RECOVERY STORY OF THE MONTH

My name is Aimee, and I am an alcoholic and an addict. This is my story of addiction, recovery, relapse, surrender, and, most importantly, the incredible gift of a life worth living.

I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, and raised by my mother and stepfather. From as early as I can remember, I never quite felt right. I never felt like I fit in. I always felt different, as though there was something missing inside of me that everyone else seemed to have figured out. I took my first drink at the age of 13, and the consequences were almost immediate. I began cutting school, and seemingly overnight, I went from being a straight-A student to failing every single one of my classes. On the very first day of my sophomore year of high school, I was caught going to school drunk and was suspended.

For my parents, it seemed as though they had finally discovered what was wrong with me. They made the decision to send me to an inpatient treatment center. At the time, I had no idea that this decision would introduce me to something that would ultimately save my life. I got sober, and I stayed sober for a few years. At just 15 years old, I met a woman named Katie O’Toole Smith, who became my sponsor in Alcoholics Anonymous. I had no way of knowing then just how significant this woman would become in my life or how many years our journey together would span.

As I approached my 18th birthday, however, I began convincing myself that I was simply too young to stay sober for the rest of my life. I remember thinking, If my life ever gets really bad, I can always just go back to AA. What I didn’t understand was that I was powerless over alcohol and drugs. I didn’t understand that when I picked up again, I wouldn’t necessarily have the choice to stop.

And so began the next 20 years of my life. I spent those years jobless, homeless, in and out of jail, and eventually in prison. I lied to, stole from, manipulated, and betrayed nearly every friend and family member I had. I had three beautiful daughters, and I surrendered all three of them to my disease. There is no way to sugarcoat the person I became. I became the kind of person you wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alley at night. I was dishonest, selfish, destructive, and completely consumed by my addiction. At some point, I felt as though I no longer even had a soul. I was simply a shadow of the person I had once been. I existed, but I wasn’t living.

I existed, but I wasn’t living.

Then, in 2015, I had a moment of clarity. I found my way back into the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, and my life began to change in ways I never could have imagined. And it changed so much, so fast. I went back to school and eventually earned my master’s degree. I became gainfully employed and learned what it meant to be a responsible, productive member of society. I developed some of the most meaningful friendships I have ever had in my entire life. I got married. I got my driver’s license, a car, and insurance. I began building a life that, for so many years, I had believed was completely out of my reach. And through it all, I had the same sponsor I had met when I was just 15 years old.

For six and a half years, my life continued to get better. I had everything I had once prayed for, and things I hadn’t even known were possible. But somewhere along the way, I forgot something incredibly important. I forgot that I was powerless.

My husband relapsed, and instead of remembering the principles I had been taught, I made his disease entirely about me. I became selfish and self-centered. I was convinced that I could somehow control his addiction, forgetting that I had never been able to control my own. I became obsessed with what he was doing, what he wasn’t doing, and what I thought he should be doing. I lost sight of my own spiritual condition. I stopped focusing on the things that had kept me sober and began focusing on everything outside of myself.

I got very sick while I was still sober. Within a year, I was spiritually bankrupt, and before I knew it, I was locked and loaded. I picked up again. And all bets were off. Almost immediately, I totaled my car and woke up in a hospital with a severe concussion. A woman I sponsored, someone I loved very much, was there at the hospital. She was worried about me. She wanted to make sure I was okay.

My mother had called her and told her that if her daughter had picked up a drink, she needed to leave the hospital because she wanted nothing to do with who and what I had become. That statement rocked me to my core. I suddenly realized what I had thrown away. Six and a half years of sobriety. Six and a half years of rebuilding relationships, becoming educated, finding meaningful work, developing friendships, and creating a life beyond anything I could have imagined. And just like that, I had put it all in jeopardy.

From that moment forward, all I wanted was to get back to my happy, sober life in Alcoholics Anonymous. I knew where the meetings were. I knew the people. I knew the literature. I knew the steps. I knew what I was supposed to do. So I went to meetings. I attended conferences and retreats. I spent time at my sponsor’s house. I surrounded myself with the people who had loved me and supported me throughout my recovery. But I could not stop using. I wanted to stop more than anything in the world, but I couldn’t. I had forgotten the most fundamental truth about my disease: I am powerless.

After approximately five months of trying desperately to get sober again, I finally hit my knees. I prayed to God and said, The first place that tells me yes is the place I am going to go. I began calling 30-day treatment centers. I even called the hospital where I was employed at the time. Nobody answered the phone. Then I called Michelle Taft. I had just seen Michelle the weekend before at Sunlight of the Spirit. When I called her, the phone didn’t even ring. She answered immediately. I told her I needed a bed. She simply told me to be there the following day by noon. And just like that, God had answered my prayer.

The next day, I showed up at the Jean Marie House, part of the Ed Keating Center, completely delusional, drunk, and ridiculous. I had packed silver sparkly high heels, two laptops, two cell phones, and all of my work clothes. Because apparently, somewhere in my delusional thinking, I believed I was going to treatment and still needed to be prepared for a business meeting! I had absolutely no idea what I was walking into. I remember the overwhelming feeling of being closed in. I remember realizing that I had made this decision and that there was no turning back. And I remember hearing my sponsor’s voice over and over again in my head: You made a commitment, and you have to follow through with it. So I stayed.

For the first 30 days, I stayed at the Jean Marie House against every ounce of my own will. Every single night, we went to an AA meeting. And every single night, I cried, begged, and pleaded with my sponsor and my friends in Alcoholics Anonymous to please let me come home. I told them I was fine now. I told them I understood. I told them I was ready.

And every single time, I got the exact same response: Just spend the night. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. The next day, I would ask again. And again, the answer was the same. Just spend the night. Eventually, I stopped asking. And somewhere in that process, something began to change. While I was at the Ed Keating Center, someone suggested that I begin using the Set-Aside Prayer. I was encouraged to ask God to help me set aside everything I thought I knew about Him, about Alcoholics Anonymous, about the Twelve Steps, and about myself.

That suggestion changed my entire perspective on recovery. I had spent six and a half years sober believing I knew so much. I thought I understood the program. I thought I knew what recovery was supposed to look like. I thought I knew who I should associate with and who I shouldn’t. But at the Jean Marie House, I began meeting people I never would have spoken to during my previous period of sobriety. People from different backgrounds, different circumstances, and different walks of life became some of my greatest teachers.

I began hearing things in meetings that opened my eyes to an entirely new way of living.

I started opening the Big Book and seeing things I swore had never been there before. I remember wondering when someone had added all of this information! Of course, nothing had changed in the book. I was the one who had changed. I began hearing things in meetings that opened my eyes to an entirely new way of living. I began to understand what humility really meant. I began to understand acceptance, surrender, and the importance of being teachable. Most importantly, I began to understand that I was not special. I was one of many. I was no better than the woman sitting next to me, and I was no worse than her either. I was simply another alcoholic and addict who needed the same solution as everyone else.

The Ed Keating Center helped me become right-sized. It taught me how to walk shoulder to shoulder with the men and women around me. It taught me how to become a functioning member of society without believing that my education, my career, my possessions, or my accomplishments made me any different from anyone else.

It taught me that recovery isn’t about what I have achieved. It is about how I live, how I treat other people, and whether I remain willing to do the things that keep me spiritually fit. And perhaps the most important lesson of all was this: I don’t have this. I will never have this.

My sobriety is a daily reprieve contingent upon the maintenance of my spiritual condition. I am no further away from another drink or drug than anyone else. I could just as easily be sitting back in group at the Jean Marie House as any of the women who are sitting there today. And I never want to forget that.

Today, by the grace of God, I celebrated four years of continuous sobriety again on November 2. Four years. Four years of a life I almost lost. Today, I am the secretary of my AA home group. Every week, I return to the Jean Marie House to facilitate a group for the women who are sitting exactly where I once sat. And every single time I walk through those doors, I am reminded of where I came from, what happened to me, and what my life looks like today. I remain actively involved with the Ed Keating Center. I serve on the fundraising advisory board. I sponsor women from the house. I give my time, my energy, and my heart to the organization that gave me my life back.

And there is absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for the Ed Keating Center if I were asked. Because how do you ever repay an organization that gave you back a life worth living? How do you put a price on being given another chance to become a daughter, a wife, a friend, a professional, and a productive member of society? You can’t. You can only remain grateful, stay willing, and give away what was so freely given to you.

My husband also eventually entered the Ed Keating Center. He lived at The Rock and has been in and out of the program several times. Our journey has not been easy, and there have been many painful lessons along the way. But today, he is sober, and we are working on things. I have learned that I cannot control his recovery any more than I can control anyone else’s. I can love him, support him, and pray for him, but his journey belongs to him, just as mine belongs to me. I don’t know what the future holds for my marriage, my career, my family, or my life.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty. God is big enough.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty. God is big enough. And nothing happens in God’s world by mistake. Every experience I have had, every consequence I have faced, every person I have met, and every painful lesson I have learned has brought me to where I am today. I would never wish the pain of addiction on anyone. I would never want to relive the devastation I caused myself or the people who loved me. But I can look back today and recognize that even my darkest moments became part of the journey that led me to a deeper understanding of myself, my disease, my recovery, and my Higher Power.

I am a better person today because of what I have been through. I am more humble. I am more compassionate. I am more willing to listen. I am less judgmental. I understand that every person has a story and that nobody is beyond the possibility of recovery. I understand that no amount of education, professional success, money, or material possessions can keep me sober. And I understand that the life I have today is not something I earned or something I am entitled to. It is a gift.

The Jean Marie House did not simply give me a bed when I had nowhere else to turn. It gave me the opportunity to surrender when I couldn’t surrender on my own. It gave me the space to become teachable again. It surrounded me with people who saw something in me when I could no longer see it in myself. It gave me back my dignity, my humility, my purpose, and my willingness to live. The Jean Marie House gave me back a life worth living.

Today, when I walk into that house and see the women sitting in group, I don’t see women who are different from me. I see myself. I see the same fear, the same desperation, the same resistance, and the same hope that I carried through those doors. And I know that if God could do for me what I could not do for myself, He can do it for them too.

I came to the Ed Keating Center thinking I had lost everything. What I didn’t know was that I was about to gain something far more valuable than anything I had ever possessed. I was about to learn how to live. And for that, I will be forever grateful. Thank you to Michelle Taft, the Jean Marie House, the Ed Keating Center, my sponsor Katie O’Toole Smith, and every person who loved me until I could learn how to love myself again. You didn’t just help me get sober. You helped me become someone worth being sober for.

With love, humility, and endless gratitude,

Aimee Gay

Grateful recovering alcoholic and addict

November 2, 2026 — Four Years Sober