Addiction affects more than just the individual. It ripples out into families, friends, and communities, leaving the people who care feeling powerless in what they see unfolding. Loving someone through addiction may mean recognizing that you cannot stop it for them, but choosing to not give up on them. You can continue to show up, offer support, and let them know that help is there when they are ready. 

Addiction is a deep hole. One day everything is fine, and the next you’re deep in the depths of despair. It’s easy to fall into. Just one sip, one pill, or whatever the substance may be - that’s all it takes for some. For others, continued use, for whatever reason - to fit in, to “feel better”, to “be happy”, or even because it was prescribed, slowly trains the mind that they need it. Tolerance develops as they continue using it, and then they need more and more. It never ends up being enough. 

This is a repost from SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) but well worth sharing…

Tyler’s Journey Through the Criminal Legal System

“He’s dead, David. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

Those frantic, dreadful words echoed through my mind, on repeat.

‘David’—that is me. ‘He’—that’s my friend, Tyler. Or I should say ‘was,’ as of September 5, 2023.

Tyler and I were incarcerated in state prison together between 2011 and 2013 for similar non-violent, drug-related charges. Our friendship consisted of cutting grass, playing cards, drinking instant coffee, munching on ramen, and listening to John Mayer and Dave Matthews. During these two years, our similar life circumstances, musical interests, and severe substance use issues resulted in a bond that would continue even after our paths diverged—with Tyler’s (back) into chaos and mine through a narrow escape toward purpose and healing. My recovery and hard work gave me an opportunity to finish my bachelor’s degree, complete my Master’s, and even gain clearance and employment in the federal government. Despite this divergence, Tyler and I wanted the same thing—a family, a career, economic stability; to do good and be good people—but we also needed all the help we could get.

On this day—January 16, 2026—we mark three years since Chris’s passing. I write to honor his life and to remind us all that recovery is a journey, and it is work. Addiction, too, becomes work. It may not begin that way, but as it tightens its grip, it demands more and more, taking far more than it ever gives. Recovery asks for effort, honesty, and perseverance, yet the rewards reach far beyond what we can imagine: clarity, connection, purpose, and hope.

As the year ends, we pause to honor the courage of the youth who showed up, leaned in, and chose growth—even when it was hard. This year reminded us that healing doesn’t happen in isolation—it happens in safe spaces, through shared stories, fresh air, and steady support.

In the wilderness, distractions fade and honest conversations begin. We’re grateful for every moment spent in nature and every story shared. Wilderness continues to be a powerful place for recovery, reflection, and renewal. This year reaffirmed our mission: partial scholarships to young people in the United States for wilderness programs assisting with addiction recovery; this because when young people are given space, support, and connection, recovery becomes possible.

I carried a couch. And I mean that quite literally. The couch is not a metaphor. Not a joke. You can see it in the picture. I am not bragging–ok, well, maybe a little. But in reality, I did it for Chris. I did it in memory of my brother. Interestingly, I’m not even the first to do it. It’s starting to become a tradition around remembering Chris–couches.

In 2024, a whole bunch of people carried a couch for chris. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t in very good shape. I didn’t want to go because I had work to do. And it would have been a burden on my family. Little did I know that my wife would get extremely ill that weekend and have to be rushed to the ER to save our baby. It worked out, but I missed out on something very important–something that would have meant a lot for the process of mourning Chris.