How much of yourself can you really give before disappearing completely? Some give their time, effort, trust—their whole heart. Some people miserly guard every piece. But Ari L.? For most of his life, Ari gave everything he had to everyone he could. He put his all into everything and everyone—whether they deserved it or not…and it nearly destroyed him. Now, in recovery at Beit T’Shuvah, Ari is learning the difference between giving until there is nothing left and showing up in a way that keeps him alive. 

Ari grew up just outside Washington, DC, in a tight-knit Jewish family: middle class, educated, rooted in community. It was a quiet house, made loud only by the anxious noise in Ari’s head. He was a brilliant, inquisitive kid who loved to debate the grand questions in life—but somehow something never quite connected. He didn’t mesh with the other kids at his Jewish day school—didn’t know how to navigate the teenage cliques and politics. He did find solace in certain clubs and activities like the Boy Scouts, but even those left him wanting a deeper sense of connection. He often found sanctuary at his Aunt Bobby and Uncle Frank’s house, outside of New York, whose unconditional love throughout his childhood made a deep and lasting impact on him.

Hours in his room, books stacked to the ceiling around him, homework undone, the hands of the clock circling. Teachers labeling him a perfectionist, or saying he wasn’t living up to his potential—but what they didn’t see was the anxiety that left him frozen. “I always knew exactly what I should be doing, but I could never make myself do it. I used to think it would be easier if I was an addict. At least then I’d have a solution.” 

It turns out, he did. College gave Ari an open door into escape. Within weeks of arriving in Wisconsin, Ari—who had never sipped nor puffed—was smoking and drinking daily. Before he knew it, in classic Ari fashion, he threw himself into this lifestyle fully and became a dealer. But he wasn’t your average drug dealer. He was still the generous, kind-hearted Ari we all know and love. His work ethic helped him build the kind of underground network that made him feel useful, needed, and alive. Before long, he became Madison’s nicest drug dealer. Pablo Escobar with a heart of gold. He taught friends how to do what he did. “I had this bad habit as I got older of taking these people who never sold drugs and giving them this kind of roadmap as to how they can do it effectively and efficiently.”

He got people connected, moved them into new apartments, gave them lists of contacts, lent out jars and grinders like party favors. Ari was building an underground network of ethical drug peddlers—a kindness cartel. For a while, it worked. For a while, it made sense.

But addiction always wants everything you’ve got. And when Ari found opiates, he found the ultimate off switch for his mind. “It was the first time I didn’t have that constant shame spiral. It was quiet.” Quiet turned to chaos. For twenty years, he rode the line between functioning and falling apart. He became immersed in the live music scene—naturally seeped in more drug use. But it was a community—and that’s what he had sought for decades. He watched as relationships imploded before his eyes. Two in particular. One, with his on-and-off-again girlfriend in what would be a highly volatile relationship time and time again. The other was a short-term girlfriend turned long-term friend, Jori, whom he would eventually shepherd to the doors of Beit T’Shuvah. In no small part, helped save her life. To this day, they remain close as ever. She is now staff at Beit T’Shuvah and has the overwhelming privilege to see a new version of Ari than the one she knew back in Madison. 

But it would take multiple tragedies for Ari to get to that place. This place. One of the last of which—his personal rock bottom—was when he found his friend on the floor dead of an overdose. The cops didn’t bother to search his home. If they did, they would have found “felonies everywhere.” The law never really caught up with him, but grief did.

It took that loss for Ari to finally reach out for help. Through the Worldwide Jewish Network, his family found Beit T’Shuvah—the perfect fit for their nice Jewish son. He knew the second he got here that this was a place like none other. “This place is full of people who have been there. It’s not just sympathy, it’s empathy.” The first time Ari came to Beit T’Shuvah, (unlike many people whose stays have to be labeled as “their first time”), he actually, truly, deeply, wanted to get better. 

But when he got a call from his on-and-off-again girlfriend that she was pregnant, everything changed. He started planning his exit, rebuilding their relationship. He would FaceTime with her and her young son, who already thought of Ari as a father, every day. So, against the advice of his treatment team, he left Beit T’Shuvah after a couple of months and returned to Madison. Throughout the pregnancy, there was always an itching feeling in Ari’s head, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. It gnawed. Gnawed until the baby was born, he found out what it was. She had lied. It wasn’t his. “I was looking at that paternity test result, that 0% chance and said, ‘fuck it.’ So, I relapsed. I had always said that if I relapsed, I’d come back here,” and he held that promise. 

Through everything, Ari had remained in constant contact with Beit T’Shuvah’s Family Program Director, Jill Rosenberg. He had met her when his family participated in a family immersion. After that, she became one of his main sources of support—even being one of the first he made when he got the paternity news and when he relapsed. A piece of him may have always known he would need this place again. When he did, Beit T’Shuvah welcomed him with open arms.

Since that day, Ari has become the kind of warm presence you feel when you walk through Beit T’Shuvah’s doors. He’s the guy who’s around when you need to vent, the one who helps set up systems to keep the house running smoothly, the one pushing for new ideas. He does everything from setting up the sanctuary for various events to transliterating Hebrew to helping with the kitchen and writing groups—it is hard to name a department he doesn’t assist. On any given day, you can come up to him and say, “Thank you,” and you’d be right to do so. He knows what it’s like to be the stuck kid with a head full of potential and nowhere to put it. He knows what it’s like to be the adult who can’t stop using, no matter how much you want to. He knows what it’s like to be frozen with his hands tied behind his back—but has now dedicated himself to freeing others the way he’s been.

“Part of me is actually proud of myself. I know my family is. It’s so hard not to belittle that and let that be overshadowed by my sister, who got into Yale early admission, is an MD, PhD, who is a Jewish doctor, married to a Jewish doctor, and the first thing I’ve done right is graduate drug school at age 42.” I could tell in the soft tone he spoke and the light in his eye that the pride was there. 

Despite Ari’s abundance of humility, he has earned recognition in this community. Just this week, he was hired as Beit T’Shuvah’s Clinical Notetaker and Room Czar (jobs that were created specifically for him). 

Ari is proof that it’s never too late to rewrite a story you were convinced was set in stone. That you can be brilliant, anxious, loyal, stubborn—and find a place that can hold all of it, and show you how to hold it yourself. Ari proves that you can be there for yourself, your family, and your community—all while graduating “drug school” sober cum laude.

Today, Ari’s not trying to disappear—hand all of himself away like the giving tree stump. He’s not trying to fix everyone around him just so he can feel like he matters. Ari’s being of service—exemplifying it—showing us all every single day what being there for your fellow human looks like. What love looks like. He doesn’t just give. He gives back. He doesn’t just give of himself. He gives back to himself. 

Ari, I have no idea what seemingly insurmountable task you accomplished that made the rest of our days easier, but I speak for the whole Beit T’Shuvah community when I say: Thank you.

And for God’s sake, get some rest. 

Spotlight on Ari L. written by Jesse Solomon

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