The Dream That Changed But Didn't Disappear

"I'll be fine in Florida," he told me. "I've got this."

One of our seniors had been holding onto this dream for years. A specific school near the beach. The campus he had imagined since he was a young kid. The place that represented everything normal, everything he believed he was supposed to have.

When we started talking about college planning, he was certain. Florida was the plan.

And I understood why.

Because that school was not just about academics or warm weather or football games. It meant something deeper. It was proof that addiction had not stolen everything. Proof that he could still have the life he once pictured for himself.

But there was something else in his voice too. Something he was struggling to express.

He had already lost so much.

What He Had Already Given Up

Senior year of high school. Gone.

The sports he had played since he was a kid. Friends he grew up with. Parties. Senior prom. The whole "normal" teenage experience everyone else seemed to get.

While former classmates posted homecoming photos and college acceptance celebrations, he was here. Doing the quiet, unglamorous work of getting sober.

In his mind, he was missing everything. And he wanted to prove to the world, and to himself, that he was ready for a typical high school and college experience.

And now we were asking him to give up something else. To let go of Florida. To choose a different path.

"I've already given up enough," he said one day.

And I heard it. The grief underneath the resistance. The feeling that addiction had taken enough without recovery asking for more.

From his perspective, Florida was not just a college choice. It was reclaiming what had been stolen. Getting back to the original plan. Proof that he had not lost everything.

So how do you tell someone who already feels like they lost so much that this particular dream, right now, may not be the answer?

The Hardest Conversations

We did not crush the dream. We asked questions. We gave space and time.

What would you do if things got hard down there? Who would you call at 2 a.m.? Where would you go to meetings? What happens when everyone around you is partying and you are trying to stay sober?

At first, he had answers for everything. Confident answers. "I'll figure it out" answers.

But over weeks and months, something shifted.

He started to accept the support he needed.

We talked about what he had already lost. Not to minimize it, but to honor it. To let him grieve it.

"You're right," I told him. "You are missing senior year and prom. You don't get those back."

And then I added, "But you gained something too. You are alive. You are sober. You have a future. And the question is not whether you have already lost enough. The question is: what choice gives you the best chance of keeping what you have gained?"

The Shift

It did not happen all at once.

"Just looking," he said as we explored other options. Prestigious schools where he could live at Woodhaven on Mulberry and stay connected to the recovery community he built.

He got to know the young men at Mulberry. He listened when they spoke about early classes and midterm stress and card games until 2 a.m. Guys with girlfriends. Guys who worked part time. Guys who said they did not feel like they were missing out.

They felt like they were exactly where they needed to be.

He listened. He asked questions. Real questions.

Then the acceptance letter came. A local school that offered the right major, the sports he loved, and a culture he connected with.

He was proud.

Recently, his mindset shifted again.

He committed to that school in Scranton and to living at Woodhaven on Mulberry.

At first he said it was his parents' plan. Then it was Woodhaven's plan.

And one day he said, quietly, "It's my plan."

There was something different in his voice. Not resignation. Not defeat.

Acceptance. Ownership. Hope.

The Growth That Protects Recovery

He did not choose this path because we redirected his Florida dream.

He chose it because he grew into understanding what he truly needed.

Because he stopped seeing it as another loss and started seeing it as his choice.

His future. His plan.

He accepted support, but he did not settle for less. He chose a strong school. A real path. A place where he can grow.

And I know that this young man is going to do remarkable things.

Maybe Florida will still be part of his story someday. A transfer. Graduate school. Who knows.

But right now, he is building something that is entirely his own.

And for families who once wondered if their loved one would survive, who once believed college was a dream meant for someone else's child, who once lived crisis to crisis not knowing if there would even be a future to plan for…

This is what recovery makes possible.

Not perfection. Not the original plan.

But something stronger.

A life that fits. A future built with intention. A dream that changed, but did not disappear.