Ari F. is one of those absolutely perfect models of someone who is exactly who you would least expect him to be. He is a wizard when it comes to flying under the radar, a true ninja of addiction. He has had a serious journey to the other side and back, and Ari is exceptionally lucky to be alive and able to tell his story to this day. He has journeyed from the acceptable highs of Silicon Valley career prosperity to the dissonant lows of Oakland street life criminal enterprises—and everything in between. In many senses, Ari has almost always been successful, even at his lowest points, which says a lot about him as a person. He is exceptionally capable, driven, intelligent, gentle, kind, and caring—and has been fighting a complicated battle for many decades. Ari is a true soldier of addiction who lives to tell the tale. How could he have known a back injury would take him on a twenty-plus-year ride to hell and back…So who is he really?
“I’d say I’m a complex, multilayered human being—curious, intelligent, open-minded. I’m someone who comes from a loving family, but I’m still figuring out who I am. It’s a lifelong process, I’m also an addict,” he adds, pausing, “But mostly, I consider myself a very good-hearted, kind, empathetic, loving, and compassionate human being. I like talking to people. I’m a good listener. I think there’s a lot of depth to me.” And I couldn’t agree more.
Growing up in Piedmont, California, the youngest of three with a significant age difference (his older siblings have a decade plus on him). Ari experienced a childhood filled with love and stability, shaped significantly by his Israeli mother, pediatrician father, and his Romanian grandparents, who lived in a cottage on their property. “They were instrumental in my childhood,” he says, reflecting on their influence. But that stability was disrupted when his parents divorced at the age of ten. The upheaval threw his life into chaos, forcing him to move to Fremont to live with his father. He recalls, “That divorce was the first life-changing moment for me. It threw everything into chaos. It was really ugly.”
Junior high proved challenging. Moving from a small, affluent school to a large, working-class public school brought culture shock, bullying, and isolation. High school did little to provide structure. He fell into drinking and pot use—his father, a doctor who was constantly working, left him with a lot of time to himself. By sophomore year, he was sent to boarding school in Calistoga, near Napa. There, he learned to adapt socially, to fit in, and to navigate environments that demanded quick thinking and performance. “I got really good at saying what people wanted to hear, manipulating, fitting in,” he recalls. Even as his life became increasingly fragmented—commuting between Piedmont and high school, navigating his father’s second divorce, and living independently as a teenager—he felt the presence of love and support from his family, “Through it all, though, I was showered with love,” he recalls, “I’ve never lacked love from my parents or grandparents.” By senior year in high school, Ari was living alone in his own apartment, a very non-traditional way of living for a 17-year-old. Needless to say, he was quite popular given the raging house parties.
After high school, his focus on academics waned. He worked odd jobs, drifted through junior college, and endured his first major heartbreak when his girlfriend of 6 years left him at the age of 22, “That breakup was massive. It forced me to take stock, to change,” he reflects. It was a turning point that pushed him to pursue a degree in Communications at UC Davis. Though he admits he was mostly skimming through, the experience instilled a sense that he could accomplish more if he applied himself. The final year of college marked another pivotal moment: an injury resulting in a herniated disc led to an MRI revealing severe disc degeneration for his age, meaning his spinal discs were deteriorating earlier than normal, which is uncommon for someone so young. This led to a prescription for Vicodin, 600 pills, and with it, the first taste of substance-induced relief, “The pills made all the dissonance in my life go away,” he says. That experience would later blossom into a complicated pattern of addiction that would shadow his early adulthood.
After college, he entered the workforce, first in commercial real estate and then at a software company in Emeryville, California. But career success did little to curb his growing substance use. Cocaine, alcohol, and opiates became a daily presence. He even began calling in his own prescriptions for Norco, a practice he learned from his father’s medical routines. Eventually, he escalated further, using a triplicate prescription pad to obtain OxyContin—an act that would eventually be discovered by his father, forcing him into his first rehab in 2006.
Recovery, however, proved fleeting. When he left rehab, he faced the fallout of exposure—friends, family, and colleagues were all aware of his addiction—and the woman he had pursued treatment for broke up with him. He continued using, moving between sober living, detox programs, and temporary stints in different cities. A brief period of stability in the Bay Area was undermined by Klonopin and OxyContin use, which he describes as “horrific misery,” a mix of constant intoxication and relentless withdrawal.
By his early thirties, he had become highly skilled in navigating the drug system, manipulating doctors and prescriptions, and ultimately turning to injection use. The experience brought new dangers and deeper dependency, a cycle that he describes with chilling clarity: “Looking back, most of what I did was about avoiding withdrawals rather than chasing a high. Human beings are wired more to avoid pain than to seek pleasure, and that’s what drove me.”
Despite multiple rehab attempts in California and Florida, relapses were frequent. Life oscillated between temporary employment, sober living arrangements, and the ever-present lure of prescription drugs, heroin, cocaine. Relationships formed during these periods, such as one with a woman named Katie, offered brief glimpses of stability, but addiction undermined everything. Each relapse brought emotional devastation and material loss, culminating in a life that spiraled toward chaos.
In West Oakland, sleeping in his car and surviving through a combination of street savvy and opportunism, “I was okay with that life—as long as I had drugs and protection,” he says, recalling the precarious existence that had become normalized.
From 2015 to 2017, he operated on the margins of society, engaging in theft and drug transactions. He became a regular in West Oakland’s Acorn District, a neighborhood notorious for its open drug market and rough reputation. There, he forged a relationship with a local man named Mr. X , who acted as both mentor and gatekeeper. He supervised the maintenance of the entire complex and knew everyone in the area. For him, Mr. X became both a provider and protector: in exchange for bringing alcohol and food from high-end stores—Grey Goose, Cristal, Perrier-Jouët, even frozen steaks and prawns—he received heroin.
The routine was methodical. He would steal bottles of alcohol from Safeway, sometimes walking out with fifteen or sixteen at a time, then deliver them to X, who ensured he had both the drugs and protection he needed. “Man, the hyenas come out at night,” he would warn in his deep, bassy voice, “You gotta be careful.” For him, the protection mattered as much as the drugs; it was a fragile lifeline in a life that teetered on the edge.
Despite the danger and the criminality, he found a strange sense of order within the chaos. It was a life lived entirely in the moment, a relentless pursuit of the next high, the next fix, the next survival step.
By 2019, his substance use had escalated further with heroin, crack, methadone, and the emergence of fentanyl. Encounters with tragedy—including the death of a close romantic partner in recovery—compounded his struggles, leading to serious health consequences such as metabolic encephalopathy and repeated overdoses. He was found unresponsive multiple times and spent extended periods in intensive care. Yet, despite the severity of his addiction and the frequency of near-death experiences, he survived.
Throughout this period, he remained aware that something had to change. He recalls, “For the last couple of years, I’ve known that until I find some meaning and purpose—something bigger than myself to work toward—I can’t really feel lucky to be alive.” That awareness, coupled with a series of health crises and repeated interventions, ultimately set the stage for a transformative return to treatment.
In late 2021, after a series of near-fatal overdoses and hospitalizations, he returned to Los Angeles under the care of his father. It was a pivotal moment—he had been to dozens of detoxes and rehab programs over the years, endured grand mal seizures from benzo withdrawals, and faced death more times than he could count. Yet, in the midst of this darkness, he discovered an opportunity that would change everything: the chance to return to Beit T’Shuvah.
“I didn’t know if I’d be allowed back,” he recalls. “I thought I might have to go elsewhere, maybe Tarzana. But when I learned I could come back, everything changed. In that moment, I knew this was my chance. They let me back in. This is it for me.”
This return marked a fundamental shift in his approach to recovery. Unlike previous attempts, which he often “backed into” reluctantly, this was a conscious, active decision. “I hit the ground running this time,” he says, “I had never made a decision before to stop. I had either backed into it or it was just happening. This was different—it was cognitive, intentional.”
Ari describes walking through the doors and immediately sensing the difference. Seeing familiar faces, people who had been through similar struggles, sparked hope. “They can do it, I thought. Maybe I can too.” For the first time, he felt that he could not only survive recovery but thrive within it.
At Beit T’Shuvah, he has found a community that fosters identity, belonging, and authentic support. His treatment team, including counselors Jeremy and Jessica, and Cantor Rebecca, has provided undeniably crucial guidance and care that he describes as “profound.” “I feel like a different person for the first time in years,” he says.
Recovery, he explains, became not just about abstaining from substances, but about rediscovering purpose and meaning in life. “For the last couple of years, I’ve known that until I find something bigger than myself to work toward, I can’t really feel lucky to be alive. I hadn’t felt that way until now. I feel lucky because I have something to live for. I’ve regained so much of the person I used to be.”
Through this journey, Ari is realizing the power of turning personal struggle into service for others, working as a PF, “I feel incredibly blessed to be here, helping people. Every day, I wake up with genuine gratitude—not metaphorically, but really.” For him, recovery is deeply tied to authenticity and connection. Previous careers in real estate and sales never fulfilled him. “Selling a product isn’t the same as helping someone live or find life. That’s the most authentic work there is.” His path toward becoming a therapist is now tangible—a calling born from both suffering and resilience.
Family support remains central. He credits his parents with instilling empathy, intellect, and a love of learning, and his older brother Nathan for always demanding he live up to his potential. Their unwavering presence provides both grounding and motivation, “I wouldn’t be here without them” he says, “They’ve been by my side through everything, unconditionally”.
Today, he embraces life with a level of gratitude and presence that was previously unimaginable. The intersection of timing, place, and personal resolve at Beit T’Shuvah became the catalyst for transformation, proving that even after years of chaos and near-death experiences, recovery is possible when one finds the right environment, the right support, and the commitment to truly change.
Since returning to Beit T’Shuvah, he has experienced a profound shift—not just in sobriety, but in perspective, purpose, and self-understanding. “For the first time, I really feel like my path to becoming a therapist is open again,” he shares. “I wake up every day with genuine gratitude—not metaphorically, but really.”
The years of chaos, loss, and near-death experiences have shaped him, but they no longer define him. He has found meaning in helping others, using his lived experience as a bridge to connect with those struggling with addiction. “I feel like my story, everything I’ve gone through, can help someone else. If I can turn what I’ve been through into something positive, then it all has purpose,” he says. “Otherwise, it would have all been for nothing.”
He reflects on the contrast between his former life—working in real estate and sales, chasing material success—and his current calling. “I’ve always liked working with people. Selling a product isn’t the same as helping someone live or find life. That’s the most authentic work there is,” he explains. His journey toward a career in therapy is both personal and professional, driven by empathy and the desire to transform hardship into healing for others.
From the brink of devastation to the promise of meaningful work, Ari embodies the truth that recovery is possible and that even the darkest paths can lead to light. He is living proof that no matter how far someone falls, it is always possible to rise, rebuild, and create a life worth living—not just for oneself, but for others as well.