I grew up in the church. Some of my earliest memories are of loving God—memorizing catechisms, competing in Bible drills, and being surrounded by the foundation of faith my father carried from the Jesus movement of the 70s. I knew who Jesus was. But like Jonah, I ran. The world offered something shiny and intoxicating, and I wanted it. I chased recognition, pleasure, status, and influence. Eventually I became a nightclub DJ, immersed in a lifestyle that looked glamorous from the outside. I had the image, the honor in those circles, the attention, the relationships people envied. Outwardly, I appeared successful. Inwardly, I was miserable. The more I drank from the world’s cup, the emptier I became. What was supposed to satisfy only created a deeper hunger.

My addiction didn’t begin in a back alley; it began with pills. Opiates felt manageable at first, almost ordinary. But addiction is progressive. What once works stops working. What once satisfies demands more. The dose increases, the risk increases, and before long you find yourself doing things you once swore you never would. For me, it escalated into heroin. Many people assume addiction is about chasing a high, but often it becomes something else entirely. It becomes a way to turn off pain. You aren’t trying to feel good—you’re trying to stop feeling bad. The drugs became a button I pushed to silence trauma, guilt, shame, and emptiness. But when the drugs left my system, everything they had suppressed came crashing back. The physical withdrawals were brutal, but the emotional tidal wave was even worse. Years of damage, broken relationships, and self-condemnation flooded in at once.

I relapsed many times. Dozens of times. For years I genuinely wanted to be free and couldn’t seem to stay free. If relapse meant God was done with me, I would have been beyond hope. But relapse did not mean God had abandoned me. Eventually, He brought me to a place of profound brokenness. I remember responding to an altar call during one of the lowest seasons of my life. That moment didn’t magically erase my struggle, but it marked a turning point. Looking back, I can trace the steady hand of God from that day forward—even through setbacks. Addiction revealed to me that this wasn’t merely behavioral; it was spiritual. Willpower alone couldn’t save me. What began to change me was surrender—placing my will into God’s hands and allowing His forgiveness to wash away the shame that kept dragging me back into the cycle. Fear of death never stopped me. I knew the drugs could kill me and still used. It was encountering the love of God that finally began to break the chains.

Recovery required more than detox; it required transformation. I had to leave environments that fueled my addiction. I had to let the old identity die. That meant walking away from a lifestyle that once defined me. It was humbling. It was painful. But on the other side of that surrender, I discovered something I had never known in the height of my so-called success: peace. Today I serve at Christ’s Body Ministries, walking alongside men who are battling addiction and rebuilding their lives. I help with men’s discipleship and peer navigation because I know firsthand what it’s like to sit in that broken place. I’ve pursued education and credentials in behavioral health because this isn’t just part of my past—it’s part of my calling.

I can honestly say I have more joy serving the homeless—handing out coffee, helping with showers, praying with men on the street—than I ever did standing in front of a nightclub crowd. Back then, I had everything the world says matters. Now, I have something infinitely greater: I have Christ, I have purpose, and I have peace. Addiction does not discriminate. It can reach into any background, any family, any level of success. But grace doesn’t discriminate either. If you are struggling, there is hope. If you love someone who is struggling, be patient. Don’t lead with condemnation—shame is already crushing them. Lead with love. Pray without ceasing. The love of God is what changes hearts. Faith, hope, and love remain—and the greatest of these is love. That love is what rescued me, and it’s why I now serve others from a seat at the table I once thought I didn’t deserve.