09/29/2025
What Recovery Means to Me – Reflections for Recovery Month 💜
By: Haley Zankman
When I stop to think about what recovery means to me, I often feel at a loss for words—because, in truth, there is no simple answer.
In the beginning, recovery drew a very deep line in the sand. It meant life or death. I was 22 years old and had been homeless for most of my teenage and young adult years. In and out of countless institutions, I had effectively poured gasoline on every bridge I had ever built. I remember sitting on the sidewalk, watching families walk by, and wondering why I felt so fundamentally different from them. Even with the very best of intentions, I could never show up for what mattered most. Eventually, what once mattered faded away entirely. Recovery meant I might have a shot at rediscovering who I was—and maybe, just maybe, sleeping in a warm bed again.
On October 11th, 2025, I’ll celebrate eight years sober. I still remember a therapist in treatment once asking me to write a letter to myself five years into the future, describing what I hoped life would look like. The only thing I could think to write was that I hoped I’d be happy. Looking back, I severely underestimated myself.
Recovery means I am once again a daughter to my mother and father, their worst fears finally eased. It means my sister knows she has a lifelong cheerleader, and my closest friends know that when I say I’ll be there, I will.
Recovery means freedom of choice. While “choosing recovery” has been anything but linear—messy, complicated, and difficult to describe—making that choice has opened every other door I once thought was closed. My bucket list grows smaller each day, and I’ve been given the privilege of using my experience to help others. I am an active member of a community I love and cherish. I feel deeply purposeful and carry the belief that as long as I’m sober, everything is workable. I can show up to any situation, no matter the circumstance, and know I will never be alone again. Recovery means I choose honesty when I want to lie, and compassion when I want to retreat. It teaches me patience.
Today, I am the first in my family to go to graduate school. I am happily married to someone I’ve never seen drink or use. I have a garden in the backyard that smells of fresh tomatoes—tomatoes I just might turn into sauce someday. And like I wrote in that letter so many years ago, I am happy. When I look in the mirror now, I can love the person staring back at me, despite the years I spent trying to destroy her.
I am profoundly grateful for one more chance. Recovery has been worth every moment.
It may sound simple, but the truth is this: recovery means everything to me.
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