He was 30-something. A young dad with a little boy who worshipped him, watched his every move like he hung the moon. His son needed him—really needed him—in ways not every kid does. He had challenges that required more patience, more attention, more everything, and his dad showed up for it all. Every bit of it. And the kid adored him for it.
If you knew him, you’d hear about that boy within minutes. Didn’t matter what we were talking about—recovery, work, life—his son came up. He was his life. His face would light up like a neon sign just saying the kid’s name. That boy thought his dad could do anything, like he was the strongest, bravest man in the world. And in so many ways, he was.
But addiction doesn’t care about any of that. It doesn’t care that you’re someone’s hero. That you’ve got a heart of gold. That you’re a good worker, a good friend, or the best damn dad on the planet.
Addiction waits in the shadows, patient as a predator, whispering lies when you’re most vulnerable. And he carried those whispers like weights in his chest. I know, because he told me. I saw it firsthand.
He did the hard stuff. He was willing to put in the work, dig deep, and face some heavy shit. But when he used, he didn’t just dabble. He went to bad places, places he had no business being, to get things he had no business getting. He was playing with fire, and a lot of us knew it. He knew it. We all knew how this story could end if he kept taking those chances. It didn’t matter. The whispers in his head turned into screams, and he’d go.
He told me he didn’t know why he couldn’t stop. Why he couldn’t stay. “I’m a piece of shit,” he’d say. “My son deserves better.” But God, he wasn’t. He was trying. He wanted to be the man his son deserved, but addiction doesn’t loosen its grip just because you love someone. It doesn’t loosen its grip just because you hate yourself.
One night, he decided to use. Just one more time. That’s how we lie to ourselves—one more time. But using again when you’re battling this disease is like playing Russian roulette. Every time you pick up, you’re spinning the chamber of a revolver, knowing there’s a bullet in there somewhere. You tell yourself it won’t be this time; the odds are in my favor, but addiction doesn’t give a fuck. It wants you dead.
So, on the coldest night of the year, he lost. They found him outside, unconscious, barely breathing, almost frozen to death. They rushed him to the hospital, worked on him as much as they could. But they couldn’t save him.
Dead.
And now this little boy—the one who thought his dad was a superhero—has no dad at all. That’s permanent. There’s no do-over. No apology that can fix this. That’s what addiction does.
I’ve been sober for 15 years, and I’ve seen this too many times. Too many kids, too many parents, too many brothers, sisters, and friends taken by this disease. They say in recovery you have to step over the bodies, but I don’t want to. God, I don’t want to.
I’m lucky. That could’ve been me. I’ve been in that headspace. I’ve felt that shame, that self-loathing, that hopelessness so heavy it feels like you’re being buried alive. I’ve heard those whispers and let them turn into screams. And I’ve used to try to make it stop.
But I’m still here. I get to be a dad to my daughters, a husband to my wife, a son to my parents, and a brother to my siblings. I get to wake up every day and try again. And that’s a gift I don’t take lightly, because it could’ve been me they found that night.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling—please ask for help. I know it feels impossible. I know the shame feels like it’s tattooed on your skin, but you are loved. There are people rooting for you—your family, your friends, people who don’t even know you but want you to live. There’s no shame in asking for help. The only shame is in giving up before you do.
Today, I step over another body. It doesn’t hurt less, no matter how many times it happens. I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m grateful. Grateful that I’m still here, still sober. But fuck, I don’t want to lose anyone else.
Rest easy, buddy. I hope you’ve found peace. You were loved. You were so, so loved.
SOBER NOT SUBTLE: Through personal stories, advocacy, and connection, Sober Not Subtle is committed to smashing stigma around addiction and mental health.
Jason Mayo is passionate about advocating for people living with substance use disorder and mental health issues. His goal is to use humor, creativity, and lived experience to impact the world positively.
RECOVERY PODCASTLAND: Sober Dad Crew is a podcast focused on sobriety, recovery, fatherhood, parenting, music, food, tattoos, & more. Sober Dad Crew is an independent, DIY production created by Stephen Kimball, who writes, records, and produces the podcast.
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