I've Crossed Worse

There’s always been a chasm.

Between who I was and who I wanted to be. Between the version of myself I could see in moments of clarity and the one I kept defaulting to when the darkness came rushing back in.

It’s never been a narrow crack in the pavement. No, it’s a canyon. A wide, cavernous, anxiety-ridden, fear-soaked gulf that stretches out between “what is” and “what could be.” And for a long time—especially during my drinking years—that space was enough to stop me cold.

I’d stand at the edge of the possible and look across at the man I wanted to become. He was whole. Honest. Brave. Clear-eyed. Free. But between him and me? A fog. A wall of uncertainty. The suffocating smoke of shame and the long shadows of regret. It felt impossible. Like trying to leap from a crumbling shore to a distant island with nothing but my own trembling legs to carry me.

And more often than not, I’d turn back.

Because fear, when it has history to draw from, becomes persuasive. It reminds you of all the times you tried and failed. All the promises you broke. All the people you hurt. It pulls the file on your past and slams it down on the desk of your soul, saying, “This is who you are. Don’t kid yourself.”

And for a while, I listened.

I believed the chasm was permanent.

I believed I didn’t have what it took to cross it.

So I sat on the edge and drank. Or ran. Or lied. Or performed. I did whatever it took to distract myself from the echo of the life I could have if only I were brave enough to leap.

But here’s what I eventually learned—through blood and tears and repetition and grace:

The chasm isn’t meant to be avoided.

It’s meant to be crossed.

And the way you cross it is not by staring harder at what you’re afraid of—but by looking back at what you’ve already done.

Because as much as I hated that chasm, it’s not the first one I’ve faced.

There have been others.

The distance between rock bottom and asking for help.

The distance between “I have a problem” and “I’m ready to change.”

The distance between relapse and returning.

The distance between shame and self-forgiveness.

Each one felt like it might kill me.

Each one felt like the end.

And yet—here I am.

Somehow, I made it across.

And that’s what I have to remind myself of every time I face a new leap.

I look back first.

Not to relive my failures—but to remember my resurrections.

To remember the nights I didn’t drink, even when every cell in my body wanted to.

To remember the truths I told, even when my voice shook.

To remember the relationships that were restored—not instantly, not perfectly, but piece by piece.

To remember the man I used to be, and the man I’ve become since.

That is the evidence.

That is the bridge.

That is what gives me the guts to turn back around, face the chasm again, and run toward it with everything I’ve got.

Because I’ve learned that fear can’t build bridges—but memory can.

Courage can.

Faith can.

Sometimes I forget how far I’ve come until I’m forced to remember. Like when I walk into a room and don’t feel the urge to lie to make people like me. Or when I get through a hard day without numbing. Or when I hear someone else tell their story, and I realize that the version of me who would’ve run from that truth is no longer in charge.

That’s growth.

That’s crossing.

That’s proof that the chasm is not impassable.

It’s just intimidating.

And it should be. Because change is intimidating.

Becoming is not for the faint of heart.

Transformation is not a gentle process. It requires the kind of honesty that strips you down. The kind of surrender that breaks you open. The kind of willingness that feels like madness—until it works.

And when it works?

It’s miraculous.

Not always loud. Not always public. But miraculous nonetheless.

So now, when I face a new version of the chasm—when I see the distance between who I am and who I’m being called to be—I know what to do.

I look back first.

I remember.

I gather the evidence of grace, of progress, of second chances that stuck.

And then I leap.

Not because I’m fearless.

But because I’m convinced that fear doesn’t get to decide how my story ends.

And every single time I make that leap, I land a little closer to the man I want to be.

Not perfect. Not finished. But freer. Truer. More whole.

So if you’re standing at your own edge today—facing a change you don’t think you can make, staring across at a life you want but can’t imagine living—hear me:

You’ve crossed chasms before.

Look back.

Remember who you were.

Remember who you are now.

And let that be the proof that you can cross this one, too.

Don’t let the fog fool you.

The other side is real.

And so is the you who gets there.