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On Nov. 19, I reached 18 years of sobriety. It looks neat when written as a number, but it represents anything but a neat journey.
Thanksgiving has always been a complicated season for me. It has carried a mix of gratitude for the life I’ve fought for and grief for the parts I’ve had to lose along the way. As I look back on nearly two decades of recovery, what stands out is not a flawless success story. The simple truth is that sobriety didn’t hand me a perfect life. It handed me a chance. The time since has been a constant reminder that staying here takes effort, courage, and a willingness to keep choosing the hard thing.
When I first entered recovery, I was the young man with a 0.75 GPA, arrested 14 times in a single year, whispered about as someone who was “too far gone.” I survived an overdose that easily could have been the end. My restart wasn’t heroic; it began on a couch in Batesville with a suitcase and a GED, and with the uneasy realization that the life I had built around chaos had run out of road.
Those early sober years weren’t glamorous, but they were steady. Arkansas offered me opportunities I never expected. I had access to higher education, mentors who saw possibility in me, and a pathway to rebuild dignity inch by inch. Over time, I found myself speaking publicly about addiction, working in the treatment world, helping shape programs, and participating in statewide conversations about recovery. In those days, my story was something people wanted to hear.
But recovery is not a straight climb. It does not shield you from heartbreak or loss. And the chapters that came later tested me in ways I never imagined.
In my 13th year of recovery, I went through a divorce that unsettled the foundation I had spent years reconstructing. I lost my father during the pandemic, and I was pushed out of the very company I founded. Rumors circulated. People took sides. My reputation absorbed blows I did not earn. The narrative about me was shaped by voices louder than mine, and for a season, I found myself rebuilding quietly while others were convinced they understood my story.
It is one thing to rebuild your life after addiction. It is another thing entirely to rebuild it again, while sober, and feel every ounce of the hurt without numbing it.
But this is where gratitude enters.
I remarried. I became a better father. I rebuilt my life professionally. I, along with my wife, opened Peak State Recovery. All while my critics watched closely. I relearned what it means to stand firm in my own truth, without needing applause to validate it.
As Arkansas gathers for Thanksgiving, I find myself thinking not only about my journey, but about what it reveals about our state’s struggle with addiction. Substance use continues to take an enormous toll on our communities. The CDC estimates that only about one in 10 Americans who need treatment ever receive it, and rural states like ours face even greater challenges: limited access to detox and residential services, transportation barriers, and long waits for care. Behind every statistic sits a family at a holiday table hoping their loved one survives another year.
Yet recovery is possible. People rebuild. Families heal. Second chances ripple outward in ways that change entire communities. I am living proof of that. Eighteen years into this journey, I know that people can rise from circumstances that look impossible. I know grief and betrayal do not erase progress. I know compassion saves more lives than judgment ever will. And I know that sobriety, while not a guarantee against hardship, equips a person to walk through loss without losing themselves.
This Thanksgiving, my gratitude is not naïve or sentimental. It is grounded. It has been shaped by disappointment, resilience, and hard-won perspective.
I am grateful for my wife, who believes in me.
I am grateful for my daughters, who give me purpose.
I am grateful for the mentors, friends, and colleagues who stayed when the noise around me grew loud.
I am grateful even for the people who doubted me; they pushed me to build a life that is durable, meaningful, and honest.
To the families struggling this holiday season, do not give up on the person you love. To the individuals still fighting addiction, your story is not over. And to a state searching for solutions, please create a future where recovery is not the exception but the expectation, where every Arkansan has access to the care they deserve.
Eighteen years sober is not perfection. It is persistence. It is returning to yourself, again and again, even when the road bends. This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for every rough edge that shaped me, every opportunity to begin again, and every reminder that hope, especially in Arkansas, is worth protecting.
Christopher S. Dickie of Benton is founder and CEO of Peak State Recovery in Paron.
