I didn’t plan for The Undertow to surface—it rose on its own. When I revisited the first 90 days of writing, I saw it. Beneath the storm were my addictions, those layers of self-inflicted wounds and blind patterns that had governed my life for decades.
In my twenties, gambling consumed me. It cost me friendships, family, and careers. But I couldn’t grasp why. I had no map for navigating the chaos inside me. So I stayed lost, tangled in behaviors I couldn’t control, driven by thoughts I didn’t understand.
Interventions wouldn’t have saved me. I built walls too thick, defenses too stubborn. What cut through was the act of writing.
I captured the impulse in real time—its rise, its roar, the way it flooded my veins like fire. The page didn’t lie. It forced me to see the truth of who I had become and how far I was from the person I wanted to be.
But here’s the revelation: I wasn’t an addict. The behaviors weren’t my identity. They were symptoms of a fractured mind and unhealed wounds. Writing gave me clarity. I could finally see myself—not as broken, but as someone who had the power to choose a different path.
The work was brutal. Words tore through my defenses, exposing every excuse, every false belief. I wept for the man I had been and for how much work I still had to do. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Each day I wrote, I grew stronger. The impulses didn’t vanish overnight, but they lost their grip. I learned to redirect myself when my actions misaligned with the life I was rebuilding. Slowly, I shed the labels, the shame, the lies.
Writing wasn’t just therapy; it was transformation. Each truth I put on the page shaped the man I am today—and the man I will become tomorrow.
This is the power of facing the undertow: the storm pulls hard, but if you endure, you’ll rise stronger, lighter, free.