The Night I Hit the Wall
It was the end of June 2013. I was 35 years old, living in a basement apartment with my cat, Stella, who was both my reluctant roommate and my only witness. Most nights, I locked myself in the bathroom, convinced that would somehow hide the cigarette smoke from my landlord upstairs. Drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, Stella crouched in the sink like a judgmental little loaf, eyeing me with deep concern.
My life was a train wreck in slow motion. I had an art space; a sad little corner of untouched materials and guilt. What had once been a non-negotiable creative oasis had mocked me from every apartment I’d lived in since college. I hadn’t created anything in years, but I clung to it like a life raft while drinking took the wheel. Over a year of failed quits had me lying to everyone, mostly myself, until Canada Day weekend when my family swooped in. Job gone, apartment ditched, all my stuff in storage, friends long ghosted, I washed up at my parents’ place, two hours north of the city’s chaos, with a mountain of debt and an otherwise blank slate.
I should’ve felt broken. Instead, I felt light. Like I’d finally dropped a backpack full of bricks.
The Identity That Owned Me
Art was my first love. I hoarded crayons like sacred artifacts, built Lego empires with obsessive precision. But it was never just fun. Even as a kid, I wasn’t splashing paint to play; I was chasing good. Worth lived in mastery, and I craved it. I have a childhood memory of drawing a doll next to my mom’s elegant sketch. Mine was a feral scribble, and I burned with shame. Even then, I was drafting a story that creativity wasn’t joy, it was currency.
High school fed the beast. My art teacher’s rare wow on a project hit like cocaine and suddenly, I was an artist. Nikon slung over my shoulder; I shot my friends’ angsty teen dramas like I was pitching for Rolling Stone. Darkroom hours felt like magic; images rising from the chemicals was proof that I mattered. But the rush turned sour. Society’s art is not a job mantra lit a fire of defiance. Every piece I turned out had to scream I’m valid. And the wins, those fleeting, slot-machine highs, kept me hooked as the joy bled out.
The Question That Rewrote My Script
Early sobriety was so raw. My parents found me an addiction counsellor who was zero judgment and all ears. I unloaded it all; the drinking, the isolation, the suffocating loop of wanting to make something (of myself) but choking every time.
She listened, then dropped a bomb: Is making art still fun for you?
Fun? It was a prison.
Then why do it?
I blinked. Had anyone ever suggested I didn’t have to (other than my parents)? If they had, I didn’t hear it. But in that rock-bottom moment, her words hit, and I understood – I had a choice.
Freedom in the Fallout
Sobriety didn’t mean a triumphant return to the easel. I didn’t touch my supplies; they stayed in storage with the wreckage of my old life. Instead, I savoured the quiet. No shoulds, no artist’s ego, just space. I wandered into nature, stumbled into community, and found a clarity I’d lost in the bottle and the brush.
That void didn’t stay empty. It grew into a life I’d never scripted; mentorship, purpose, a career blending my scars and my strengths. Over a decade sober now, I’ve led addiction treatment centres, earned a masters in healthcare administration, and turned my fine arts degree into a lens for healing, not proving. I didn’t need to be the artist to be enough. I just needed to be.
What This Teaches Me as a Guide
That surrender – art, alcohol, the whole damn mask – was my crash course. Now, as an addiction counsellor and leadership mentor, I see it’s potential everywhere. Clients come to me chained to their own labels: the perfect parent, the ruthless exec, and the free spirit who’s anything but. When those crack, the fear kicks in: Who am I without this?
I’ve lived that terror, gripping artist till my knuckles bled, even as it dragged me under. It’s why I do this work. Addiction thrives in rigidity and so does burnout. I help people, recovering humans, emerging leaders, spot the chains and break them. Not to rebuild some shiny new self, but to play again. To chase curiosity, not approval. Whether it’s a family navigating relapse or a healthcare team facing change, I bring the same truth: you are whole even without the performance.
Art, Unshackled
At five years sober, I picked up a paintbrush. Not to be anything, just to explore. Now, it’s a sidekick, not my master. I’m hooked on Neurographic Drawing; the scribbly lines that untangle my mind, with no pressure to succeed. (More on that in an upcoming post, it’s a fascinating practice.) I weave creativity into sessions with my clients too: playful expression, intuitive insights with tarot, and mindful reflections through shapes and colours. Not for results, but for discovery. It’s all play now, no stakes.
The Craft of Living
Letting go is not a one-off, it’s a practice. Even writing this, my mind is spinning tales of Counsellor or Leader, and I’m catching it, loosening the grip. That’s the gig: spot the trap, choose the free fall. It’s messy, but it’s mine, and it’s where the magic hides.
Quitting art didn’t kill my spark, it lit a bigger fire. Recovery, leadership, life, they’re not about nailing the role. This life is about showing up, raw and ready, for whatever’s next. We’re all artists of the unscripted. Let’s make it a damn good story.
Struggling with your own mask? Let’s talk!