Ashes.
Second Chances: My DUI Story and the Climb Back
The Fall Begins
Life was good again. My first DUI was five years in the past—done, dusted, forgotten. I’d completed three years of informal probation, and at work, my future looked bright. I was on track to become a Senior Technician, the final step before becoming a supervisor. It had taken longer to get there because of that first DUI, but I’d stayed patient, dedicated, and now I was finally moving up.
I was respected at work. I made great money. My colleagues told me how talented I was. But behind the scenes, things weren’t as good as they looked.
My relationship was falling apart. I was in the middle of a divorce after being caught texting a prostitute. My personal life was in shambles, and instead of taking accountability, I slipped into a victim mindset. I felt sorry for myself. I started drinking heavily again.
And I got too comfortable driving drunk.
One night, I was wasted—very drunk, the kind of drunk where you don’t even remember where you were going. I took the freeway anyway, flipping through songs on my phone like nothing mattered. I knew I shouldn’t have been driving. But I didn’t care.
“Poor me,” I thought. “I feel like shit inside all the time. Who cares about other people, right?”
Then—BOOM.
The unmistakable flash of red and blue lights behind me. My heart dropped.
Not again.
Not again.
My marriage was already over, but this sealed it. My job—my beloved job—I knew it was gone. My future instantly went dark.
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The Arrest, September 29th. 2024
The officers knew I was drunk the moment they walked up to my truck. I probably smelled like a cooler full of hard seltzers—the strongest ones, whatever they’re called.
One cop's badge said "Song." Like some sick joke about my life.
He told me to step out of the vehicle. I did, mostly because of the last bit of decency left in me, just going through the motions. I already knew what was coming—the field sobriety test, which at this point was just a formality.
They told me I’d be spending the night in the police station and that my truck would be impounded.
And what did I think about? Getting drunk again the moment I got out. I was already done. I had created my own self-fulfilling prophecy.
Back at the station, the officers were surprisingly kind—way more respectful than the first time I was arrested. I guess when you’re not violent, they’re more relaxed.
They processed me fast, didn’t even require a blood draw. I called a friend—an old boss of mine who had his own history with DUIs and had managed to turn his life around. He picked me up.
We barely spoke. I asked him to stop at a 7-Eleven on the way back. I bought more booze.
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The Collapse
The next morning, I called my supervisor. Told him I was sick and couldn’t work. That was the last time we spoke.
Two days later, I contacted HR and told them I wouldn’t be returning. I didn’t give details—I just told them to stop asking questions and to process my exit. I had over 200 hours of PTO saved up, which they cashed out. That money was going to be crucial.
See, my job required me to drive company vehicles. There was no way I could stay after this. I still had my part-time job delivering pizzas, so I asked the manager there for more hours. The pay was a fraction of what I used to earn, but I needed something.
My bills hadn’t changed. My ex-wife was unemployed at the time, and I was covering most of the costs of living under the same roof Everything kept piling up.
About a month after the arrest, my license was officially suspended. I had already hired a lawyer by then. She was honest with me—there was no way to avoid jail. It had only been five years since my first DUI, and judges don’t go easy on repeat offenders.
She worked out a plea deal: 14 days in jail, followed by 60 days with an ankle bracelet. That was the best she could do.
By the time I agreed to the deal in December, I was almost out of funds. My hearing was set for January 10th. I spent a full month drowning in anxiety, asking myself, When will this end? How bad will jail be?
To this day—May 5th—I still haven’t told no one in my family.
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Jail
When the day came, I surrendered in court. I had been practicing meditation for the past month, preparing myself mentally. I was ready—at least as ready as anyone could be.
They took me to a cold cell in the courthouse and later transferred me to the main jail in Santa Ana, California.
It was worse than I imagined.
The deputies were young and cocky. They slammed doors just to show they could, laughing while we stood crammed in a 10x15-foot holding room with about 15 other people—homeless men, tweakers, gang members all coming down from something.
There was no room to sit. The smell was unholy. I stood the entire time, eyes low, avoiding contact.
It took 24 hours to get processed and moved into the unit where I’d spend the next two weeks.
The food was barely edible. The toilets were shared. The air smelled like sweat, piss, and hopelessness. Every moment was survival. I made a few friends, some were processed with me so we had some kind of bond from those first 24 hours..
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House Arrest and the Climb Back
The last day in jail was the longest of my life. I couldn’t wait to get out and eat something real. But I knew this was just the beginning.
After jail, I had to set up an appointment with a private company to get my ankle bracelet. It wasn’t as bad as I expected. It hurt sometimes, and you had to submit your schedule a week in advance. It buzzed every 30 minutes—which was super awkward in quiet rooms. I’d pretend not to notice.
Two weeks into house arrest, I interviewed with a staffing agency. I told the guy the truth—about my record, about where I was at, but also about my skills and resilience.
A week later, he offered me a position as a machine operator and inventory controller. The pay was half of what I used to make and there were no benefits.
But I took it. Because something is better than nothing.
I was out of money, relying on credit to survive. Between legal bills, the interlock device, and the bracelet, everything had a price tag.
I showed up and proved myself fast. The team liked me. I liked the job—it was easy for me. Only 8-hour shifts? After years of 10-hour days and constant overtime, this felt almost relaxing.
I kept applying for jobs, trying to get back into the water industry. Eventually, I got an interview with another agency. I aced it. I was partly honest—I told them I had lost my license but didn’t mention it was my second DUI or that I was under house arrest.
They offered me the job.
But then came the background check.
They saw the full extent of my record and rescinded the offer.
I felt crushed.
My current employer wanted to keep me, but couldn’t hire me permanently—I couldn’t be added to their vehicle insurance. So they kept me on through the agency and encouraged me to keep applying elsewhere.
It wasn’t a win. But it wasn’t a loss either. It was survival.
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Rebuilding Forward
Before my second DUI, I had actually bought a self-improvement program—something designed to help fix my relationship. It talked a lot about the “victim mindset” and how dangerous it is to let your thoughts become your reality.
I started the program, applied some of the ideas, then let it fade. And everything it warned would happen did happen.
So now I’ve recommitted—not just to the program, but to better decisions.
I’ve attended court-mandated AA meetings. I don’t call myself an alcoholic. During the two months with the ankle bracelet, I didn’t miss drinking. I’ve realized how dangerous the phrase “I am” can be. When you say it, you chain yourself to that identity. I want freedom—not just legally, but internally.
Now, I’m building again.
I’m learning new skills. I’m working my way back to school, and working on keeping my certifications current, halfway to an Associate’s in Water Science. I’m making sure the pain I went through fuels something.
This is what I call the hero mindset. Not the victim. Not the villain. The creator. The warrior.
Yes, I still drink occasionally. But I’ll never drive under the influence again. Ever.
I did the math: $100 a day for Uber for 3 months, would’ve been way cheaper than losing my job, my reputation, and having to rebuild my life from zero.
That’s not self-pity. That’s reality.
I’m working to rebuild trust with myself. The time is going to pass anyway—I want to spend it becoming someone I can respect.
Someday, I’ll return to the water industry. Not as the man who failed, but as a leader. A man who knows pain, knows chaos, and can face both with calm and strength.
Scarred—but unshaken.
A warrior.