Suki Jones 

In April of this year, I took a step that changed my life. I made the decision to go to rehab, and honestly, it was one of the hardest choices I’ve ever had to make. Acknowledging that my life had spiraled out of control and that I couldn’t fix it on my own was painful. But the truth was staring me in the face. I had no other option if I wanted any chance of surviving, let alone living a better life.

It wasn’t an easy path to get to that point. The idea of entering rehab was terrifying—what would it be like? What would people think? How would I ever get back to normal? These questions haunted me. But I couldn’t keep living the way I was. I was drinking heavily every day, barely functioning, and causing pain to everyone who cared about me. My relationships were falling apart, and I was just about hanging on. It felt like my life was slipping away, and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up the charade.

Once I decided I needed help, I did what most people do—I started researching rehab centers. The decision came down to something simple: money. I chose the Providence Project in Bournemouth, mainly because it was £7,500 for a four-week residential stay. Compared to other places that were charging £15,000 or £20,000, this seemed the most realistic. I knew it would be a stretch financially, but I also knew I couldn’t afford not to do it.

I made the call on a Wednesday, shaking as I dialed the number. My voice trembled as I explained my situation. The person on the other end was calm, kind, and professional. They told me they had availability from the following Monday, and I agreed right then. I paid the £1,000 deposit, feeling a strange mixture of fear and relief.

Sunday night, my girlfriend and I went down to Bournemouth to be close to the rehab center for check-in the next morning. But, as you can probably guess, that night I couldn’t stay away from the alcohol. Even though I was on the brink of changing my life, I still found myself drinking heavily. It wasn’t even enjoyable at this point. I had half a bottle of wine left when I woke up Monday morning, hungover, shaky, and filled with dread.

Like every other day during my drinking days, my first thought that morning was to drink. I finished the rest of the wine and spent the next few hours nursing my hangover with more alcohol. By the time we left for the rehab center, I was already on edge, craving more but knowing that my time was up. I didn’t even eat breakfast, partly because I couldn’t stomach food, but mainly because alcohol had destroyed my appetite.

We arrived at the rehab center, and to be honest, my first impression was one of disappointment. I think deep down, I expected something out of a wellness retreat—somewhere with hot tubs, saunas, maybe a gym. Instead, it was just a large, semi-detached house. It felt strange to be putting my life in the hands of a place that looked so... ordinary.

The small reception area was simple, nothing grand. I checked in, handed over my suitcase, and then came the hardest part—saying goodbye to my girlfriend. It felt like the end of everything. I wasn’t sure what the next four weeks would look like, or if I’d even make it. I didn’t know how often I’d get to see her, or if I could have visitors at all. It was incredibly emotional. I felt scared and alone. I should have done more research about what to expect, but the truth is, I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to do any of that before checking in.

After saying my goodbyes, I was taken through a secure door and into the main part of the rehab. My first thought was how basic everything was. There was a small kitchen area with a sink, cabinets, tea, coffee, and a couple of fridges. It was a far cry from the luxury I’d imagined, but it didn’t take long to realize that this wasn’t about luxury—this was about saving my life.

As I sat there, trying to get my bearings, the other patients came in from a break. My anxiety shot through the roof. I was a mess—shaking, sweating, and still smelling of alcohol. But then something amazing happened. One by one, they approached me, introduced themselves, and reassured me that I was in the right place. They told me it would be okay.

And you know what? They didn’t look like I expected. I had imagined that rehab would be full of people who looked visibly broken, but these people just looked normal. They were warm, welcoming, and full of empathy. They were like me, people whose lives had gone off track but who were fighting to get back control. It was comforting in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Soon after, I had my first consultation with my counsellor. We went through everything—my drinking habits, how long I’d been struggling, my family situation, and why I felt I needed rehab. For the first time in years, I was completely honest. I admitted how much I drank, when I had my last drink, and how I had reached a point where I knew I couldn’t stop on my own. It was terrifying but also liberating to say out loud. No more lies, no more hiding.

They took a photograph of me, something they do for everyone when they arrive. At first, it felt invasive, but I learned later that they do this to show the contrast between how you look when you arrive and how you look when you leave—hopefully as a success story. After that, I was given a breathalyser test. Unsurprisingly, I blew high. I’d just finished drinking not long before arriving, and they knew it. But instead of judgment, I was met with understanding. For once, I didn’t have to hide how much I’d been drinking.

Because of my high blood alcohol level and how out of control my drinking had been, they told me I’d be going into the detox house. I didn’t really know what that meant at the time, but it turned out to be shared accommodation with other people going through detox—whether from alcohol, drugs, or both. There’s a counsellor there with you 24/7, and the goal is to get you through the worst of the withdrawal safely.

That first week was rough. I was given Librium to help with the withdrawal symptoms, which I had tried to face on my own countless times before and failed. The medication made me feel a bit out of it, but it also took the edge off enough to make detox bearable. I spent that week in a fog, but I knew I was in the right place. The counsellors were there, guiding me through it, and the other patients were going through the same thing, which made me feel less alone.

One of the things that surprised me the most was that, despite the cost of the rehab, we had to do our own food shopping. I had imagined meals would be provided, but that wasn’t the case. When you’re in the detox house, a chaperone goes with you to the supermarket to make sure you don’t sneak alcohol into your trolley. It was a strange feeling to be so closely monitored, but also a necessary one. I didn’t trust myself, and neither did they—at least not yet.

After the first week, I moved from the detox house into a regular shared house with other patients. That’s when the real work began. Every day at the centre started early. We’d arrive around 8:30 or 9:00, hand in our journals from the night before, and begin the day with meditation and affirmations. These rituals helped us focus on being present and calm, which was vital during such an emotional and vulnerable time.

The most valuable part of the day for me was group therapy. Sitting in a circle with others who were fighting their own battles was both humbling and comforting. We shared our struggles, our fears, and our hopes. It wasn’t about giving advice to each other—it was about listening and speaking from our own experiences.

I remember one particular session where I brought up the subject of my children. I wasn’t sure whether to tell them I was in rehab. My son is nine, and my daughter is twelve, and some might say they were too young to handle that kind of information. But I wanted to be honest with them. Rehab was teaching me the importance of truth, and I didn’t want to lie to my kids anymore. One woman in the group shared her own experience of telling her children, and it gave me the strength to be open with mine. It turned out to be the best decision I could have made. My kids deserved the truth, and being honest with them allowed me to begin rebuilding my relationship with them from a place of trust.

The structure of rehab helped me immensely. From meditation to creative writing, to even gym sessions, every part of the program was designed to give us tools for dealing with life sober. The weekends gave us a little more freedom, and we’d sometimes go down to the beach. Those small breaks were a reminder of what life could be like without alcohol controlling it.

One of the biggest things I learned was how to manage my triggers. Before rehab, if something went wrong—especially anything involving my ex and the kids—I would turn to alcohol. If my ex cancelled plans and I couldn’t see my children, I’d spiral, drinking to numb the pain. In rehab, I learned to have a Plan B. Now, if I know I’m not going to see the kids, I make other plans. I’ll go to the gym, see my girlfriend, or do something to distract myself.

It was a game-changer for me because I no longer felt powerless when life didn’t go my way. Rehab gave me tools to navigate the hard moments without running to alcohol. It taught me how to pause, take a breath, and choose a different path.

The truth is, rehab saved my life in ways I didn’t even realize I needed saving. It wasn’t just about getting sober; it was about rediscovering who I was underneath all the pain and guilt. And more than that, it gave me something I thought I had lost forever—my children’s trust and the chance to be their dad again.

Before rehab, I was a shadow of the father I wanted to be. I was there, but I wasn’t really there. I was too caught up in my own battles with alcohol, drowning in guilt and shame, to be present for them. Every missed moment, every broken promise, every holiday I ruined—those were scars I thought would never heal. But in rehab, I learned how to forgive myself. I learned that I could be better, not just for myself but for my kids.

Now, when I look at my children, I no longer feel the weight of shame hanging over me. I feel hopeful. I feel like I’m becoming the dad they deserve. I wake up with purpose, knowing that I’m building a future where I can be fully present for them—sober, clear-headed, and full of love.

My children now have a dad who isn’t hiding behind a bottle. They have someone who listens, who shows up, who is engaged with their lives. I can laugh with them, support them, and be there for them in ways I never could before. And I never thought I’d be able to say that. Rehab didn’t just save me—it gave my kids their dad back.

The decision to go to rehab was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it was also the best decision I’ve ever made. Every day now, I’m grateful for that call I made, for walking through those doors in Bournemouth, terrified but ready for change. Rehab gave me the tools to live again. It gave me a second chance at being the man I always wanted to be—a man who is sober, strong, and most importantly, a dad my kids can look up to.

Now, I’m living a life I’m proud of, and my kids have a father they can rely on. And that, to me, is everything.