Christopher H. used to measure his worth in highlights. Touchdowns, pats on the back, the nods of approval from teammates and coaches—he lived for the moments when the crowd roared and his name was the one on their lips. A star quarterback with a natural charisma, he had a knack for fitting in everywhere, for making people like him. But being liked isn’t the same as being known, and being accepted isn’t the same as belonging. It took Beit T’Shuvah for Christopher to learn the difference.
If you had met Christopher in high school, you’d have thought he had it all—the most charming kid in his hometown of Sunnyvale, California. He was the affable, confident athlete who could sit at any lunch table. “I was friendly with everybody, but I never really considered myself having a lot of friends” He was the guy who thrived in the structured meritocracy of sports. If you succeed—instant affection, instant respect. He craved that validation. It was his oxygen and he was breathing deeply.
But off the field, the cracks started to show. A little weed here, a little drinking there. He liked pushing the boundaries, seeing what he could get away with. When he got kicked out of his first high school, it wasn’t for lack of talent. When a classmate of his got caught with weed in his car, Christopher decided to take the fall for it. “I thought that’s what we did,” he says now, shaking his head. “Turns out, we both got kicked out.” Losing football was a gut punch, but eventually, he found his way to a new school, a new stadium, and a crowd of adoring fans.
After high school, when he wasn’t recruited by a D1 College Football team, he decided to go to junior college to give himself a better shot. He ended up spending that year, drinking, slacking off, and skipping class. One day, after getting blackout drunk at a Giants game, Christopher ran into the street and was hit by a car going 40 miles per hour. He later woke in the hospital, having no idea what had happened. Leg snapped in half—almost having to be amputated—dozens of skull and facial fractures, a subdural hematoma, and no inkling that he had a problem. His football dreams? Over. His identity? Gone. And he had no concept of how to rebuild.
Christopher did what he always did: he adapted. If he couldn’t be an athlete, he’d be the life of the party. At Chico State, he managed to balance school with drinking—until he didn’t. The first DUI was a red flag, but he ignored it—drunkenly driving past it like he did most things at the time. The second? He doesn’t remember rolling his car four times a mile off the Golden Gate Bridge, but the totaled wreckage said enough.
Even then, he still thought he had it under control. He was working at Sephora, drinking on the job, convinced he was “balancing things.” But he wasn’t. He was just losing slower than before. “I was drinking because I was unhappy, and I was unhappy because I was drinking…and around and around we go.” His life was going nowhere fast. Parents unable to help him—unable to stomach their boy’s disease. Helpless. Hopeless. They knew they couldn’t enable his behavior anymore. So, they set strict rules for him—all of which Christopher broke like toothpicks in the mouth of a T-Rex. Eventually, his folks knew he needed help greater than they could give him. IOP here. Court-card caused AA meeting here. Christopher wasn’t in it for the recovery—he was in it for the looks…but slowly the itching idea that he had a problem started to gnaw at his brain.
One day, sitting outside his apartment drinking, Christopher met a Chabad rabbi who invited him to wrap tefillin. Right there, in his garage, he had a bar mitzvah at age 30. Two months later, a random Israeli woman at Sephora put her hand on his forehead, gave him a blessing, and walked away. Seconds later, his mom’s friend texted him about Beit T’Shuvah. “That was the most spiritual experience of my life. I looked around like…what is happening?”
Christopher came to Beit T’Shuvah for the first time with one goal: stop drinking. Sounds good, right? Wrong. Because although he planned on not drinking he didn’t plan on changing much else. He left after four months, convinced he could figure it out on his own. Before he descended the steps out of Beit T’Shuvah, former interim community rabbi, Rabbi Joseph told him, “Don’t leave before the miracle happens.” Four months later, he was right back where he started, drowning in relapse and shame. He called Rabbi Joseph drunk one night, burst into tears, and cried, “Rabbi…I left before the miracle happened.” Christopher looked at his feet.
Fourth and goal. Seconds on the clock. Rock bottom.
In his hands—a phone calling Beit T’Shuvah.
“I came back defeated, but ready. I couldn’t do it my way anymore. I had to do it their way. Once I finally walked through the steps, I thought, ‘Now I have a chance again.’” Acceptance isn’t easy for someone who spent his whole life trying to be the best, the fastest, the most successful. But this time, Christopher started embracing the quiet victories. He didn’t need to be the star anymore. He found joy in ensemble roles—in choir, Freedom Song, and interning in the Film Department. He played golf at the BTS Open not to win, but to give back to BTS. For the first time, being in the middle of the pack wasn’t terrifying. It was peaceful.
“I feel 1,000% accepted here. Here, I got to be the person I actually want to be. And I learned that people like that guy. They want that guy around.”
So, who is Christopher today?
“I’m everybody’s favorite teammate,” he says first. Then he catches himself—old Christopher talking.
He takes a breath. “I’m a kind, gentle, hopeless romantic who, to a fault, believes everything is possible as long as I stay sober.”
Christopher spent his whole life believing he had to be the best to belong. But today, Christopher knows something better. Belonging isn’t something you win. It’s something you accept.