By David M., 47, Houston, Texas
A journey of spiritual and mindful recovery
Some people hit rock bottom with a bang. Mine was quiet—almost invisible.
There wasn’t a final, dramatic loss. No public meltdown. No arrest. Just a slow crumbling of the man I used to be.
I was gambling daily—sometimes only small amounts, but always with the same desperation. It became my ritual: wake up, pray, gamble, lie, repeat.
I told myself I still had control. But when I caught myself placing bets during church service, hiding my phone behind a hymnal—I knew I had lost something far bigger than money.
I had lost myself.
The Wake-Up Call
I didn’t want to admit I had a problem, especially not in front of my family or my congregation. I had always been the one who prayed for others. Offered encouragement. Looked “put together.”
But in truth, I was worn thin. I had lost thousands of dollars. I was distant from my wife. I couldn’t look my teenage son in the eye.
One night, after another lie and another hidden loss, I sat alone in my truck outside a gas station. I didn’t have a plan. Just a notebook on the passenger seat and a pen I nearly threw away.
But something in me said:
“Write. Say something honest, even if it’s only to yourself.”
So I did. The first sentence I wrote was:
“God, I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
And that became the beginning of everything new.
Journaling as a Mirror
Writing didn’t fix me overnight. But it helped me face myself.
Every morning, before I touched my phone or opened a betting app, I forced myself to write a single page—no matter how messy.
Some days it was just: “I want to gamble. I feel weak. I’m scared.”
Other days, it turned into prayers, letters to my younger self, or memories of the father I promised I’d be.
Over time, I realized gambling wasn’t just a bad habit. It was how I avoided pain, avoided silence, avoided the truth.
Journaling helped me name things. And when I could name them, I could pray through them.
Faith Wasn’t a Shortcut—It Was My Compass
I didn’t have a dramatic burning-bush moment. My healing didn’t come all at once. But what faith gave me was a reason to believe I was still worth saving.
In my journal, I started ending every entry with a prayer—sometimes whispered, sometimes written through tears:
- “Help me sit in this pain without running.”
- “Help me forgive myself for yesterday.”
- “Help me believe that freedom is possible.”
I started reading scripture again—not to punish myself, but to remind myself of who I was underneath the addiction.
And slowly, I started rebuilding trust. With God. With myself. With my family.
The Power of Forgiveness—Especially My Own
Forgiveness was the hardest part. Not from others—but forgiving myself.
It felt arrogant to even ask for it. I had lied. I had stolen from our emergency fund. I had chosen gambling over moments with my son.
But one Sunday morning, our pastor said:
“Grace is not earned. It’s received. And if God still calls you by name, then so should you.”
That hit me like a wave.
Forgiveness didn’t mean forgetting. It meant choosing to move forward without dragging shame as a companion. It meant saying to myself:
“You did those things. But you are no longer that man.”
What My Recovery Looks Like Today
I haven’t gambled in 20 months.
Every morning, I still journal. Every Sunday, I still show up to church—not hiding anymore, but present.
I pray before I check my phone. I pray when I’m tempted. And I pray in gratitude—not because I’m “fixed,” but because I’m free.
I’ve joined a small group for men in recovery. I speak once a month at a local support meeting.
And most importantly—I’ve shown my son what it looks like to make mistakes, take responsibility, and keep showing up.
To Anyone Walking a Spiritual Path in Recovery…
You don’t need to be perfect to come back home to yourself. You just need to be honest.
Start with one prayer. One journal entry. One moment of silence where you say, “God, I’m here.”
Healing doesn’t require perfection. It requires presence.
And grace, my friend? Grace still has your name on it.
Looking for tools to start your own spiritual and mindful recovery?
Browse High Stakes Healing for conversation guides, support tools, and more stories like David’s.
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