I didn’t start writing because my life was perfect.
I started writing because it almost ended.
For a long time, I lived in a world where pain felt louder than hope. Alcohol was my escape, depression was my roommate, PTSD whispered lies in my ear, and loneliness wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. I’d look in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. I wasn’t just lost—I was convinced that nobody could really understand what was going on inside my head.
That kind of darkness is quiet. It doesn’t always look dramatic from the outside. Sometimes it looks like smiling at the grocery store and falling apart in the parking lot. It looks like answering, “I’m fine,” when your whole soul is screaming, “I’m not okay.”
I know that feeling way too well.
And that’s exactly why I started writing.
The Night I Realized I Needed Help
I’ve had more than one moment where I didn’t want to be here anymore. Alcohol, addiction, and mental health pushed me to the edge several times. I scared my family. I scared myself.
And it didn’t get fixed in one shot, one rehab, or one “New Me” promise.
I’ve been to multiple rehabs—different buildings, different staff, different beds and ceiling tiles I stared at when I wondered, “How did I end up here again?” I’ve done the intake questions, the detox shakes, the group circles, the same “Tell us your story” speech more times than I can count.
Each time I went in, a part of me hoped this would finally be the last time.
Each time I walked out, I had a choice: use what I learned or slide back into the same old patterns.
There came a point where I had to get brutally honest with myself:
Either keep pretending I had it all under control or finally admit I needed help and keep accepting that help over and over, not just when it was convenient.
I chose help.
Therapy. Medication. Meetings. Church. Rehab stays. Going back when I slipped. Humbling myself enough to say, “I can’t do this alone.” Healing didn’t come overnight. It came in little pieces: one honest conversation, one tear-filled prayer, one “I made it through today without drinking.”
I started learning tools, building routines, and slowly accepting that needing support doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.
And as I got a little stronger, something inside me shifted.
I didn’t just want to survive my story.
I wanted to use it.
Why “You’re Not Alone” Matters So Much to Me
The name of my site, YouRnotaLone.Life, isn’t just a catchy phrase. It’s a message I wish someone would have drilled into my head during my darkest nights—especially the ones I spent in rehab, feeling like I’d failed my family and myself yet again.
Because when you’re sitting there with a hospital bracelet on, or lying in a rehab bed listening to the sound of other people detoxing, or staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. wondering if you’ll ever get it right… it feels like you’re the only one who’s ever felt that way.
You’re not.
There are people fighting addiction right now.
People battling intrusive thoughts.
People who miss their kids.
People who are trying to put their life back together after breaking it into a thousand pieces—some of them from inside treatment centers and halfway houses.
I started writing for them—for you—because I never want anyone to think they’re the only one going through it.
My Words Are My Hand Reaching Out
I’m not a doctor. I’m not a polished motivational speaker. I’m just a guy who’s been through some things—multiple rehabs, dark thoughts, broken promises—and decided to talk about it instead of hiding it.
Every blog I write, every story I share, is my way of saying:
- “I’ve felt that too.”
- “You’re not crazy for feeling this way.”
- “You’re not weak for needing help again.”
- “You’re not a burden for struggling.”
I write about depression, anxiety, PTSD, addiction, cravings, faith, anger, loneliness, and healing—not because I’ve mastered them, but because I’m still walking through them.
I want you to see real life: the ups, the slips, the small wins, the ugly tears, the quiet victories. I want you to know there’s someone out here who gets it—and isn’t judging you for it.
The Tools That Helped Me (And Might Help You)
A big part of my writing is sharing the tools that keep me going. Not as magic fixes, but as things that helped me inch forward when I was tired of going in circles.
Some of those tools for me are:
- Rehabs & Treatment Centers – I’ve checked into more than one. Each stay taught me something: coping skills, relapse triggers, how to be honest in group, how to sit with feelings instead of drowning them. Even when I slipped afterward, those seeds were still planted.
- Therapy – I see multiple therapists. EMDR for trauma, talk therapy to unpack the past and deal with the present. Having a safe space to say the truth out loud has saved me more than once.
- Medication – For depression, ADHD, PTSD, and diabetes. My brain and body needed help, and meds are part of that help—not a failure, not a crutch, just another tool.
- Faith – Going to church with my mom, reading scripture, listening to worship music, praying when I don’t even know what to say. God has met me in rehab rooms and quiet bedrooms.
- Support – Family like my mom and my sister, people who answer the phone when things get heavy, recovery friends who “get it” without a long explanation.
- Routine & Recovery Work – Meetings, sobriety, checking in with myself, keeping boundaries, doing the work even when I’m tired of hearing the word “work.”
When I write, I try to mix honesty and hope: “Yeah, it hurts” and “Yeah, there’s still a reason to keep going.”
This Isn’t Just About Me—It’s About You
At the end of the day, my blog isn’t just a place for me to vent. It’s a place for you to feel seen.
I want someone scrolling late at night—maybe from a rehab common room, maybe from their bedroom, maybe from a halfway house bunk—to stumble onto my words and think:
- “Wow… I thought I was the only one who felt like that.”
- “If he can keep going after all that, maybe I can, too.”
- “Maybe I’m not broken beyond repair.”
You don’t have to have the same story as me for us to understand each other. Pain speaks a language that crosses all kinds of lines.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, hear me clearly:
You are not alone.
You are not beyond help.
Your story is not over.
My writing is my way of walking alongside you—one sentence at a time.
Why I’ll Keep Writing
I don’t write because life magically became easy. I write because even on the hard days, I know there’s purpose in my pain—and that includes the times I had to walk back through rehab doors and start over again.
I’ll keep sharing my journey:
- For the people who feel unseen.
- For the ones who think nobody would understand.
- For the ones who are one bad night away from giving up.
If my words can be a small light in somebody’s dark room, then everything I’ve lived through starts to mean something.
So that’s why I started writing for people who are struggling.
And that’s why I’m not stopping.
You are not alone.
Not on my watch.
— Josh Bridges
YOU {R} NOT ALONE YOU HAVE A VOICE! 