The Welcome
It often starts with a drive. One of our staff members heads out with a senior resident to pick up a new arrival. Most often it's several hours away, enough time for conversation, quiet, and reflection. The purpose of that drive is simple but meaningful: to make the new resident feel comfortable and understood before he ever walks through our doors.
The person riding along is never chosen by accident. It is always someone who knows that road in more ways than one, an alumnus of the same rehab and someone who remembers exactly what it felt like to be the new guy, unsure and scared, heading toward a place he's only heard about. They usually stop for lunch somewhere along the way, a simple meal that becomes its own kind of welcome. A moment shared between someone who has already walked part of the path and someone just beginning it.
By the time they arrive at Woodhaven, the new resident has already been met with kindness and understanding. He's had a few hours to exhale, to see that recovery can look like three people driving through the Pennsylvania hills, talking about life, music, or what might come next. He's met guys who get it.
When they walk in, the rest of the community is ready to greet him. Someone shows him where the bathroom is, where he'll sleep, and where to put his things. A little while later everyone gathers in the recovery lounge, a space that feels inviting and safe. One by one, each resident introduces themselves and shares a bit about who they are, where they are from, and what life has looked like before and after coming to Woodhaven.
There is no script, but there is a rhythm. The stories unfold naturally, honest and imperfect, sometimes hesitant and sometimes full of ease. There are smiles, nods, and every now and then, a laugh that lightens the air. Some talk about how hard it was to come here. Others share that they have chosen to stay. As each person speaks, you can feel the mix of relief, pride, and courage that comes from being seen and understood.
Then something happens that you can see on their faces. One resident mentions where he's from, and another's face lights up. "Wait, I live ten minutes from you." Someone else talks about the rehab he attended before Woodhaven, and another nods. "I was there too. Did you have that one counselor?" The connections start appearing. The new resident is watching all of this, realizing that these young men aren't just similar in their struggles, but in the regular ways too.
Each resident talks about how long he's been at Woodhaven and what has changed. A few weeks. Two months. Four months. Six. Ten. The ones who arrived more recently talk about still figuring things out. The ones who have been here longer speak with more certainty and direction. You can hear the difference in their voices, see it in how they carry themselves. The progression is visible, undeniable.
By the time it reaches the new resident, he's already heard his own story reflected back in a dozen different versions. He knows before he speaks that he's more similar than different to everyone in the room. When it's his turn, the others lean in. They want to hear. He introduces himself, where he's from, a bit about his family, what brought him to this point, and where he hopes to go from here. His voice might be quiet or unsure, but he gets through it. And when he finishes, there are smiles, nods, and words of encouragement. Welcome.
By the end, he's smiling too. Maybe just a little, maybe tentatively, but with more ease than when he first arrived. The residents who were new last month or last week are no longer the newest ones. They've become guides, showing what growth and progress can look like simply by being a little further along the path. Each time someone new arrives, the one who was newest before relaxes into not being the new guy anymore. There's relief in that, and pride.
Our chef always makes their favorite dinner that night, and there are homemade cookies waiting for dessert, the new resident's favorite kind. It's a quiet but powerful gesture that says, you're part of this now.
In the days that follow, that same sense of belonging keeps growing in small, steady ways. Sometimes a new resident has never been to an AA meeting before. The others step in naturally, teaching the small things, like when to share, how to listen, and how to feel comfortable being part of something larger than themselves. Before their first meeting, someone shows him where the coffee and bathroom are, what the routine looks like. The newcomer watches closely, beginning to understand the rhythm of it all. He feels a little less scared, a little more hopeful, and already a bit more connected.
We see the same thing happen in our parent groups. New parents arrive tentative and unsure, carrying everything that brought their son here. Our facilitators welcome them, and the other parents do too. We let a few families share first, before asking the new parents to speak. Just like their sons, they hear their own story coming back to them from different voices, different details, but the same fear and the same hope. It is often the first time they have been with people who truly get it.
For me, there is something powerful about being on the inside of both conversations. I see the residents in their welcome group, making space for the new guy, showing him that recovery is possible because they are living it right in front of him. And I see their parents doing the same thing, sharing honestly and showing other families they are not alone. Both the kids and the families are learning the same truth: we are all not so different.
That is what happens in our welcome groups. Every introduction is more than a greeting. It is a reminder that healing is possible, and that none of us have to walk this road alone.
