Sean R: The Bedtime Stories I Almost Missed – June 2026 Alumni Spotlight

When I was asked to write this column, I was a little taken aback. Me? How could I possibly be asked to write something that is supposed to inspire people in recovery?

A little over six months ago, I would have told you that I would never be “in recovery” because I didn’t have a problem to recover from. I believed the real problem was everyone around me trying to control me and tell me how to live my life. The truth is, I honestly believed that. In my mind, I was always right, and the world around me was always wrong.

Today, I can see things much differently. Looking back, one of the clearest examples of how much recovery has changed my life can be found in something as simple as nighttime.

Before sobriety, I looked forward to bedtime for all the wrong reasons.

When the clock hit around 7:15, I wasn’t thinking about spending time with my family. I was thinking about getting through my responsibilities as quickly as possible. At the time, my daughter was about three years old and my son was only a year and a half. Putting one of them to bed felt like an obligation—a task to complete before I could get to what I really wanted.

Once the kids were asleep and my wife went to bed, I felt free. The night belonged to me. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Looking back now, I can see that I wasn’t gaining freedom at all. I was giving away precious moments with the people who mattered most.

In early recovery, nighttime became something entirely different. The hours I once used to escape suddenly felt uncomfortable. There were no distractions, no routines I could hide behind, and no easy way to avoid my thoughts. What had once felt exciting now felt unfamiliar.

But recovery has a way of changing your perspective.

Today, I still look forward to bedtime—but for completely different reasons.

Now, bedtime with my kids is one of my favorite parts of the day. It’s not an obligation anymore; it’s a privilege. It’s a chance to slow down and be present. It’s hearing my son laugh from deep in his soul, the way only a little boy can. It’s listening to my daughter ask for “just two more minutes” of cuddling because “Daddy keeps the monsters away.”

Those moments are simple, but they mean everything.

Nighttime used to represent escape. Today, it represents connection.

It used to be the time of day when I couldn’t wait for everyone else to go away. Now it’s the time of day that reminds me exactly why I chose recovery in the first place.

It’s amazing how much can change in six months. The same hours, the same house, the same bedtime routine—and yet everything is different.

Today, when the lights go out and I tuck my kids into bed, I am exactly where I want to be.

And that’s a wonderful feeling.