The Slow Burn: Testimony, Tension, and Tapping Out

It was June of 2017 when I decided to get “clean.”

In Narcotics Anonymous, there’s a key distinction, one that hit home for me: “Alcohol is a drug.” That statement wasn’t just semantics; it was structure. Guardrails. A line in the sand that helped keep me grounded. Everyone’s recovery looks different, and for me, removing alcohol was part of the formula. When I drank, the brakes came off, and the chance of me “scoring” skyrocketed.

So I surrendered. Humbled myself. Sat in the back of a recovery room, heart pounding, and admitted I was powerless.

Now, I already had a God of my understanding…but let’s be honest: my life didn’t exactly reflect the bumper sticker. I was playing the role, telling half-truths (which, let’s be real, are just lies in costume), and trying to polish my image while hiding the rot underneath. People-pleasing was my cardio. I cared more about what people thought of me than what God said about me, and most of the time, folks weren’t thinking about me at all.

But on July 5, 2015, I met Jesus. Not in the performative, fire-tunnel, revival-tent sort of way I grew up with…but for real. If we rewind the tape, you’ll see a kid caught between a charismatic church and a chaotic childhood. There were a lot of feelings in those pews, but not a lot of theology. And feelings? Feelings can be a liar if they aren’t tethered to truth.

My best friend’s dad was a preacher, so I logged more hours in youth camps and conferences than I can count. I think the leaders were well-intentioned, but we lacked spiritual discipline. And if your theology’s off, your whole worldview bends with it.

When my foundation cracked, I drifted.

I was a musician, an altar boy with a set of drumsticks, and I believe now that’s how God kept me close during those early storms. I’d been in the system: CPS, foster homes, bouncing around until my grandma got custody. She was my anchor, even if her body was failing her. Hooked up to oxygen machines, fighting COPD, and barely present, she still did her best to love me.

But I was performative. I learned to shine for approval. Play the part. Entertain the crowd. And somewhere along the way, I lost who I really was.

Fast-forward twenty years and I became the one thing I swore I’d never be: a drug addict.

“Cocaine is a hell of a drug,” sure sounds catchy until you’re sweating in a parking lot waiting on a plug that may never show. That lifestyle is slow death disguised as fast living.

Then, out of nowhere, a friend invited me to church.

I didn’t know it then, but God was lighting a flame. I went. Did some bumps in the bathroom mid-service. But something stirred. When my wife asked if I wanted to come back, I said yes without hesitation.

The second time I showed up, God did what I couldn’t do.

It wasn’t the stained glass or the steeple. It wasn’t an emotional high. It was communion. Not bread and wine, but the deep, sacred kind that connects a broken sinner to a holy Savior. I heard the call to follow Jesus. And for the first time in my life, I saw Him not just as a historical figure or a cosmic genie…but as King. As Brother. As Savior.

And still, it got worse before it got better.

Once my eyes opened, I saw my sin. I felt the weight. But I still tried to fix it myself….through works, volunteering, performance, leadership. None of it bridged the gap. I was still trying to earn what had already been given freely.

It took nearly two years before I finally tapped out of my way of living.

Relapse is part of my story. But redemption is too.

And by God’s grace, I haven’t touched that “booger sugar” in almost a decade.

P.S.

At Brolo, we’re not here to impress the suits. We’re here for the real ones. The broken. The rebuilding. The searching. Whether on a porch with a $5 stick or in the back of a smoky lounge with a $20+ blend, if you’re lighting up to lean in, you’re one of us.

Because healing happens slowly…one puff, one prayer, one honest conversation at a time.

This is The Slow Burn.