t been built yet. That space isn’t a footnote. It’s where everything is decided.
The Revolving Door
Relapse rates spike after discharge. The data on that can’t be argued. But the system still calls it “success” if you make it to the end of your program. Why? Because completion is easy to measure, easy to fund, and easy to sell on paper. It checks the insurance box, looks great in an annual report, and keeps the lights on.
I’ve sat in offices where people say—not in their brochure, not to the families, but to each other—that the revolving door keeps the business alive. A steady flow of repeat intakes means a steady flow of billing. It’s not said with malice. It’s said like it’s simply how the machine works.
And there’s an unspoken perk for treatment centers: if someone fails after discharge, they can shrug and say, “That’s odd—they did so well when they were here.” Or, “What did you not do while you were out there?” The blame shifts off the program and lands squarely on the client. But if someone thrives? The center can take credit for “getting them started.” Rarely is there much acknowledgment for the role of sober living or the individual’s own grit—the narrative almost always circles back to, “They began with us.”
What’s missing is the part nobody wants to budget for—the follow-up. Calling the guy three weeks after discharge, not just to ask if he’s sober, but if he’s working, if he’s repairing a broken friendship, if he’s managed to get through a custody hearing without using. Tracking who makes it through the first stretch of unemployment, the first apartment lease, the first major argument with a partner. That kind of truth takes time and money, and most business models don’t make space for it. So “success” stays defined as a graduation, and the door keeps swinging.
In my world, that door isn’t a line on a spreadsheet or an insurance number. They’re people I know because I am one of them. They’re the ones who came back six times in a single year because they left treatment with a certificate and nowhere to live. They’re the mothers who hugged their kids and husbands at the rehab graduation, only to be blackout drunk before the weekend was over. These aren’t statistics. They’re people whose “successful completions” didn’t survive the first punch of real life.
Why “Less Clinical” Can Mean More Real
In that post-treatment gap, the safety net of clinical oversight has an expiration date. Therapists, doctors, case managers—they can be life-saving. But their authority ends the second the professional relationship does. And when that ends, so does the structure it gave you.
Peer-led recovery housing flips that on its head. Accountability doesn’t come in the form of a staff badge. It comes from the people sleeping down the hall. It’s your roommate confronting you for being loud and waking him up when he has to work early. The standards don’t live in a compliance manual. They live in the people you share a kitchen with.
In 2010, when I was in sober living in Arizona, I felt like the odd man out. Older. From the East Coast. Stuck in a house full of guys in their early twenties. I thought I was going to take over that house. But these “kids” didn’t let me be the version of me I thought I had to be. They broke my walls down—not with heart-to-hearts about my past, but with blunt, matter-of-fact accountability.
It was Ian, my 19-year-old house manager — no street cred, no cool war stories—who didn’t even turn away from his Xbox game to look at me to say, “I don’t like you. But I don’t have to like you to want to help you.” And that “help” wasn’t the kind I wanted. It came in the form of, If you want to live here, these are the things you need to do. If you don’t want to live here forever, get a job, save money, and move out. The way he said it, it wasn’t just advice. It was as if that was the only acceptable way to leave—the proper way. No disappearing in the middle of the night. No getting kicked out for acting like an idiot. You either did it right or you didn’t do it at all. And that’s what I did. Not perfectly. Not with precision. But I did it the right way.
That’s the thing about peer-driven accountability—it sticks. You don’t leave it behind when you move out. You take it into your own apartment, your next job, your marriage. I’ve used Ian’s line over and over through the years: “I don’t have to like you to try and help you.”
Unlike the clinical world, where feedback comes in case notes and progress reports, peer support happens in real time. You leave your laundry in the dryer, someone dumps it on your bed. You skip your chore, you get an earful at dinner. Someone relapses, the whole house feels it—not as a line in a chart, but as a void felt inside you and through the place you live. And in that environment, everyone focuses on the “why.” Here’s why we do these things. Here’s why working matters. Here’s why your family is upset. The lessons aren’t abstract—they’re tied directly to your life, your actions, and your consequences.
That’s why it works. It’s constant. It doesn’t care about insurance cycles or program phases. It’s built into the air you breathe while you’re there—and if you let it, it stays with you long after you’ve left.
The Limits of “Evidence-Based”
The recovery field loves numbers. Funders love them even more. But numbers only tell part of the story.
If “success” means completing treatment, the story stops the day someone walks out the door. If it means hitting three months sober, you get a snapshot—but that snapshot doesn’t tell you if they can make it through the first move to a new city, the first holiday alone, or the first time they have to sit across from someone using and not join in.
The things that kept me—and a lot of others—sober long-term don’t fit neatly on a chart. Paying rent on time. Keeping a steady job. Sitting down with my daughter after years of not being there. Making amends and then proving, over months and years, that those amends are real. None of it is flashy. It won’t make a grant proposal shine. But it’s the quiet work that holds recovery together.
I was the dad sitting in a car outside his ex’s house, heart pounding, finally getting to take his daughter for the afternoon. I’ve seen the guy who came in with nothing but a garbage bag of clothes end up paying his bills and covering rent without a single late fee. I’ve watched a woman who swore she’d never speak to her sister again stand in the kitchen, phone on speaker, laughing with her.
You can’t chart those moments. You have to see them. And the shift isn’t just in the action—it’s in the look on someone’s face when they realize they’re doing it. That’s when purpose and meaning settle in. Not in a binder full of outcomes. Not in a statistic on a whiteboard. But in the mess and rhythm of real life, one day after the next.
Why I Know This to Be True
I didn’t learn this in a classroom or read it in a journal article. I learned it by working with thousands of people—every background, every income level, every family dynamic.
When I finally got sober in 2010, it was in a treatment center in Arizona. But it wasn’t the slogans on the wall, or my “cool” counselor who swore and let me check my phone during sessions, that made the difference. It was my roommates in Room #9—Paul and Eric. They didn’t give me a treatment plan; they gave me an example. Their hope for a better life became mine. When they called me out on how I acted or thought, I actually listened—and changed. I followed them to sober living, and we kept going with what we’d started in Room #9.
Eric’s still my best friend to this day—I even officiated his wedding. Paul and I stayed close for a while, then life sent us in different directions. Years later, he overdosed. Both of them shaped the way I chose to move forward, to face my fears and consequences, and to do it sober. Eric and Paul… not “Doctor” or “Life Coach.”
I’ve seen people with every advantage relapse because they couldn’t handle life without constant supervision. I’ve seen people with nothing but a bed in a sober house and a few committed peers rebuild their lives—one day, one responsibility, one decision at a time.
Completing a program is a milestone, not a destination. Peer-driven environments give people more than the how—wake up, work, pay bills, show up—they give the why, because those actions build self-respect, stability, and trust.
That’s the work I’ve devoted my life to. And it’s why I’ll always believe that less clinical can sometimes mean more recovery.
