I recover loudly. I wear it on my sweatshirts, my tees, my totes. Recover Loudly. Waiting for a table at brunch, buying dish detergent at Acme, walking the dog — someone either leans in with curiosity or quietly says, “I’ve got twelve years myself.” Sometimes I get: “You? An alcoholic? No way.” That’s exactly the point. Opening doors. Giving back. Service. My faith? That I keep quiet. Not hidden — just private. I’ve always believed that living your religion is more powerful

I have bookcases that would be the envy of most libraries.Self-help. Recovery memoirs. Psychology. Philosophy. Spirituality. I have read, highlighted, dog-eared, and Post-it noted my way through more books than I can count. I was convinced that if I just found the right words on the right page, something would click and I would finally figure out how to live. It never worked. Not because the books were bad. Some of them were brilliant. But I was trying to think my way out of

I have my father’s junior high school yearbook. Beneath his name, Joseph Welsh, someone typed: “A teacher says that Joseph is tenacious. If so he certainly should be an asset.” He was thirteen years old. A union man in the making — the kind who went on strike when he had to, with five kids to feed and bills that didn’t care about labor disputes. When the paychecks stopped, he didn’t complain or collapse. He caddied, did odd jobs, whatever it took to keep us going. He just met