The Beginning of My Reset

For a long time, my life looked solid from the outside.

I was working at a coal mine in the Elk Valley in British Columbia. Good money. Structure. Long days. Real responsibility. I showed up every day — even when I probably shouldn’t have — and I kept things moving.

But underneath that, things were quietly sliding.

I was drinking every night. At first it felt manageable, almost routine. A 26 of whiskey would last three days. Then it didn’t. Eventually a 40 was gone in two. Nothing exploded all at once — it just became normal in a way that shouldn’t have been.

I still worked every day, but I started being late. More than once. That mattered to me. I’ve always taken pride in showing up and doing the job right, and seeing cracks form there was hard to ignore.

Eventually, pretending I had it handled wasn’t an option anymore.

I asked for help.

I asked my employer, Teck, for help — and I received it. Not judgment. Not punishment. Actual support. That moment didn’t fix everything, but it cracked the door open and gave me a chance to choose something different.

I started sobriety on June 8, 2024.

Before rehab, I was living out of a motorhome in the Elk Valley. That time alone in the mountains mattered more than I realized at the time. It slowed everything down. It forced quiet. It made it harder to avoid the truth. Somewhere in that stillness, I understood that I couldn’t keep living the way I was and expect things to improve.

Rehabilitation took me to Kamloops. I stayed in the rehab building there. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic — it was uncomfortable, humbling, and necessary. There were no shortcuts, no clever insights that fixed everything. Just repetition, honesty, and showing up day after day.

While I was in rehab, my wife left.

That moment hurt in a way I don’t think I can fully put into words. It became painfully clear that my changes had come too late to save the marriage. I wish I had seen what was happening sooner. I wish I had acted before the damage was already done.

But wishing doesn’t change anything.

That loss, combined with sobriety, created an intensity I didn’t know where to put. There was grief. Stress. Fear. And a constant pressure — the kind that can either push you forward or break you apart.

For me, it became fuel.

In January 2025, I left the coal mine. That chapter closed quietly, without anger or blame. Shortly after, the idea for Rocky Mountain Rhythm started to form.

Not as a business plan.
Not as a brand.
But as a way to survive forward.

I kept coming back to the same idea: rhythm. The daily patterns we fall into without noticing. The habits that carry us forward — or slowly pull us under. I realized that recovery wasn’t about one big decision, but about rebuilding my days piece by piece. Morning routines. Movement. Discipline. Honesty. Momentum.

A reset isn’t about erasing your past.
It’s about choosing how you move through what comes next.

Rocky Mountain Rhythm came out of that pressure — the kind that shapes you if you let it. It’s rooted in discipline, movement, and building a life that actually fits, instead of numbing yourself into one that doesn’t.

During this same period, I also started developing my own approach to recovery. Not something clinical or prescriptive, but something grounded in structure, responsibility, and rebuilding daily rhythm. Writing became part of that process. What started as notes turned into structure, and eventually into a self-help book that I’m still working through.

I’m not ready to unpack that here yet. That will come later, in its own time, and in its own words. For now, it’s enough to say that Rocky Mountain Rhythm and that writing grew from the same place — the need to build something solid out of chaos.

This isn’t a story about redemption.
It’s a story about consequences, clarity, and choosing to keep going.

If you’re here reading this, you’re not alone.
And this is just the beginning.