John Peter “JP” F.’s life has been a symphony of highs and lows, with the bassline of his story holding steady through decades of music, heartbreak, and resilience. At 60 years old, JP is a retired set dresser, lifelong touring bassist, and devoted father. Today, he calls Beit T’Shuvah home—a place he describes as “the last house on the block” for his recovery…his coda.
Born in Pasadena, but raised in Toronto, JP’s childhood was an unlikely blend of city life and rugged summers on his grandparents’ Arizona cattle ranch. It was a place where he could roam freely, chasing insects and learning the quiet lessons of nature. “I grew up walking through Walnut Canyon with a BB gun in one hand and a butterfly net in the other.” He was captain of his hockey team and the team’s star scorer. As the years passed, the freedom he once cherished gave way to rebellion and addiction, eventually leading him down a path of chaos and regret. But even in those early days, dissonance crept into his melody. At 15, after beginning to smoke weed with an older crowd of boys, the pull of rebellion cost him his hockey captaincy. He never expected the losses that were yet to come.
A natural talent, JP discovered music in grade six and never looked back, becoming a touring musician by the time he was 18. He played in punk bands, joined Dr. Hook, and traveled the world. “At the time, it felt like I was living the dream.” Beneath the surface, JP’s life was fraying. Once he befriended a heroin smuggler from Thailand, he dove headfirst and started “riding the white horse.” Fullspeed. Touring around the world, doing dope, playing music, doing dope, tour, music, dope—addiction followed him everywhere. As it lurked, it quietly grew from experimentation to dependency. “I thought it was cool. Keith Richards and all the jazz musicians were doing it…but heroin is the king of them all…and it took everything away before I even realized it.”
JP met his wife at a Portuguese social club in Vancouver. He claims he was there because “the beer was cheap.” But to me, it sounds like he was meant to be there—a chance encounter of fate. She was everything he admired: kind, grounded, and full of life. But as their relationship deepened, so did their struggles. It wasn’t long before his wife began using heroin as well. What started as an escape spiraled quickly, leaving the couple in financial ruin. “We pawned everything…even her engagement ring,” JP recalls with deep regret. The weight of their addiction eventually drove them apart, with both entering separate rehabs and splitting up for two years. But sobriety offered them a second chance.
JP moved to Los Angeles when an opportunity arose to become a set dresser. He lived in a warehouse and started to do well for himself. When his wife heard this, he came to visit him…and never left. Reunited, they built a new life together and raised their daughter in a home saturated with love. “We had our struggles, but those years together were some of the best of my life.”
This is when his life hit its lowest note. Tragically, JP’s wife was diagnosed with cancer, and he faced it with unwavering determination, caring for her through countless appointments, treatments, and the pain of hospice care at home. “I tried everything to help her.” He even started growing marijuana in the hopes that it would ease her suffering. But as the illness progressed, the weight of her impending death became unbearable. JP turned to alcohol to cope, and his grief soon pulled him back into the grip of addiction. “When she was dying, she called me into her room and wanted me to go to rehab.”
Her death devastated him, leaving him untethered and spiraling further. He sold their home and ended up living in his car, driving aimlessly through the streets, lost in grief and substances. Eventually, he moved to Seattle to take care of his mother. Somehow he juggled caretaking and becoming the driver for big-time Honduran and Vietnamese drug dealers. “I looked at it like I was doing research for my novel or something.”
Over the next few years, he cycled through multiple treatment centers, each offering brief glimpses of hope that were often snuffed out by relapse. “I didn’t think I’d ever find my way back.” Even in his darkest moments, he held onto the faint hope that something—or somewhere—might lead him to a new life. That’s when he first heard about Beit T’Shuvah.
Beit T’Shuvah offered JP a different kind of chance. “It wasn’t like any other place I’d been. They didn’t just focus on sobriety—they helped me understand the grief, the trauma, and the patterns I’d been avoiding my whole life. For him, recovery has been as much about connection as it has been about healing. What spoke to him the most? You guessed it—the music. “The music here lifted me when nothing else could,” he says, reflecting on his first Shabbat service. “It gave me hope that I wasn’t too far gone.” Going from a life of having music intertwined with drugs to now being immersed in a community where music is synonymous with healing has changed JP’s perspective on his entire life. “Music is all about listening—knowing when to come in, when to stay out, and when to let someone else take the lead. Recovery is the same. You can’t do it alone. You’ve got to trust the people around you, even when it feels uncomfortable.”
Therapy, spiritual guidance, and the supportive community have also played key roles in his transformation. “The people here—staff and residents—walk the walk. They don’t just talk about change; they live it.”
On his very first Shabbat Service—his first day clean—he thought to himself, “Maybe if I work hard enough at this, they’ll let me sit in with the band on a song or two.” You can now catch JP playing the bass every Friday night, radiating joy and love to a crowd of adoring congregants.
JP’s story challenges us all to confront our struggles, trust the process, and find harmony in the chaos, knowing that a better melody is always possible. Even in life’s darkest moments, the music never truly stops. All it takes is the courage to find the song in your heart, pick up the instrument, and play again.