Charles used to have everything that mattered—his wife, his two children, Charles Jr. and Chloe, and a peaceful home in suburban Maryland, just five minutes from the heart of Washington, D.C. His family was his world. He worked hard, provided for them, and believed, perhaps foolishly, that they would always be there.
But he took them for granted.
Now, all he has left are memories—beautiful and heartbreaking. He smiles when he thinks about good times, but he often cries, because memories are all he has left to hold on to.
Charles’s wife, now remarried, lives a life that Charles can no longer be a part of. Their children, Charles Jr. and Chloe, aren’t children anymore, they’ve grown up without him. He missed all that time. He missed their milestones. He missed their lives. It’s a loss that cannot be undone.
Despite the sting of jealousy that still gnaws at his heart, Charles respects his ex-wife’s decision to move on. He sees the love her new husband has for his children, and though it is painful to know that someone else is now raising them, he appreciates the love and care they are receiving. He has let go, even though part of him wishes he could go back in time, to hold onto what he once had.
Back then, Charles followed one simple rule: Never hang out with co-workers. Boundaries, he believed, protected his peace. But that changed when he met Fredrick Patterson, the intern he was assigned to train. Fredrick was the son of Charles’s supervisor, and at first, Charles treated him like any other new guy. But after a long, stressful Monday—March 24th—Charles let his guard down.
Fredrick asked him to hang out that night, just to unwind. Charles hesitated, but eventually agreed. He called his wife, told her he’d be late, and that he was mentoring the boss’s son. She said “okay,” they exchanged a few kind words, and hung up.
That was the last normal moment of his life.
Fredrick drove a candy-red Corvette, the kind that turns heads. They cruised out of the city, about 45 minutes from town to a place Charles had never seen before. The house didn’t match Fredrick’s image, it looked out of place for both of them. But Fredrick knocked, in a strange rhythm. A signal, maybe. A half-dressed woman opened the door. She was stunning. She winked at Fredrick and asked, “The usual?” He nodded, smirking, and grabbed her behind as he walked in. Charles called his name—he ignored him.
The woman turned to Charles and asked, “Do you want the same thing Fred’s getting?”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Charles replied.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled. “He’s going to feel like he’s on top of the world.”
She handed him a drink.
Charles should have said no.
But he was tired. She was beautiful. He was curious.
He drank.
Everything after that is a blur.
Charles woke up two days later, cold and shaking. He asked for Fredrick. No one knew who he was talking about. Around him were people he didn’t recognize, passing drugs back and forth like candy. He didn’t use drugs—but his body was begging for them.
It was then that he learned it was Mexican Ice—street methamphetamine—that had been slipped into his drink. The drug began to take hold of his mind, his body, and ultimately his soul. It wasn’t just a physical addiction. It was deeper grippinghis very spirit. Meth changed him, twisted his sense of self, and made him crave more and more. What started as a night of weakness soon spiraled into a full-blown addiction.
That was the beginning of the end.
Charles lost everything. His job. His wife. His children. His dignity. The trust, the stability, the version of himself he once knew.
But here’s where Charles’s story takes a different turn. Today, Charles is a recovery coach. He shares his story with others who are struggling with addiction, using his painful journey as a guide to help them find their way out of the darkness. He speaks openly about his mistakes—about how he tried to be someone he wasn’t, chasing approval, status, and false security. He tells them about the drug that took control of his soul, and how he tried to fill the emptiness with substances instead of addressing the deeper wounds inside.
Charles doesn’t shy away from his past. He is open about the lies he told himself—the lies that led him to believe he could handle it all, that he could control the chaos, that the addiction was just a way to cope. But he has learned, in the hardest way possible, that addiction doesn’t care about control. It takes everything from you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left.
Charles doesn’t just speak about recovery; he lives it. He understands the weight of addiction, the shame, the guilt, the fear of losing everything. But he also knows the power of change. He shares his story, so others don’t have to walk the same painful path. He helps them see that it’s never too late to turn things around.
He believes in hope. He believes in redemption. He believes in the grace of God. YHWH. The beginning and the end.
Charles doesn’t know how he ended up on this platform of recovery, but he thanks his Father God every day. He was rescued—not just by courts or programs—but by God’s grace. He was ordered into recovery, and it was here that he was introduced to God. The arrogance Charles once had—thinking he could control everything—has now gone. He is a humbled servant of the Most High God.
He was lost, but now he is found.
Charles realized this while in recovery. The one thing he had been searching for, the one thing he truly needed, wasn’t money, success, or control. It was hope. And hope only rested in the bosom of God. At the end of the day, all he needs is hope—and it’s the only thing he ever needed.