My Story

My Journey to Redemption: A Personal Essay on Recovery and Awareness

My name is Kevin Kimani Njoroge, and I am a recovering alcoholic. I often say that my life is a story of falling and rising – again and again – until I finally learned to stay standing. It’s not a story of instant redemption or miraculous change. It’s one of pain, grace, and the relentless pursuit of self-awareness. Every scar, relapse, and loss has taught me that recovery isn’t just about giving up alcohol; it’s about meeting yourself honestly, perhaps for the first time.

Early Life: The Seeds of Anxiety

I was born in Matasia, a small township between Ngong and Kiserian in Kenya. I’m the last of three boys, raised in what most would consider a normal two-parent household. My father worked as a banker, my mother a tailor who later opened a small boutique after retirement. Ours was a Christian home, though it was my mother’s faith that shaped our spiritual upbringing. She made sure we were baptized in the Anglican Church. My father was Catholic, but I don’t recall ever seeing him attend mass.

From the outside, it was a simple, healthy childhood. But two moments, subtle and far removed from each other, planted something inside me – something invisible yet deeply formative. The first was in 1994, when I was in class four. My younger brother, whom I was very close to, accidentally ingested Triatix, a pesticide used for cattle. He was hospitalized for two weeks, and I spent each day gripped by fear, wondering if he would live. I prayed, I bargained, and I felt helpless for the first time in my life.

The second moment came not long after, when my father was mugged. I woke to my mother’s screams and saw her washing his wounds in a bucket of blood-colored water. That image burned into my mind. Something inside me cracked open. I began to experience what I now know were intrusive thoughts – dark, repetitive mental images that would appear out of nowhere. I didn’t know how to explain them to anyone. I thought I was going crazy.

Still, I excelled in school. I scored 546 marks out of 700 in primary school and joined high school as a strong student. But those mental battles never truly disappeared. They just went silent, waiting for adulthood to feed them new fears.

The First Sip: Chasing Euphoria

In 2003, after finishing high school, I stayed home for two years before joining the University of Nairobi. That idle period was where curiosity met opportunity. One day, I asked a farmhand to buy me a sachet of vodka called Sapphire. It cost 25 shillings – less than a loaf of bread. I drank it neat. Within minutes, a rush of warmth flooded my body, and for the first time in years, my mind was quiet. The intrusive thoughts, the anxiety, the noise – they all disappeared. That was the high I would chase for the next two decades.

At university, I found freedom and the culture that came with it. Parties, independence, and alcohol on every corner. I told myself I was just being social, but I was already hooked on what alcohol did for me internally. I could laugh freely, talk boldly, and forget the quiet sadness I carried. I became the person I thought I was meant to be – outgoing, funny, confident. But confidence built on intoxication is fragile. It breaks the moment the bottle is empty.

Then came my first heartbreak. It hit me like a car crash. I didn’t know how to process emotional pain, so I did what I had learned to do – drink it away. That heartbreak taught me something that would take me years to unlearn: when pain comes, numb it. Don’t face it. Don’t feel it. Just make it stop.

Corporate Success and the Illusion of Control

I graduated in 2008 and landed a job with a telco company. For a young man, that was everything – steady income, prestige, independence. I moved out of my parents’ house and started living life on my terms. My drinking escalated quietly. With money came access. Office parties, after-hours hangouts, and constant celebrations blurred into routine. I told myself it was harmless. After all, I never missed work, and my performance was good.

But addiction isn’t always about chaos at first. Sometimes it’s calm, quiet, and polished. It hides behind your smile, behind your paycheck. My life looked successful from the outside. Inside, I was building a private prison.

When I developed an ear, nose, and throat issue, I was sent on paid medical leave. That should have been my chance to rest and recover. Instead, it became the darkest period yet. Drinking alone, drinking to sleep, drinking to silence the voice that whispered, “You’re losing yourself.” By 2012, My employer let me go. I wasn’t just unemployed – I was unmoored.

The Spiral and the Slow Burn

Losing that job was a blow to my identity. I turned to cheap liquor to fill the emptiness. I told myself I was coping, but really, I was surrendering. Alcohol became my solution to everything: stress, boredom, loneliness. Around this time, I met the woman who would become the mother of my daughters. We built a family together, but even love couldn’t save me from myself.

Between 2013 and 2018, I freelanced online as a writer. I was good at it – skilled even – but my discipline was terrible. Some days, I’d work for an hour and drink the rest of the day. My family, thinking they were helping, supported me financially. Unknowingly, they became enablers. I didn’t have to face consequences, so I didn’t change.

By 2017, my drinking had turned physical. I developed withdrawal symptoms: tremors, sweats, sleepless nights, and relentless anxiety. I began using benzodiazepines to manage the symptoms, not realizing I was layering addiction upon addiction.

Then, on October 23, 2018, I drank myself unconscious in the middle of a Nairobi slum. A stranger put me on a handcart and wheeled me home. My mother got a call saying her son was dead. When she found me alive, it was nothing short of a miracle. That day should have been the end—but it was only the beginning of a long, painful awakening.

Rehab, Relapse, and the Repetition of Pain

After that incident, I entered rehab for the first time. I met David Ogot, a recovering alcoholic whose story gave me hope. I thought I understood recovery then, but I didn’t. I left after 90 days, convinced I was cured. Within months, I relapsed.

The next few years became a cycle – drink, detox, rehab, relapse. I went in and out of rehabilitation five times between 2018 and 2023. Each relapse was worse than the last. I lost my marriage. My daughters grew up seeing a man who was there but absent. I hurt people who loved me. I lied, I manipulated, and I justified it all. That’s what addiction does – it twists your truth until the lie feels easier to live with.

In 2021, I had nearly two years of sobriety. I even got a job on a cruise ship, traveling the world, working hard, and staying clean. But emotional pain is patient. It waits. When I faced heartbreak and self-doubt again, the old voice whispered, “Just one drink.” That one drink led me back into darkness.

When the Body Speaks

By 2023, my body began showing the consequences of years of abuse. I developed peripheral neuropathy – nerve damage that made walking difficult. My right foot dragged slightly with every step. The doctor warned me that if I continued drinking, it could spread to my brain and cause a stroke. That moment forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: I wasn’t just drinking to escape pain; I was drinking to die slowly.

I tried to stop, but willpower alone was never enough. My family intervened again. Rehab became my second home – until I escaped it. Literally. I ran away after two weeks, only to be tracked down by police and returned. I had reached a point of total surrender, a place where pride and shame no longer mattered.

The Fifth Time: Discovering Awareness

In early 2024, during my fifth official rehabilitation, something different happened. A new counselor joined the facility – a man whose presence was calm but commanding. He spoke with clarity and compassion, without judgment. His first lesson to me was simple: “Addiction isn’t your enemy, denial is.”

That line changed everything. He taught me the principle of self-awareness and “sweeping my side of the street,” meaning to take responsibility for my own actions instead of blaming others. I began to understand that my drinking wasn’t just about alcohol – it was about my inability to sit with discomfort, to face loneliness, to feel unwanted and still stay sober.

He helped me uncover my real triggers: unresolved resentment toward family, unhealthy attachments in relationships, and the need for constant validation. I learned that unless I healed those wounds, I would keep relapsing even if I never touched alcohol again.

This time, not only did I get sober, I got honest.

The New Beginning

I was discharged on October 8, 2024, marking six years since my first admission. I turned 40 in rehab. That milestone meant more than a birthday; it was a rebirth. My psychiatric and medical evaluations cleared me to return to work. My employer reinstated me. Life, for the first time in decades, felt still – peaceful even.

But recovery isn’t about perfection. I still have days of anxiety and self-doubt. I still face stigma, even within my family. My relationship with one of my brothers remains strained. Yet I’ve learned that I can only sweep my side of the street. I no longer carry anger that isn’t mine.

Today, I channel my energy into purpose. Through this website, I write about addiction, mental health, and recovery. It’s not a business – it’s my Step 12 in the Alcoholics Anonymous program: carrying the message to those who still suffer. Each article I publish is an act of gratitude, a way of saying, “I made it out, and so can you.”

The Message I Carry

If you’re reading this and struggling – whether with alcohol, depression, or anxiety – know that you are not broken. You are in process. Healing isn’t linear. It’s messy, painful, and humbling. But every time you choose awareness over avoidance, you win.

I’ve learned that the opposite of addiction isn’t sobriety – it’s connection. To yourself, to others, to life. When I stopped running from my pain and started listening to it, I realized that pain was never my enemy. It was my teacher.

My name is Kevin Kimani Njoroge. I am a recovering alcoholic, a father, a writer, and a student of self-awareness. My story isn’t one of tragedy – it’s one of triumph through truth. It is a story of resilience, faith, and the relentless power of transformation. I have come to learn that redemption doesn’t erase your past – it redefines it. Every relapse, every moment of pain, every broken relationship served a greater purpose: to bring me home to myself.

Today, I live one day at a time, grounded in gratitude, guided by awareness, and driven by purpose. I am no longer running from who I was; I am walking toward who I am becoming. My life now is an act of service – to help one more person believe that change is possible, that healing is real, and that no fall is final.

And if there’s one thing I want you to remember, it’s this: you can rise again. Not once. Not twice. As many times as it takes.

Together, we can make this world a kinder place – one addict, one day, one story at a time.