Kelsey Daniels grew up poor in Connecticut, one of three kids, chasing an athletic scholarship as her whole identity and her only path out. She was molested at eight, sexually assaulted at sixteen, and — in the aftermath — slut-shamed by classmates and even her own family, until she quietly absorbed the belief that the abuse was somehow her fault.

That belief followed her to college, where a professor's offhand pitch about "sugar dating" pulled her into a world she didn't understand until she was deep inside it. What started as a way to feel some control over her own body turned into exploitation, coercion, and being trafficked — passed between men who told her she was owned. For years she saw it as her own doing.

It wasn't. This is the story of how Kelsey came to understand what was actually done to her, how she got out, and how she rebuilt a life and an identity that finally belong to her. Today she's sober, healing, and using her voice so other survivors know it was never their fault — and that there's a way out.

This is a hard, honest conversation about trauma, exploitation, and reclaiming your life.

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Matt Handy was the oldest of ten kids, raised in a strict religious home in San Diego — and living a double life almost from the start. He smoked weed at 13 the night his youngest sibling was born, tried crack within a month, and was shooting heroin by 17. A felony arrest in high school slammed the door on his plan to become a lawyer, and from there his life accelerated into a world most people only see in movies.

He ran a nationwide retail-theft ring that took him through 38 states in 11 months, got involved in gang life, and cycled in and out of prison. It culminated the day after Christmas 2020, when — a daily user of meth, heroin, PCP, and more — he walked into a bank and robbed it, then told the FBI he had a bomb. He was facing 33 years and two strikes.

Matt walks through all of it: the sexual abuse that shaped his childhood, the 14 years he went without speaking to his family, getting sober, relapsing after three and a half years, and finally finding his way back. Now 2.5 years sober, he's using everything he survived to help other people find a way out.

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From the outside, Allie Serea had it all together — good grades, a masters degree, a corporate job at a major company, an easy way with people, and a reputation as the fun party girl. On the inside, she describes crawling out of her skin, hating who she was, and feeling like an empty shell every Monday after another blacked-out weekend.

Allie was never a daily drinker. She was a high-functioning binge drinker — the kind who could go weeks without a drink, then take one at a party and not stop until 6am. For years that let her tell herself she didn't really have a problem, especially when everyone around her in college and corporate life was drinking exactly the same way. Underneath it was childhood trauma she wouldn't fully face until she got sober, and a body she never felt safe in.

Her story isn't one of arrests or overdoses. It's the quieter, more common one: geographic moves that never fixed anything, a new city and a new relationship that never fixed anything, and the slow realization that the problem followed her everywhere because the problem was the thing she was running from inside. After a decade of trying to moderate, she finally got sober a year and a half ago — and found that the real work, the trauma healing and the rebuilding of an identity, was only just beginning.

Now 19 months sober, Allie is a recovery and healing content creator who talks openly about inner-child work, nervous-system regulation, and building a life so full you don't want to escape it. This one is for anyone who looks fine on paper and is quietly struggling underneath.

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Andrew Gautreau grew up in a middle-class Louisiana family — a dad who built his own business and a mother who worked in child services, sometimes bringing him along as she pulled kids out of crack houses and placed them in foster care. He saw exactly what drugs did to families before he ever touched them. He went anyway.

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Jonah Fingerhood had a nearly perfect childhood in New Hampshire — until he was 16 and lost his older brother to substance abuse. A year later, a skateboarding accident and a compound fracture put a bottle of Percocet in his hands, and the pain of that grief, followed by his father's cancer diagnosis, finally had somewhere to go. He describes the first time he crushed and snorted a pill as the moment he'd "arrived" the feeling he wanted to chase for the rest of his life.

That chase took everything. Percocet became heroin, heroin became a needle, and a move to Philadelphia and then Florida accelerated it all. By the summer of 2014 he was homeless on the streets of Miami, sleeping in a chair in Bayfront Park, panhandling every morning just to stave off withdrawal, and calling his father for hotel money he'd spend on dope. He survived an overdose that left him in a coma for a week. He cycled through arrests, rehabs, and relapses, and by October of 2019 — heartbroken, back on the streets, and certain he was too far gone — he had all but given up.

Two things pulled him back: seeing a friend he'd been homeless with return from rehab completely transformed, and a fifty-something man in a state-funded rehab who had been coming back to that same program since before Jonah was born. Jonah decided he refused to become that man. He got sober on January 10th, 2020 — a date that, unbeknownst to him at the time, was the same day he'd later mark as the anniversary of his father's death.

Now 6 years sober, Jonah went from being turned down by every employer because of his felonies to building a career, starting as a driver's helper at UPS the same day he left rehab. This is a story about grief, hitting the absolute bottom, and the hope that finally broke through.

#RiseAbove #HeroinRecovery #FentanylRecovery #6YearsSober #RecoveryIsPossible #AddictionRecovery#SoberLife #OpioidRecovery #HomelessToHopeful #MensRecovery #SobrietyJourney #MentalHealth#RiseAbovePodcast #KevinLanning #JonahFingerhood #OverdoseSurvivor #GriefAndRecovery #SecondChances #NeverTooFarGone #OneMoreThing

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Chris Broby grew up in Sarasota, Florida, in a good middle-class home — hardworking parents who built a furniture business, no trauma, no abuse. But he always felt a little like the black sheep, a small kid looking for a way to fit in, and when alcohol showed up in his early teens it filled that space instantly. By his senior year of high school, a Roxy at a party made him feel, in his words, the way he was always supposed to feel — and that was the beginning.

What followed was a fast, brutal slide into opioid addiction, made worse by a string of deaths in a matter of weeks — a close friend killed crossing a road, his uncle, his old rowing coach — that piled grief on top of a young man already numbing everything he felt. He details a decade-plus odyssey through the pill mills of Florida, wilderness programs and Hazelden, sober livings full of unforgettable characters, Suboxone and Xanax, spice and kratom, and the self-corrected relapses in between. It culminates in a harrowing night during COVID — drinking beyond recognition, his memory in pieces — when police showed up at his door at four in the morning and his gun went off. No one was hurt, he was never charged, and dropping to his knees in his apartment afterward, he knew something had to give.

The redemption is the best part. Chris turned the exact thing that nearly killed him into his purpose, building a career in medical and toxicology sales in the drug-testing world — his hard-won knowledge of addiction becoming, as he puts it, the first time he saw God working in his life. This is a raw, funny, wide-ranging conversation about grief, identity, and finding meaning on the other side.

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Michaela DeGier grew up in a close, loving family just outside Cambridge, Ontario — high school sweetheart parents still together after decades, three tight-knit siblings, summers in the forest behind the house. Her little brother was the baby of the family: the uncle who'd sit at a tiny table and have tea parties with his two-year-old niece, present at every birthday and holiday.

Today he's in his early thirties and has been in active addiction for over a decade.

This is a conversation about what addiction does to the people who love an addict — the family members Michaela calls the silent sufferers. She talks with unflinching honesty about the guilt she still carries from being the one who first smoked weed with him, the slow-dawning realization that her sister's missing Percocets meant something was wrong, the chaos of the family scrambling to force him into rehab, the relapses, and the heartbreak of watching him choose the street over the family that's right down the road.

Most of all, it's about her own healing: learning that she couldn't shame him or love him into recovery, that tough love and boundaries aren't the same thing, and that the only thing she can be for her brother right now is his sister — with boundaries firmly in place, and the door still open.

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Mike Morgan spent 30 years in law enforcement — a decade of it working the most violent part of one of the most violent cities in America. On his very first shift, he saw two homicides in five hours. He describes a career of natural deaths, suicides, fatal car accidents, and children he couldn't save — and the armor he'd started building as a kid, growing up with a hypercritical, verbally abusive father, only got thicker with every scene.

That armor had a cost. Mike traces his addiction back to the pills he was prescribed as a teenager and the painkillers that made him feel, for the first time, like everything was okay. Over the years tramadol became the thing that held him together — until it was pulling him apart. At his worst he was taking as many as 55 pills a day and suffered nine seizures, including one in a GameStop and one that slammed his face into a countertop, before he finally looked at his ex-wife and said the words he'd avoided for years: I need help.

He got sober in 2012 — reportedly one of the first people his insurance company had ever sent to rehab for tramadol. But sobriety was only half the story. After being medically retired, the anger and grief he'd channeled into the job for three decades had nowhere to go, and a nervous breakdown forced him to finally face the PTSD he'd carried for years. This episode goes into the healing work that followed, including his experience with plant-based medicine.

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Indee Fields was four years old the first time she watched her mother hide from witches that weren't there. Her mom was smoking crack. By ten, Indee was the one running the household — bathing and feeding her younger siblings, breaking up the violence between her mother and stepfather, and calling the police when she was told to, only to be blamed for it the next morning. The rule was simple: you don't tell anyone what happens in this house.

This is a raw conversation about what it actually does to a child to grow up as the parent in their own home — the hypervigilance, the caretaking, the way chaos starts to feel like the only thing you know how to operate in. It's also a story of breaking the cycle: how Indee got out, what she's unlearning, and the father who got sober and reminded her of her own worth.

For every adult still carrying what they survived as a kid — this one's for you.

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Sydney Steele was prescribed Ritalin at five years old, just as she was finishing preschool. From there came Concerta, Vyvanse, and Adderall — a stimulant cycle that ran nearly nonstop through her childhood, alongside psychiatric diagnoses she now believes were largely a reaction to the medication itself.

She made it through Syracuse as an illustration major with a real gift and a growing art business — while binge drinking and discovering she loved pills. Then she tried ketamine. A friend had warned her she'd never be able to handle it. He was right. She describes it as the drug she'd been looking for her whole life, and within a few years her tolerance was, in her words, like a 700-pound man's.

What almost nobody talks about is what ketamine does to the body. Sydney does. She describes cramps that escalated into 72 hours of pain so severe she was screaming through a heating pad, five ER visits in a single year, and a urologist warning her she was headed for surgery — all while holding a 200-pill Klonopin prescription from a psychiatrist she'd told, in plain words, that she was using every day.

Her mother noticed a prescription refill Sydney never picked up. That was the thread that pulled her into treatment. Today Sydney is nearly two years sober, president of the Caron Alumni Association, and back to making the art she loves.

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#RiseAbove #KetamineAddiction #Ketamine #AddictionRecovery #RecoveryIsPossible #WomenInRecovery#2YearsSober #SoberLife #Caron #PrescribedYoung #ADHDMedication #SobrietyJourney #MentalHealth#KetamineRecovery #RiseAbovePodcast #KevinLanning #SydneySteele #OverPrescribed #SoberCurious#OneMoreThing

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