The Curb
There’s a story I’ve told to a few close friends, but most people don’t know it. It’s not the kind of story you bring up lightly — it’s not a tale of adventure in the mountains or a perfect sunrise on a trail. It’s not about a race or a personal best. It’s a story about a parking lot. More specifically, a curb in the Sherwin-Williams parking lot in Porterville, California. That curb was my rock bottom.
About nine years ago, I was in a different place — physically, mentally, emotionally. I was just another young adult trying to have fun, running from the stuff I didn’t want to face. Drinking too much. Smoking too much. Chasing highs and calling it a good time. I was out at a friend’s house one night and we were partying, getting cross-faded, laughing… just doing what felt normal back then. But for me, the night ended in a blackout — one of those deep, full-body blackouts where time completely disappeared.
I woke up the next morning alone, outside, cold, and confused. I had no idea where I was at first. Then I realized I was in the parking lot of Sherwin Williams and my pillow had been a curb. Somehow I had walked there, miles away from where the night had started. I didn’t remember any of it. I’ll never know what happened between the party and that curb. I just knew in that moment that I was done.
That morning broke something in me — but it also cracked something open.
It was humiliating. But more than that, it was sobering — not just literally, but spiritually. That was the day I realized I couldn’t keep running from myself. I had to start running toward something better. Toward healing. Toward strength. Toward a version of me that could actually stand up and face life without numbing out.
A few years later running came in. Not as some dramatic fix-all, not in a way that saved me overnight. But as a tool. A practice. A kind of medicine I didn’t even know I needed.
Running gave me something I could hold onto. When life felt chaotic and out of control, the trail or the road gave me something simple: just put one foot in front of the other, breathe, keep going. There was no shortcut, no cheat code, just steady effort. Honest effort.
Running itself didn’t heal me, but it gave me a way to heal.
Instead of blacking out, I started lacing up. Instead of chasing highs, I started chasing clarity — mile by mile. Running became my way of choosing discomfort over destruction, movement over stagnation. And strangely, over time, the more I ran, the more I started to face the things I was so afraid of before — my shame, my doubt, my fear of not being enough. All of it.
Now, when I talk about running, it’s never just about fitness. It’s about resilience. It’s about facing the hard stuff and choosing to move forward anyway. I still think about that curb sometimes. That moment. That version of me. Not with hate or regret — but with deep, deep gratitude. Because from that low place, I found a higher path.
And running helped me get there.
Remembering the lessons, prevents the regret. Running not to bury it just like I did with everything else before becoming sober, but to have reflective thoughts that help me better understand.
This is a great article. Your description about being able to feel and process in sobriety sums up why staying sober has been so important to me. I get to keep showing up now, each day, as a better person than I was before.
I used to be the same brother. For me writing/running/photography and some days carpentry helped me onto a path that was more equal and less intense. Glad you found some peace from the self imposed chaos.