I would be deeply remiss if I made this post sound like it marked just another day. It isn’t. This day carries a weight, a meaning far beyond anything I could ever claim credit for. Because the significance of today is not a celebration of my own will or effort—but a living testimony to the unfailing power of God, His guiding hand, His mercy, and His never-ending grace.

Ten years ago today—April 10, 2015—I woke up without a drink in my system for the first time in nearly 17 years. I was in a detox hospital in Long Beach, California, weighing barely 135 pounds. My body was breaking down—pancreatitis, a swollen liver, and a relentless obsession to keep drinking. I had reached a level of hopelessness I never thought possible. I had been through detox before, even treatment, but this time was different. This was truly rock bottom. Twice divorced and clinging to a third, fragile marriage, my life was an exhausting cycle of waking up, drinking, passing out, and living through chaos.

After 10 days in medical detox, my body had started to recover—but my mind was still screaming. The obsession hadn’t left me. The cravings still clawed at my thoughts. I remember praying desperately for help, convinced that I wouldn't make it. That’s when a nurse—someone I barely remember—came in with news that would alter my life: there was an open bed, fully covered, at a place called the Anaheim Lighthouse.

I didn’t hesitate.

The Lighthouse became my home for nearly 60 days, and it laid the foundation for my recovery. But the moment that changed me the most happened on that very first day. After intake, I was shown to a room—meant for two, though I was alone for the time being. I emptied my pockets onto the nightstand and headed to dinner. When I returned, something had appeared that hadn’t been there before: a Celebrate Recovery Bible, sitting right on that same nightstand. Taped to it was a simple Post-it note that read, “To the next guy.”

I was too wrapped up in my pain to fully grasp the significance in that moment—but over the years, I’ve come to see it for what it was: a message from God Himself. Whether that Bible was truly left by a stranger or placed there by divine timing, I’ll never know for sure. But what I do know is this—God was with me. He had been all along.

So much life has happened in these ten years. I’ve built and lost a business, and started another. I’ve mourned the passing of my father—a grief that continues to ache—but I carry peace knowing he saw my recovery, and that he made it home to Heaven. I’ve watched my children grow, and I’ve watched God work in and through every season. I moved from California to Texas, a change that once would’ve terrified me, but that I now see as part of God’s design.

Change used to feel like loss. Now I see it as opportunity. And in many ways, that’s what recovery is all about: choosing to change, choosing to believe that we can be transformed. I’ve spent these years trying to understand what makes some of us embrace the light, while others remain stuck in the shadows. I don’t always get it right. There have been plenty of failures along the way. But I remain committed to doing my part—to lift others up, to carry a message of hope, to let God use my story for His purpose.

I am far from perfect. Even today, I fall short of the spiritual principles I strive to live by. But here’s the miracle: I’m still here. I’ve been given another chance. And I don’t take that lightly, especially knowing so many others haven’t been given the same.

One day, each of us will leave this earth. That day may come sooner than we expect. When it does, what we’ve chosen to do with this life will echo into eternity. Have we received the gift of salvation? Have we allowed Christ to transform us? Or have we walked past the open door He laid before us?

My prayer—especially today, but every day—is that we say yes. That we invite Christ into our lives. That we surrender to His mercy and allow Him to use our brokenness, our story, our scars—to help someone else find the light.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in ten years of grace—it’s this: God wastes nothing.