I Believe You. Because You’ve Been There.

It’s not about me. It’s about not sitting alone.

I remember that morning at the sobering station.

I was shaking so badly I couldn’t lift the cup of grape juice to my mouth. I had no idea what had happened. I didn’t know if I was in trouble, what I’d say at home, what I’d say at work. My head was empty, my stomach was turning, and the only clear thought I had was: I need to stop at the store. A small flask. Steady the shaking. Then walk into the bar like everything’s normal.

This was my second time waking up there.

The attendant told me that during the night he hadn’t believed the breathalyzer. I’d blown close to four per mille, three times. But I’d been speaking fluently. I hadn’t vomited. I hadn’t soiled myself. They didn’t need to restrain me. He said we’d had a perfectly normal conversation.

I didn’t remember any of it.

The police had brought me in. I’d fallen asleep on a park bench and resisted being taken. I kept asking, “Why? I’m not doing anything. I’m not going anywhere.” But I still knew exactly where the line was. When the officer said the formal warning, the one that means the next word earns you handcuffs, I went quiet immediately.

I knew that phrase because I had said it myself, many times, from the other side.

Before I ended up in that sobering station, I was a police officer, for years. I transported drunks, thieves, violent offenders. It never crossed my mind that one day I’d be riding in the back of that car.

I remember one winter night especially well.

We responded to an assault on a bus driver. We handled the case, but on the way back I noticed something in a snowdrift by the road. It was dark, but against the white snow, something stood out. My cop instinct said, let’s take a look.

It was an older man, completely drunk. He couldn’t stand. We had to carry him to the car. I found his ID in his wallet—he lived about five minutes’ walk from that spot. We drove him home.

His wife opened the door. She started yelling at him. I told her, “Tell him in the morning. Right now it’s pointless.”

Then I noticed his date of birth. It was his birthday.

I said, “Tell him he gets to celebrate twice now, because if nobody had spotted him at minus fifteen, he probably wouldn’t have made it to morning.”

He was one of the few people who later thanked me for doing my job.

Back then, I never thought I could end up in his place, drunk, helpless, taken somewhere I wouldn’t remember arriving at.

And yet, one day I was.

I started drinking at sixteen. In Czechoslovakia at the time, it was normal—people drank everywhere, all the time. In the army, it got heavier. And at twenty-three, I went to my first treatment facility.

At intake, I introduced myself, “I’m Petr, and apparently I drink too much.”

When asked how much, I said, “About three beers and some hard stuff, but nothing crazy.”

The truth? Eight to fifteen beers a day. And toward the end, just hard liquor—about a liter a day.

That rounding down, I later recognized it in every person who sat across from me.

After treatment, I didn’t drink for ten years. Ten clean years. A new life, a new career, stability. I thought I was done.

Then came one sentence.

My wife said, “I don’t even remember the last time you were drunk. You’re fine now.”

We’d bought a new apartment. Moving in, celebrating. She poured me wine. I told myself, just a spritzer. And it was fine. Then we’d have these weekend evenings at home together. We felt closer. I was funnier, more relaxed. We both liked it.

But it didn’t stay at spritzers.

Two bottles of wine. Then two bottles of wine with her—and shots of hard liquor in secret. Then the bar. Then increasing the doses on both fronts. And after five years, I was exactly where I’d been before my first treatment.

My doctor told me the five-year timeline was slowed by the decade of sobriety behind me. Otherwise, the slide would have been much faster.

Today I’ve been sober for over thirteen years.

I remember my first client.

Not his name, not the exact date. But I remember the way he sat—shoulders up, hands wrapped around a mug, eyes on the floor. He didn’t need to say anything. I knew that posture. I had sat like that myself, many times.

He came on a recommendation from another family I’d helped. Their loved one had gone to treatment—unfortunately he didn’t finish and is still drinking. But the family said, “Call Petr. He gets it.”

He started the usual way.

“I drink normally. A few beers after work, sometimes something stronger.”

I didn’t respond right away. I just looked at him—not as someone who was going to evaluate him. I looked at him because I had once sat in that same chair, with the exact same sentence, the same tone of voice, like something rehearsed a hundred times on the way there.

I said, “I used to say the same thing.”

He paused, just for a moment.

And then something shifted. Not dramatically, more like someone cracking open a window in a room that hadn’t been aired out in a long time.

He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time.

“You drank too?”

“Ten years. Then I stopped. Then I started again. Five years. And now I’ve been sober for over thirteen years.”

Silence.

This is a moment no textbook can create. No diagnosis, no questionnaire. It’s the moment when someone feels they’re not sitting across from a person who read about addiction, but across from someone who lived it.

Sitting with people in this place gives me something I didn’t expect. Every story, every pair of eyes staring at the floor reminds me where I was. And every day I’m reminded of where I’ve been. Sometimes that’s more powerful than any therapy session.

My first client didn’t say anything groundbreaking that day. He didn’t have a revelation. He didn’t cry. He didn’t declare he was going to quit drinking.

But before he left, he said one sentence that got under my skin and stayed there.

“I believe you. Because you’ve been there.”

I’ve heard that sentence many times since then, and every time it hits the same way.

Because I know what it means—to trust someone who knows. I know how long it takes before someone dares to say it out loud. And I know it’s not about me. It’s about finally not sitting alone.

I used to transport drunks in a police car. Then I rode in the back myself. And today I sit beside people looking for a way out.

I’m just a few waves ahead.

When did you realize you weren’t sitting alone? We’d love to hear from you in the comments.

And before you go, would you take a second to tap the heart? It helps more people find this work and supports our sober community.