Mark - 44

When my dad died in my arms at 16, my world shattered. On the outside, I was frozen; inside, a storm raged. He had an aneurysm, and I performed CPR until the ambulance arrived. For years, I blamed myself, convinced I had done something wrong. No matter how many times doctors told me nothing could have saved him, I refused to believe it. It had to be my fault.

I always felt like an outsider, even in my own family. I was the odd one, the one who didn’t quite fit. At school and at home, I was either in trouble or bullied. Over time, I believed I was worthless, a screw-up. I didn’t understand then that my brain was just wired differently.

My dad was my role model, and I desperately wanted to make him proud. When he died, that chance was gone forever, leaving a void that consumed me. I left home, convinced my family didn’t care.

At first, I coped with alcohol and marijuana. I liked the confidence alcohol gave me and the euphoria of being high. Before my dad died, I had never touched drugs. I was focused on football and could have made a career out of it. But grief pushed me further into self-destruction.

Football became my outlet for anger, but I played too hard, injuring myself repeatedly. Concussions, torn ligaments, dislocations—I pushed my body to the limit. Eventually, doctors told me one more concussion could kill me. My dream of playing football was over. Another failure. More grief.

Prescribed painkillers for my injuries, I soon became addicted. The numbing effect was exactly what I needed to escape my pain. I was both physically dependent and emotionally reliant.

Over time, my addiction worsened. I lost my sense of purpose and drifted from job to job, city to city. I burned bridges with family and friends. I isolated myself, drowning in self-hatred, convinced I had nothing left to offer the world.

Eventually, I found myself homeless, living under a bridge in North Vancouver in the dead of winter.

I didn’t want to live, but I was too afraid to die. I had been told my entire life that I was dumb, a failure, a disappointment. If that’s who I was meant to be, then so be it.

The hate I had for myself was unbearable. To silence my thoughts, I turned to hard drugs. More pain, more drugs. More problems, more drugs. I was lost.

Then, one cold December morning, a friend from the local shelter told me to call a local treatment center. He warned me there was a waitlist, but if I called every day, I’d eventually get a bed. I didn’t care about recovery—I just wanted warmth, a place to sleep. So, I called. Every single day.

On January 6, 2012, I was offered a bed.

Walking into the facility, I was terrified. I didn’t know what to expect. But the moment I arrived, I felt something different. Stacy, the intake coordinator, greeted me with kindness. No one judged me. No one looked at me like I was worthless. They saw me as a man. Not a homeless junkie. Not a failure. Just a man.

That was the moment my resilience was born.

I met others just like me—men who had hit rock bottom, who believed they were beyond saving. But the men before me, those who had found a way out, showed me that change was possible. They gave me the tools to see the world differently, to believe in myself again.
For the first time in years, I had hope.

Today I have a wonderful life, married to my wife Michelle, I have amazing family relationships back in my life and an amazing job where I help men in their recovery journey and help them find meaning in their life.

Music - Mark’s music choices during our photo session included Bon Jovi, Bruno Mars, Green Day, Jorge Ferreira and Teddy Swims.