From the Archives: "When You Keep Coming Back and It Still Hasn’t Clicked"

This one is for the frustrated—who keep coming back

I reread this recently and realized I still believe every word.

I wrote this essay almost exactly a year ago—right after hearing someone in a meeting say, “It’s been years, and I just can’t get this thing.”

I felt their pain and wanted to write something for the ones who keep trying.

If you’ve got a friend who needs a reminder to stay in the game, forward this to them.

If you’re the one who needs it, here you go:

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When You Keep Coming Back and It Still Hasn’t Clicked

You came back. Again.

That alone says more than you think.

Maybe it’s been months since anyone saw your face on a meeting screen. Maybe it’s been years. But there you were—raw, tired, blinking through the screen, voice trembling, saying what you didn’t want to say again:

“I just can’t get this thing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve tried so hard.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

And I sat there wanting to reach through the screen and say something that didn’t sound like a bumper sticker or a threat.

Not “you don’t want it bad enough.”
Not “you’re doing it wrong.”
Not even “keep coming back,” though I hope you do.

What I wanted to say is this: You’re not broken. You’re just stuck.

And stuck isn’t permanent.

Stuck isn’t the end.

Stuck is just where hope gets quieter.

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You’re not the only one who’s come back with your hands in the air saying, “I give up.” I’ve watched people with twenty years in and people with twenty minutes both reach that exact same breaking point.

And if I could give you anything right now, it wouldn’t be a pep talk. It’d be a breath.

One long, deep, shame-free breath.

Because I know you’ve been holding it for too long.

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Some of us get this thing the first time. Some of us don’t.

I don’t know why. I really don’t. And anyone who says they do is either lucky or lying. But I do know this: wanting it isn’t the whole story. Trying hard isn’t the whole story. It’s not about how bad you want it. It’s about what you believe you deserve when you do.

You can want sobriety with everything you have. But if you secretly believe you’re not worth it? That you’ll fail anyway? That it won’t change anything? Then you’re carrying weights that nobody sees.

This isn’t about willpower. It’s about wiring.

If you’ve relapsed over and over, it’s not because you’re weak. It’s because alcohol was wired into your solution system. It was your off switch.
Your numb button.
Your courage pill.
Your social cue.
Your grief suppressant.
Your reward.
Your companion.
Your relief.
You can’t just delete all of that in one swing.

Here’s what I’d say to the version of you that showed up crying on the screen:

Of course you can’t get this thing. Yet. You’re trying to reprogram decades of coping with nothing but raw hope and shame beating on your back. Of course it feels impossible.

But what if you gave yourself something more?

What if you paused the punishment and picked up some curiosity?

What if instead of asking “Why can’t I get this?”, you asked “What do I still believe alcohol is doing for me?”

Not why you’re failing—but what you’re still reaching for when you reach for the bottle.

Because recovery isn’t just about stopping drinking. It’s about learning why you started in the first place, and why it still feels like a valid option on day 1, or day 1001.

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I won’t lie to you—this isn’t easy. But I’ve seen people who couldn’t put together three sober days for years finally string together six months. Then a year. Then two.

One of my favorite things to witness in recovery happens after you’ve spent a few years in the same community. The people you honestly didn’t think would ever get it suddenly, well… get it. And you don’t notice it as it happens. You can’t. It just slips up on you. One day during check-in time, where people put in their day counts or milestones, you notice someone post “6 months tomorrow” or “I hit one year last Sunday!!” And you suddenly see the name that posted it and you’re taken aback.

Wait. What? THAT dude? Wow. Way to go, man.

Next thing you know the former chronic relapsers are leading meetings. They’re inspiring the ones coming in behind them, or the ones who keep relapsing in front of them. Witnessing that transformation, and the possibility of somehow inspiring it, is what keeps me writing. It’s why I lead a recovery group. It’s why at age 55 I’m studying to be a substance abuse counselor. The change in them is inexplicable, but no less miraculous to see, much less experience firsthand.

And you know what changed with those relapsers?

Not their desire.

Not their intelligence.

Not their strength.

They just got tired of trying the same way.

They stopped trying to win an argument with themselves and started listening to themselves. They stopped hiding their real pain and started putting language to it. They stopped thinking of relapse as proof of their brokenness and started seeing it as information.

They started asking better questions. Not just “How do I stop?” but “What am I avoiding?”

Not just “What’s wrong with me?” but “What happened to me?”

Because pain will teach lessons pride refuses to learn.

Most importantly, in my opinion—they never stopped trying.

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If you’re still struggling, maybe it’s not because you don’t want it enough. If wanting equaled having, then we’d all have everything. Maybe it’s because you’re still treating it like a performance instead of a process.

Recovery isn’t earned through effort. It’s discovered through honesty.

And sometimes the most honest thing you can say is:
“I need help rewiring my life, not just my drinking.”

Because recovery isn’t about doing it right.
It’s about not quitting when it goes wrong.

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You’re allowed to be frustrated.

You’re allowed to be heartbroken.

You’re allowed to be exhausted.

But you are not disqualified.

If you’re reading this, or you showed up to that meeting, or you whispered, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” then hear me now:

Nothing is wrong with you.

Something happened to you.

And healing from that is messy, nonlinear, and slow as hell sometimes.

But it is possible. Read that again: it is possible. It is possible for you.

I don’t say that as a slogan. I say it as a man who has stared at bottles, at bongs, at nothing—and said, “I don’t know how to do this,” and still somehow stayed sober one more night.

That night added up.

They always do.

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So here’s my prayer for you, oh weary one:

May today be the day you stop asking what’s wrong with you
and start asking what’s worth healing in you.

May today be the day you stop seeing relapse as failure
and start seeing it as information.

May today be the day you believe
that maybe, just maybe, you’re not disqualified after all.

You’re just still in it.

And being in it still counts.