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On this Father’s Day morning as I sit here drinking my coffee I think back to my drinking days as a young Father.

I definitely wasn’t the best Dad in those days. I had other priorities still that seemed to take my focus.

One of the things that kept me about as sober as I could be was hiking. I have always enjoyed going on hikes. It’s a pretty good exercise to beat up the body.

My thought was I drink heavy enough that I’m beating my body up in that way so the beating from a good mountain hike just evened me out.

When my son got a little older he learned that if he could get me out the door for a hike I’d stop my drinking and he’d get “me” to spend time with. I definitely credit him with beginning to set me in the right direction towards sobriety.

When I had finally quit drinking altogether our “relationship repair” time focused around hiking. It gave us time to talk as well as just walk silently amongst nature together.

We created a yearly Fathers day hike in the FlatIrons area in Boulder.

If you ever want to know what sobriety feels like I’ll take you for a little hike there.

We would hike, sit in the back of my pickup and have a little picnic and then drive home. Without fail he’d fall asleep on that drive home and be surprised when we got home without him knowing it.

I miss those days. We had fun pushing ourselves physically, me mentally during my alcoholic battles, and eventually getting to know each other as Father/Son and eventually just 2 guys sharing time enjoyed together.

We don’t get to do those hikes as often anymore. Life has a way of changing faster than we think it will and hoping for it to slow down never seems to work.
What does work is being sober and present in the moment. Enjoying every moment that you do have together creating the memories. Listening and paying attention to your loved ones through not just hiking together but sometimes just in the silence of walking together and being there supporting the other.

I have long loved the story of “Footprints in the Sand”. Even during my drinking days I knew that during my worst of times I was being carried through until I could learn to walk on my own. It took me 23 years to learn how. I didn’t do it on the beach, I did it through the mountains with my son.

Now I hike with my wife as well but will always remember how my son helped me begin to see the path I couldn’t find.
Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there learning to walk the correct paths in life and to all of those that have set the example for their families on how to live life.

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I’ve seen people pick up their first drink and never struggle with addiction. And I’ve watched others, myself included, spiral out of control, desperate to stop but utterly unable to. No amount of reasoning, pleading, or willpower could change that.

I tried to quit countless times, but it never stuck. When people asked if I was going to stop drinking, my standard response was always the same: “Someday, just not today.”

But then came the night that changed everything.

I had just finished a three-day drinking binge and was supposed to go back to work the next morning. I knew I needed to stop—I had lost nearly everything—but I couldn’t figure out how. I drank until I passed out.

At some point in the middle of the night, I woke up and whispered into the darkness, “God, what does it take for me to quit?”

And then, I saw him.

My dad stood at the foot of my bed. He had passed away in 1991. This was October 2008. Great, now I’m hallucinating, I thought.

He looked at me and asked, “Do you want to know what life is really meant to be, instead of how you’ve been living?”

I just stared at him.

“Well?” he asked. “Do you want to know?”

I finally managed to say, “Yes, I do.”

He smiled, and then he was gone.

I sat up, unsettled. This was different. I wasn’t sure what to do next, so I went to my recliner, where my shot glass and bottle of vodka sat. Normally, I’d have poured myself a drink immediately. But I didn’t. I felt like hell, and I knew a shot would make me feel better—but for the first time, I didn’t want it.

I turned on the TV. The show Intervention was on—the exact moment when they were trying to convince someone to go to rehab.

Should I try again? Rehab didn’t work last time.

Just then, I accidentally knocked my wallet off the table. It hit the floor, and my insurance card slipped out. When I looked down, the back of the card was facing up: “Have a problem with drugs or alcohol? Call…”

I hesitated. It was 2 a.m. Maybe I’d call later.

Then I noticed something on the TV. Almost the exact same message. A hotline number.

This is weird.

Still unsure if this was real or if I was just drunk and dreaming, I decided to call.

A woman answered, her voice warm and kind. She asked for my insurance info and told me she’d find the best treatment option. She promised to call back within the hour. Before hanging up, she asked, “Can you promise me you won’t drink until I call back?”

To my own surprise, I said yes.

For the next hour, I just sat there, watching Intervention, waiting. My phone rang—it was her.

“I found you a bed in rehab. Can you be there in a few hours?”

“I can’t drive,” I admitted.

“Is there anyone who can bring you?”

She didn’t understand—I had burned every bridge. I had no one left.

“I’ll come when I’m sober enough to drive,” I said. Then I hung up.

She kept calling, but I ignored it.

At 4:30 a.m., I called my boss. “I can’t come in. I need to go to rehab.”

His response shocked me. “Good. If you had shown up today, I was going to fire you. I’ll get HR to set up your short-term disability.”

I had just bought myself some time.

Then came the worst four days of my life.

The withdrawal was brutal—shaking, sweating, vomiting, body aches, hallucinations. The stench of alcohol seeped out of my pores. My heart felt like it was going to give out. I truly thought I might die.

I saw my phone ringing but couldn’t bring myself to answer.

Finally, on the morning of October 22nd, I woke up weak but hungry.

I called the number that had been calling me nonstop. A man answered. “We were worried about you,” he said.

“I had to detox before I could drive to rehab,” I explained.

“If you can be here by 4 p.m., we still have a bed for you.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

At 3:45 p.m., I arrived—shaky but sober.

“We were worried,” they told me. “Detoxing without medical help is dangerous. You could have died.”

“I know,” I said. “But I had no other choice.”

They marked my sobriety date as October 22, 2008, the day I checked in. But I count it from October 18—the day I made the decision, the day I fought through detox alone. I earned those days.

Rehab gave me back my strength, my clarity, and my will to live. Since then, I’ve built a relationship with God and created the life I always wanted. I’ve repaired the relationships I once destroyed.

Some people will never see me as anything but an alcoholic. That’s okay. I don’t need to change their minds.

What matters is that I’ve changed my life. I’ve found people who love me for who I am now. I’ve learned how to be accountable, how to grow, how to live.

And since that night in 2008, I have never wanted to drink again.

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