The last time I held a drink in my hand, I was 36.

That was 22 years ago, yesterday.

It’s important to remember all the things that brought me to that moment — the garbage dump at the end of an airport runway, the car in a ditch at the side of the road, the people I hurt through withdrawal and selfish acts of neediness — but what’s more interesting to me today is what has happened since.

An MFA in playwriting from Columbia.

Making films for work that end up in the MOMA archives.

A relationship with a woman that has endured the ups and downs of 21 years of imperfection because it is anchored in love and a commitment to try to be better — always.

Two boys who fight and laugh and get excited about music and sports and going to the 7-11 to get Slurpees after dinner.

A sister, two brothers, and a mom who show up for each other between all the other things they do in life.

A career that is rooted in relationships and is motivated by trying to be of the most service I can possibly be in any moment to those around me.

A mother-in-law who handed me the keys to the barbecue on her back porch in Ashland, Oregon some 19 years ago and comes over to dinner on Sunday nights.

A group of people I can call and reach out to when I’m going crazy at three minutes after midnight.

That’s the stuff that really interests me because I didn’t see any of it coming 22 years ago. Back then all I knew was the sound of the smallest voice from within saying, Enough. (Quietly, firmly, thoroughly.)

And that was enough to make room for all that’s happened since.