8 Years Sober

This is July 4, 2014. More importantly, this was the last summer I can remember feeling truly connected to my purpose.

That summer I slept on a couch at my mom’s house because I didn’t have a room. I had no job and just enough money to put gas in my car.

Back then, in 2014, our phones weren’t nearly as addictive as they are now, so I spent as much time out of the house as I could.

For two weeks straight in summer 2014, I recorded an album called Nights Like These. It told the story of being in love with two people at the same time, neither of whom loved me back.

The music was every bit as personal as what I make today, but there was one major difference.

I wasn’t creating from a place of defense.

So what changed?

The five years leading up to my sobriety, I became the clown for the sake of being accepted by people I loved. Nobody asked me to do that, but whenever I tried to be myself, it often led to tension and confrontation.

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that being accepted was more important than being authentic.

Then I got sober.

At first, there was silence. Nobody said anything to me—good, bad, or indifferent. I kept my head down and worked on myself, believing that if I stayed consistent long enough, the people who had the wrong idea about me would eventually see that I’d changed.

That moment never came.

Instead, as my life improved, the whispers seemed to get louder and closer to home. It hurt enough that I turned to the one place where I felt like I could finally be heard: music.

Looking back now, I think that’s where something changed. I stopped making music simply to tell my story and started making music to defend it.

Now that I’ve stepped away from constant creation and work, I finally understand why I’ve spent so much time reflecting over the last eight years.

It’s not because I want to relive the past, and it’s definitely not because I want to change it.

I think I’ve been trying to reconnect with a version of myself that still believes in our dreams. A version of me that existed before every accomplishment became something to compare.

Before social media made everyone else’s success feel like a scoreboard. Before I felt the need to explain myself. Before I confused defending my character with fulfilling my purpose.

That version of me created from a place of love. His words were inspired by his experiences, not by the opinions of other people.

Proving old friends wrong became more important than becoming the man I wanted to be.

Letting go hurts more than I know how to explain. Every time I thought I’d finally let go, there was still a part of me hoping the people I loved would come back into my life. When that moment never came, I held on a little longer—like it was all I had left of them.

Maybe that’s why proving people wrong became so motivating. It was easier to chase old memories than it was to grieve what I’d lost.

When I lost my sense of purpose, I didn’t notice all the ways I started filling the empty space.

Where I used to fill silence with energy and ideas, I’ve learned to scroll through Instagram.

Resulting in endless comparisons & emptiness.

Where I used to find excitement in adventure or video games, I’ve learned to eat when I’m not hungry.

Resulting in letting myself go.

Where I used to be outgoing and social, I’ve learned to keep to myself.

Resulting in isolation.

If I keep using my music as a way to defend my character or tear down other people, then I’m no different than the version of myself who was chasing acceptance all those years ago.

I thought having a son would change me overnight. What it really did was expose all the things about me I need to change.

When I hold my son while he sleeps—or even when he wakes up and stretches—I feel something I can’t put into words. I don’t fully understand it yet, but I know it makes me want to become a better man.

Maybe that’s what this summer is supposed to be. Not a return to 2014, or any other summer… but a return to the man who created because he had something to say, not something to prove.

I can’t take back what I said, or what I’m about to say, but I can choose to own the part I’ve played in the downfall of my relationships. I can choose to put my pride aside & apologize.

Eight years ago, I got sober.

This year, I got purpose.