X first came to our office about 12 years ago. He didn’t have a car. He’d seen our flier in a laundromat and walked more than five miles just to talk with someone about his substance use. That first visit, he asked a lot of questions and left with only some Band-Aids. A week later, he came back and asked for a single syringe.

Over the following weeks, X opened up. He shared that he had once been a high school football player, talented enough to earn a college scholarship. But in his final game of the season, he broke his leg and required major surgery. After physical therapy and time spent walking in a brace, he was prescribed painkillers. Eventually, he lost his scholarship and was unable to attend college. He turned to the street for pain medication, and later, heroin.

I often saw X panhandling on the street with a cardboard sign. He told me he sometimes sneaked into the laundromat at night just to sleep. Despite his circumstances, X came to see us every week—sometimes just to talk about his disappointments, sometimes to get supplies or food. He was arrested frequently for panhandling or loitering. His family had disowned him. Occasionally, he made money washing car windows.

Sometimes he would call collect from jail—asking for bail money or a ride back to town. He always told me, “One day, I’ll pay it forward.”

After a few years, X asked if he could volunteer. He began coming in once or twice a month to teach other participants how to use Narcan. Some people began asking for him by name—he had a way of connecting, especially with others in the African American community. He was still using, still struggling, but also helping others.

About two years ago, X started talking about going back to school. We explored online classes, and he used the office computer to do homework. I printed his assignments each week, and we’d talk about them together. We often discussed what recovery might look like for him—his options, his fears, his hopes. I even went with him to a couple of Nar-Anon meetings until he found a sponsor he trusted.

Eventually, X checked himself into a faith-based recovery program out of state. Then I didn’t hear from him for a long time—until a few weeks ago, when he surprised me with a phone call.

He wanted to say thank you.

He said our program mattered to him—that we never pushed him, but always supported him when he asked for help. X is now living in another state, enrolled in a four-year college, and engaged to be married. A few weeks ago, he mailed us a check. “Use this to help someone like me,” he said. And I promised him that I would. We plan to stay in touch, and I promised I’d be at his wedding.

X is just one of many who come through ekiM. People who need to be met where they are. People who deserve love, dignity, and compassion—at every stage of their journey. Not just when they “recover,” but when they’re simply surviving, struggling, or searching. We’re here to offer options—not ultimatums. And when they’re ready, we’re ready too.