Courtesy of the author
For most of my adult life, alcohol was my crutch, my comfort, and eventually, my undoing. It seeped into every corner of my life — relationships, work, and my sense of self. But nothing exposed the cost of my addiction to the same extent as looking at my 4-year-old son and knowing I was failing him.
My decisive wake-up call came months ago. After a period of sobriety, I relapsed. On a weekday night after work, I hit the bottle, and before I knew it, I was behind the wheel, drunk and reckless. I crashed my car that night. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but the fallout hit me like a tidal wave. In the hospital afterward, I wasn't thinking about the damage to my car or the legal consequences — all I could think about was my son Neil.
I remember coming to the painful conclusion about the kind of father I had become. The kind who missed bedtime stories because he was desperate for a drink. The kind who made promises to take his son on trips and just as quickly broke those promises when the urge to drink took over. The kind who might not be around to see his child grow up if he kept going down this road.
The morning after the crash, I admitted to myself that I couldn't keep living like this. I embarked, once again, on my recovery journey. But this time, my intent was absolute. I'm seven months sober. But sobriety is just one part of my journey. The more emotional work has been rebuilding my relationship with my son and earning back the trust that I broke.
Children — even at the tender age of 4, as my son is — have a better sense of the world around them than we understand. My son might not have known I was drinking, but I know he felt the distance. He noticed when I wasn't paying attention to him and when I overreacted to small things because I was nursing a hangover.
The shame and guilt of knowing how my choices shaped Neil's early years is something I carry with me every day. Those first few years of his life should have been about joy, security, and connection. Instead, my addiction robbed us of moments we'll never get back. And as hard I try, and as much as I understand the importance of doing so, I'll never forgive myself for that.
This time, in recovery, I was determined to make up for lost time. I intended to dive into parenting with everything I had. I wanted to be the dad who shows up when he says he will, takes his son to the park, and never misses bedtime. And I have been doing those things. But, as I failed to realize, trust takes time.
One of the most challenging parts of recovery, undoubtedly, has been accepting that my son needs time to trust me again. When I pick him up from nursery, I see — now and then — the hesitation in his eyes, a sense of doubt I put there.
At first, that reaction devastated me. But, over time, I've learned to see it as part of the process. Rebuilding trust isn't about grand gestures; it's about showing up consistently, day after day. It's about reading the bedtime story even when I'm tired or sitting on the floor to build a Lego tower when my mind is racing with recovery challenges.
I've also — as part of my recovery — been having difficult conversations with Neil. At 4, my son is too young to comprehend addiction, but I've started explaining it in simple terms. I tell him, "Daddy used to make bad choices, but now I'm working hard to make better ones." I want him to see that it's OK to admit when you've messed up — as long as you're willing to do the work to make things right.
Parenting while in recovery is a balancing act. It's about managing my healing while staying present for my son. It's about showing him, through my actions, that people can change and that mistakes don't have to define you.
For the first time in his life — and mine — I'm showing up as my true self. And for me, that's the greatest victory of all.
