RELATIONSHIPS AND RECOVERY

If being in structured sober living means having a good laugh in the kitchen—over burnt toast, inside jokes, or the absurdity of early mornings in general- then maybe recovery isn’t just about abstinence. Maybe it’s about rediscovering the small, sacred moments that stitch a life together. The kitchen becomes more than a place to eat; it’s a place to belong. A place where laughter echoes louder than shame, and where the clatter of dishes is a kind of music that says, “You’re not alone.”

Right Path House offers riding lessons and one of the women started the lessons thinking that "this is stupid, there's not much to riding a horse." She trotted for the first time yesterday and fell off, albeit in slow motion, and shared her thoughts with us in the kitchen. "There's something more to riding horses," than she thought. The horse walked away. She got right back on. She was only mad at herself for getting so dirty. What a metaphor I thought for getting sober. So many people think they'll get sobriety by osmosis. If I attend enough meetings, if I hang out with sober friends. Being and staying sober takes lessons-we have to learn how to go to the movies sober, how to show up to dinner, sober, after a stressful day at work. We can't fake it and we have to let people know when our brain is getting loud because we need a quiet brain, regulatable emotions and a handle on getting back our sanity every time it leaves. It's active work, staying sober.

If it means having someone to share a light lunch with—someone who knows your story without needing the whole backstory—then it’s also about connection. Not the kind that demands a performance or anything resembling perfection, but the quiet companionship of two people who’ve both been through the fire and are still showing up. A sandwich, a plate of French fries, split between two souls can be more nourishing than any gourmet meal, because it’s served with presence, with care, with the unspoken understanding that healing happens in relationship. Especially if the meal was made with love.

And if it means being held accountable when I was running riot—when my choices were chaotic, my mind was loud, and my spirit was frayed—then it’s about love with boundaries. It’s about someone seeing me, the mess, and saying, “I won’t let you disappear.” Structured sober living doesn’t coddle; it calls you forward. It doesn’t shame; it sharpens. It’s the kind of container that says, “You’re capable of more, and I’ll walk with you until you believe it too.”

Because in exchange for all of that—the laughter, the lunches, the hard truths—I’ve been given a life I never dreamed possible. A life with rhythm and meaning. A life where I can trust myself again. Where mornings aren’t dreaded or avoided altogether, and nights aren’t numbed and shortened. Where I can build, create, and love without the weight of destruction trailing behind me. Structured sober living isn’t just a place—it’s a portal. And stepping through it, I found not just sobriety, but a self I thought I’d lost.