I used to be a master illusionist. By day, I was the picture-perfect dad and hubby, complete with a corner office and a winning smile. But come nightfall, I’d transform into a human wrecking ball, demolishing everything I claimed to love, one shot at a time.

My wife, God bless her stubborn heart, didn’t sign up for an escape artist when she said “I do.” So when she suggested family therapy, her voice a mix of love and “I’m-this-close-to-leaving-you,” I knew the jig was up.

That first session? Imagine having your deepest, darkest shame projected on an IMAX screen for your kids to see. My son’s confused frown, my daughter’s too-wise eyes – they cut deeper than any hangover ever could.

But here’s the kicker: that pain? It was the lifeline I needed.

We stumbled through those sessions like newborn deer on ice. Words that had been drowning in bourbon for years finally bubbled to the surface. My wife’s fear of waking up to find me dead in a ditch. My kids’ belief that daddy loved booze more than bedtime stories.

It was ugly. It was raw. It was good.

Sobriety, it turns out, is a hell of a high. Suddenly, I could taste food again. Colors got brighter. And my kids? Their laughter became my new addiction.

Movie nights replaced bar crawls. I relearned how to have conversations that didn’t revolve around the bottom of a glass. My wife and I rediscovered the art of touch that didn’t reek of desperation and regret.

Don’t get me wrong. Some days still suck. The cravings hit like a freight train, especially when life throws curveballs. But now, instead of drowning those feelings in bourbon, I pick up the phone. I hit a meeting. I read “Green Eggs and Ham” for the millionth time, because my daughter’s giggle is better than any top-shelf liquor.

The 12-step rooms became my second home. A place where “Hi, I’m John, and I’m an alcoholic” isn’t an admission of failure, but a battle cry. Where broken people come to piece themselves back together, one day at a time.

Remember this: sometimes, rock bottom is just the foundation for something beautiful. And for me, I prefer the high of tucking my kids in, stone-cold sober, knowing I’ll remember every word of that goodnight story? It beats any bottle, hands down.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a tea party to attend. My daughter’s stuffed animals don’t care about my past, only that I show up. And these days, showing up is the one promise I never break.