You are sitting in a quiet room. You might be staring at a wall, or perhaps your phone, feeling a weight that’s hard to put into words. Maybe you’ve just come from a doctor’s office or a therapist’s couch. You heard the right words: terms like
It’s 2 AM. The house is quiet, but your mind is loud. The cravings are hitting, or maybe it’s just that heavy, familiar weight of isolation. In those moments, the world feels very small. You reach for your phone, looking for anything to tether you to the "
You’ve done the work. You’ve sat through the sessions, written in the journals, and cleared the house. You have a plan. But somehow, it’s not clicking. You still feel that heavy tug in your chest at 2 AM. You still feel like you’re walking a tightrope
My name is Burk Jackson. I’ve been in recovery for 31 years, and I’ll be honest with you — it hasn’t been a straight line. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve stumbled. I’ve had moments where I wasn’t sure I’d make it through. I’m not going to pretend otherwise, because pretending otherwise isn’t why I’m here.
Nobody talks about Tuesday afternoon. They talk about rock bottom. They talk about surrender, about the moment you finally raise your hand in a meeting room and say your name. They talk about anniversaries and milestones — one day, one month, one year, thirty-one years.
My name is Burk Jackson. I've been in recovery for 31 years, and I'll be honest with you — it hasn't been a straight line. I've made mistakes. I've stumbled. I've had moments where I wasn't sure I'd make it through. I'm not going to pretend otherwise, because pretending otherwise isn't why I'm here.