They tell us to count days.
Thirty. Ninety. A year.
And I get it—we need milestones.
We need to know we’re not stuck where we used to be.
But if I’m honest?
Some days I wake up on Day 41 and feel like it’s Day Zero.
Spiritually bankrupt. Emotionally hungover. Still full of fear.
Still dodging surrender like it’s poison.
I’ve had stretches of abstinence with no real recovery.
And I’ve had moments of deep return while standing in the ashes of relapse.
So yeah—I count my days.
But I’ve learned not to trust the number.
Because recovery isn’t built on how many days I’ve racked up.
It’s built on whether I return today.
Return to truth.
Return to prayer.
Return to God.
Return to action.
Return to my plate, my body, my people, my purpose.
That’s what keeps me from disappearing.
See, return is gritty.
It’s not polished.
It doesn’t come with balloons.
It crawls in on scraped knees, whispers “I’m still here,” and gets back to work.
And that’s the gospel of this thing.
Not that I never fall. But that I know how to come back.
So maybe today is Day 1.
Or Day 100.
Or Day Who-the-Fuck-Knows.
Doesn’t matter.
The only real question is:
Did I return today?
--
Still...
Still crawling forward.
Still showing up.
Still counting the days—but letting God carry the weight of them.
Love ya'll
DeeBo