Rising from the Ashes: My Journey Through Addiction and Toward Purpose I was seven years old when I entered the foster care system. My mother was addicted to crack cocaine, and my father was a shadow I never met. I bounced from home to home, each new placement a gamble—some caring, others cold, all temporary. I learned early how to survive without love, but not without consequence. I carried trauma like an invisible weight on my chest, and as I got older, I searched for relief in the only way I knew how—through escape. By fifteen, I had tried alcohol. By seventeen, I was smoking weed daily. And by nineteen, I was deep into opioids—Percocets at first, then whatever I could get my hands on. My addiction didn’t start with a desire to get high; it started with a desire to feel nothing. The pain of abandonment, the chaos of constant displacement, and the emptiness of growing up without stability had hollowed me out. Drugs filled that void, or so I thought. What it was like? It was hell in slow motion. I lied to friends, stole from people who cared about me, and woke up in strangers' homes not knowing how I got there. I lost jobs, lost weight, lost myself. At one point, I overdosed in a gas station bathroom. I remember waking up to the paramedic's voice and thinking, This is it. This is how I become another statistic. But something changed that day. It wasn’t just the near-death experience—it was the look on the face of the woman who found me. She didn’t know me, but she cried. That moment broke something open in me. For the first time, I saw myself through the eyes of a stranger who still saw value in my life. It made me believe maybe I was worth saving. The road to sobriety wasn’t linear. I went through rehab twice. I relapsed once. But each setback became a lesson. Through therapy, I confronted my childhood trauma. Through support groups, I found a community. Through journaling and self-reflection, I found my voice. I’ve been clean for three years now, and every single day of sobriety is a victory. My life today is unrecognizable from what it was. I work part-time at a youth center for at-risk teens, many of whom remind me of a younger version of myself. I’m also pursuing a degree in social work, with the goal of becoming a licensed counselor specializing in addiction recovery and trauma-informed care. I want to be the kind of support system I never had—a mentor who listens, a counselor who understands the cultural and systemic struggles that often fuel addiction in Black communities. Education is my way forward, but also my way back—to give back to those still caught in the cycle. I want to dismantle the stigma around addiction and mental health in underserved communities. I want to advocate for more inclusive, accessible rehabilitation programs that treat not just the addiction, but the soul wounds beneath it. I believe my lived experience, combined with professional training, can bring a rare and necessary perspective to the field. I am not defined by my addiction, but I am shaped by my recovery. Every scar tells a story, and I now wear mine with pride. Sobriety gave me a second chance; education is giving me a purpose. I’m no longer just surviving—I’m building, dreaming, and reaching back to pull others through the fire. Because if my life can change, so can theirs. And I intend to make sure they know it.

Rising from the Ashes: My Journey Through Addiction and Toward Purpose I was seven years old when I entered the foster care system. My mother was addicted to crack cocaine, and my father was a shadow I never met. I bounced from home to home, each new placement a gamble—some caring, others cold, all temporary. I learned early how to survive without love, but not without consequence. I carried trauma like an invisible weight on my chest, and as I got older, I searched for relief in the only way I knew how—through escape. By fifteen, I had tried alcohol. By seventeen, I was smoking weed daily. And by nineteen, I was deep into opioids—Percocets at first, then whatever I could get my hands on. My addiction didn’t start with a desire to get high; it started with a desire to feel nothing. The pain of abandonment, the chaos of constant displacement, and the emptiness of growing up without stability had hollowed me out. Drugs filled that void, or so I thought. What it was like? It was hell in slow motion. I lied to friends, stole from people who cared about me, and woke up in strangers' homes not knowing how I got there. I lost jobs, lost weight, lost myself. At one point, I overdosed in a gas station bathroom. I remember waking up to the paramedic's voice and thinking, This is it. This is how I become another statistic. But something changed that day. It wasn’t just the near-death experience—it was the look on the face of the woman who found me. She didn’t know me, but she cried. That moment broke something open in me. For the first time, I saw myself through the eyes of a stranger who still saw value in my life. It made me believe maybe I was worth saving. The road to sobriety wasn’t linear. I went through rehab twice. I relapsed once. But each setback became a lesson. Through therapy, I confronted my childhood trauma. Through support groups, I found a community. Through journaling and self-reflection, I found my voice. I’ve been clean for three years now, and every single day of sobriety is a victory. My life today is unrecognizable from what it was. I work part-time at a youth center for at-risk teens, many of whom remind me of a younger version of myself. I’m also pursuing a degree in social work, with the goal of becoming a licensed counselor specializing in addiction recovery and trauma-informed care. I want to be the kind of support system I never had—a mentor who listens, a counselor who understands the cultural and systemic struggles that often fuel addiction in Black communities. Education is my way forward, but also my way back—to give back to those still caught in the cycle. I want to dismantle the stigma around addiction and mental health in underserved communities. I want to advocate for more inclusive, accessible rehabilitation programs that treat not just the addiction, but the soul wounds beneath it. I believe my lived experience, combined with professional training, can bring a rare and necessary perspective to the field. I am not defined by my addiction, but I am shaped by my recovery. Every scar tells a story, and I now wear mine with pride. Sobriety gave me a second chance; education is giving me a purpose. I’m no longer just surviving—I’m building, dreaming, and reaching back to pull others through the fire. Because if my life can change, so can theirs. And I intend to make sure they know it.

I understand not everyone comes from a traditional two-parent but, but being in foster care and eventually adopted, can have its perks. I didn't always agree with my disciplinarian guardians and actively rebelled against their occasional verbal abuse and strict guidelines. I didn't realize that they were instilling in me a solid work ethic and building unwavering resilience.Their faith in a loving God showed me I was always loved and all I ever needed was to trust in his word and will. Growing up alongside other foster children, I saw a need for other avenues toward success and what that could look like for us, a marginalized few. Early on, I learned that in order to keep the serenity i'd found, I'd have to give of myself freely and pour into those who could not pour into themselves. This led me on the path of Criminal Justice with a concentration in Human Services. I wanted to help those directly affected by substance use, lives that mirror my own relationship with my biological parents. My goal is to eventually work in the nonprofit sector with foster kids who have been discarded by a sometimes cruel and overworked system. My dream of starting a day shelter for foster kids aging out of the system is in the works, and my continuing education only seeks to give back to those who once helped me. I currently attend CTU and am interning at the Isaiah House, a substance abuse treatment center out of Louisville, Ky. My experience as an LRC, or Life Recover Coach, puts me directly in the lives of those most affected by addiction. Some of my clients have been former foster care children, so I see the need for my dream and how that dream can materialize for the world's benefit.

Lead to Recover, Recover to Lead I answered the calling placed upon my life this year. I had been in the grips of addiction for nearly ten years. I saw a lot of friends suffer and get caught up in the spiral that is addiction, and thus falling victim to every temptation and trap laid. I saw children being trafficked, mothers who had lost their housing, no longer able to provide a roof for their young children. I’d seen a need for direction from homeless teens doing what they could in the name of survival. I'd forgotten the value of me, but I'd never forgotten the value of helping others, even when I couldn't help myself. I had to take accountability for my actions. I had to become a version of a man I could recognize. I made the wise choice to begin my journey toward recovery in March of 2024. I’d realized that my life wasn’t going to get any better unless I confronted those demons head on. A solid leader isn’t afraid to be called out. He or she uses the opportunity to pivot and take advice, to lead by example, and always puts the needs of his people before his own. In my own recovery, I lead by accepting feedback and showing others grace and patience because it had been so freely extended to me. I try to arrive at different conclusions that impact us as a people, not just recovering addicts.