Sometimes there is no definitive reason, instance, or serious trauma that explains the alluring slip into the murky depths of alcoholism and addiction. One could have all the bases covered, functioning optimally as perceived by the eagle eye of society—yet deep inside, everything awry, as if something were missing.
Kevin G.’s journey reflects a search for something more, offering insight into how this sense of longing is, perhaps, a necessary risk of the human experience. Consider this feeling akin to a seed of purpose, planted quietly and nurtured through time. Its roots may strengthen one’s direction, or slowly erode it, until purpose finally blooms—or something breaks. That seed is powerful, holding within it the potential for change, exploration, and the discovery of meaning—the experience of fulfillment itself. Kevin’s story reminds us that no matter how carefully we plan or design our life’s path, unforeseen circumstances will inevitably alter its course. Through his struggle, he has arrived at a simple but profound truth: You don’t always need to know where you’re going, as long as you’re happy going there.
Kevin grew up in a household where stability was not an abstract concept; it was lived daily. The second of four children and raised by two parents who are still married today, his early life was full of motion, structure, and togetherness. His father worked as a doctor in Orange County for nearly five decades, while his mother managed the demanding task of raising four children. Their days were filled with school drop-offs, sports, and family adventures—skiing trips, desert excursions, summers wakeboarding on the water. Kevin puts it simply, “Man, I was lucky. I had a wonderful childhood.”
Academically, Kevin followed close behind his older brother. They attended high school together, college together, and even played baseball side by side. Eventually, both graduated from Sonoma State, their paths intertwined. His brother had always wanted to become a doctor. Kevin, less certain, hadn’t seriously considered medicine—until an injury provided context for the magic his father worked behind the scenes.
During the summer before his junior year, Kevin broke his foot wakeboarding. The injury was severe, requiring surgery—luckily, his father was well-equipped for the job. For the first time, Kevin saw medicine from a personal perspective. What had once been an abstract profession suddenly proved its tangibility. “I never really understood what he did, then he did the surgery [on me], and I got to see everything. I was like, ‘Alright…this is pretty cool.’”
When his brother began studying for the MCATs, Kevin decided—still uncertain about this career choice—to take them as well. Both brothers passed with flying colors. What had started as a question suddenly became a commitment. Medical school followed quickly. Kevin moved to San Francisco while his brother headed to Kansas City. Four demanding years later, Kevin entered surgical residency at UCLA. There, intensity became the norm. Days began before sunrise and ended long after dark. “The first year was a 100-hour work weeks, and then it slowly got to more than 110.”
What Kevin hadn’t anticipated was how far this reality was from the version of medicine he’d grown up watching. His father’s private practice was focused, personable, and meaningful. Residency in a major hospital system was sprawling, bureaucratic, and disconnected. Surgery was only part of the job. There were emails to answer, conferences to present at, paperwork to manage, and constant exposure to liability. “This isn’t anything like private practice,” Kevin remembers thinking, “this isn’t what I wanted at all.”
As he advanced, the work didn’t simplify—it multiplied. More responsibility meant less freedom. Around him, lawsuits began to surface. A case his father consulted on resulted in litigation. His brother was also sued during his first year out of residency. Then Kevin himself became entangled in an administrative error tied to paperwork bearing his name, despite having done nothing wrong, “I didn’t even do anything, but they were like, ‘That’s your signature.’”
The message felt unmistakable: effort and integrity did not guarantee safety. He was just getting his foot in the door and already facing legal consequences. All of this stirred a deep uncertainty about whether being a surgeon was even what he wanted to do with his life.
At 29, with only one year left, Kevin was forced into a temporary holding pattern while legal issues surrounding the paperwork were litigated. What was meant to be a brief pause became something far more destabilizing. For nearly his entire life, Kevin had moved forward without pause—high school to college, college to medical school, medical school to residency. His days had been dictated down to the hour. Suddenly, that framework vanished. “I went from working 110 hours a week to having nothing to do.”
The silence was loud.
Without purpose anchoring his days, anxiety crept in. Sleep became elusive. His thoughts spiraled. Drinking, which had once been social and contained, became a way to bring some calm, “I just needed something to quiet my head.” One night, driving back from grabbing food near campus, he was arrested for a DUI at exactly the legal limit. Though the charge was pled down, the consequences rippled outward. The future residency opportunity he was waiting for was revoked. “After that, the whole career was off.”
That moment marked a turning point—not just professionally, but emotionally. The career Kevin had invested everything in unraveled in a matter of months. Disappointment turned into anger and anger turned inward. With no clear path forward, Kevin drifted.
What followed was a challenging period of instability and self-discovery. Briefly living back at home, working at Trader Joe’s, trying to regain footing. Pills entered the picture. Arrests followed—first possession, then another, and eventually a third charge carrying felony consequences. Jail time. Probation. Sober living environments that offered little more than shelter. Relapse. “The rollercoaster left the station. It was wild.”
Each consequence compounded on the last, until Kevin found himself facing the possibility of a long jail sentence and felony possession charges after a car accident. It was at this breaking point and after a month in jail that Kevin heard about Beit T’Shuvah.
Unlike his first treatment experience, which he entered for his parents, this time was different. “This time I knew I was done.” He was exhausted—not just physically, but mentally. “I was tired of jail. I was tired of everything. I would do anything for just a chance at normalcy again.”
At Beit T’Shuvah, Kevin encountered something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing: community with direction. People who wanted to be there. People moving forward together. “Everybody here wants to get better,” he says. “Everybody’s moving in the same direction.” Slowly, the mental static softened. For the first time in years, he could sleep—peacefully.
Equally important was the reconnection with his family. During the years he felt stuck, distance had grown between them—not from lack of love, but from shame and stagnation. From the beginning of treatment, Kevin was clear about what mattered most. “I told my treatment team, ‘I’ll be sober. That’s not what I’m worried about. I need to talk to my family again.’” Conversations have begun. Trust is rebuilding.
Looking forward, Kevin doesn’t claim to have all the answers. He’s exploring RADT certification, interested in working in treatment, and is open to returning to school in some capacity. “I don’t know exactly what direction I’m going to go,” he says, “But movement in any direction is better than being stuck.”
Kevin’s story is not about losing everything. It is about discovering that identity cannot survive on momentum alone. The perfect plan does not guarantee fulfillment. When motion stops, what remains must account for inertia. Through recovery, Kevin has learned that peace doesn’t come from certainty, but from alignment. From being able to rest in a calmness of mind. From learning how to live without a crutch.
He may not know exactly where he is going—but he’s okay with that. Kevin wants his sobriety. He wants peace. Beyond that, he’s confident his destiny will reveal itself. That his purpose will become clear in the journey unknown.