The 12,000 Steps: How a Running Club for the Homeless Taught Me To Confront My Addiction to NYC
It’s important to remember that NYC doesn’t give a shit if we leave, which is why the “Goodbye NYC” essay has become a subject of much deserved mockery. Still, I think this story is worth telling because there are infinite paths you can take through a city like New York. Some paths lead to picnics in Ft. Green Park or winning the Hamilton lottery, others to substance abuse and East Village AA meetings. Here’s how my path diverged.
Everyone moves to NYC chasing a cliche—the same can be said about leaving. In my case, I moved to NYC at 25 eager to embrace the adventure I thought I was missing in the midwest. Upon arrival at my shoebox apartment on the Lower East Side, I fell madly in love with “the city.” Pickup soccer in Chinatown; GQ models in speakeasies; $1 beers and pizza any time of night — Manhattan felt like destiny. Gossip Girl plotlines quickly moved out of my Netflix queue and into my social life. Adventure: embraced.
When you’re afraid of being alone, NYC is paradise!
Unsurprisingly, a year and a half later you’d find me puking in an alley after a three day bender, too confused and depressed to understand why partying every day wasn’t healthy. How had my path to “destiny” become so destructive? And why didn’t my friends encourage me to get help? These are complicated questions.
But I hope this piece is further evidence that dangerous paths are typically fun to navigate — until you’re lost.
A defining experience on my path through NYC involved volunteering with Back on my Feet (BOMF), a non-profit organization that combats homelessness through the power of running & community support. It’s an incredibly successful program, one that “teaches us to take things one step at a time — that we have to run miles one through nine to get to 10.” The men I ran with (this was an all-male transitional facility; other teams throughout the city had women participants) were intelligent, compassionate, dignified, hardworking New Yorkers who had fallen on hard times, but who were willing to enter a 12 Step Program and ask for help. Many of us volunteers were recent 20-somethings hoping to make a tangible difference in our adopted city. All participants are referred to as “members” to foster a sense of teamwork. Still, running was a new activity for many members, and the first mile could often be nervewracking.
Admittedly, I was nervous too my first week. Meeting strangers under these circumstances can be uncomfortable. However, each day we’d answer a silly “get to know you” question. Our team quickly discovered there were plenty of things we all had in common — a love for jalapeño pizza, or hatred of the Star Wars prequels. Rain, snow, or sleet, three days a week we’d gather at 5:30am near the Bowery Mission, huddle to recite the Serenity prayer, then jaunt off together into the darkness of the Lower East Side.
Guilt and embarrassment could sometimes permeate. While jogging to Union Square in February, members admitted this park was where they sometimes spent the night. But a mile later we were dodging ice slicks together along the Williamsburg Bridge, debating the ethics of hiding certain posts from our friends on Facebook. Or why Jar Jar Binks should have died in a podracing incident. 2 years later and I distinctly remember these conversations.
Which itself is a tiny miracle, because while I was running alongside these courageous men, I was secretly lost on my own path of mental and financial ruin. After losing my mother to cancer a year earlier, unchecked anxiety and grief turned to depression. While I convinced myself I couldn’t afford therapy, turbulent jaunts through New York’s insane party scene became the most Instagram-friendly way to hide my pain. Weekdays became weekends. Days became nights. Fun became frightening.
Then one morning I showed up to greet my Back on My Feet team at 5:33am, still abuzz. No one could tell I hadn’t slept. But then we started the Serenity Prayer:
“…grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”
Tears began but I started the run anyway. Then, as we were shuffling down Chrystie, I peeled off to puke in Freeman’s Alley (coincidentally, where I knew to be an excellent hidden place for Day Cocktails). Stumbling back to my apartment, I knew I had to face the pain of my hypocrisy. But I didn’t know how to change.
Out of personal shame, I stayed away from Back on my Feet for a few months (no one knew I had a problem). I did make an appearance for The Color Run in Queens, where we we were brought up on stage to dance for the crowd, awash in rainbow powder. Did it matter I was hungover?
Change certainly didn’t happen quickly. Every step (and misstep) — even a few of the 12 Steps — only served to cloud my vision of what kind of limits I should impose on myself at 26. I partied with an enthusiastic, exciting, crowd of artistic professionals. While hopping between rooftops in SoHo and warehouses in BedStuy, these artistic friends and I constantly reminded one another, “We are soooo lucky to live this life!” But as my bank account and energy dwindled, it became difficult to pry my failing body out of bed.
“We are soooo lucky to live this life!” But as my bank account and energy dwindled, it became difficult to pry my failing body out of bed.
Fittingly, perhaps the only thing more “New York” than bombing out of the social scene is attending a Sunday morning East Village AA meeting. I cried every time I opened my mouth. In a sick way, I felt like I was grabbing coffee with the original cast of RENT.
But it didn’t take me long to realize booze wasn’t my problem. Having one beer — totally fine; I never drank alone. Sobriety wasn’t difficult. While I could empathize with some of the people I met, six weeks of meetings was all I could handle. The 12 Steps didn’t mesh with my headstrong intellectualism. Besides, my issues were deeper and more psychological than dependence.
Alcohol had become the lubrication for endless social interaction in a city (like me) that never slept. But even when sober, I couldn’t kick my addiction to the sexiness of “being a New Yorker.” That, combined with the grief of losing a parent, clouded all judgement. When my friends and family asked if I was ok, I lied my fucking face off. Because that’s what we’re taught to do (especially in NYC).
So it took another year of desperate flailing (Starting/failing in my own business, going to Burning Man, motorcycling through Cambodia) before I gathered enough emotional courage to slow down and confront my path.
I thought about my time in Back on my Feet and “how we have to run miles one through nine to get to ten.” Something about living in NYC made me want to skip straight to mile 13. If I wasn’t going to do the 12 Steps, perhaps I could do 12,000 (which is about 6 miles, according to my FitBit).
Two years later and I’m now living in Cleveland.
It’s… fine! Despite being one of the more difficult decisions of my life, I have zero regrets about breaking up with NYC.
I no longer feel the pressure to engage with as many people as possible. I’m on a deliberate path, training for a half-marathon (tomorrow). Five months of meditation and I’m finally able to forgive myself. Certainly I miss NYC, but I’m able to make frequent visits. Moving to the midwest — with the generous help of friends, family, and therapy — I’m overcoming my fear of being alone by reestablishing a semblance of balance. Struggling with how hard to party will be an ongoing battle. Sometimes I screw up. And maybe if I lose control again, I’ll have to go back to square one.
Because while we certainly don’t recover from grief or addiction by ourselves, true change is a private path. And sometimes we need safe space to navigate.
That’s why I’m so thankful for the members at Back on my Feet. While I wouldn’t even begin to compare our situations, I learned that we can’t run away from our problems, but we can can certainly chart paths to avoid running into them. Not that I blame NYC for the self-destructive person I’d become. I had hoped that loving NYC enough would solve my problems — but cities can’t make choices.
A guy I met in BOMF agreed. We shared an affinity for bridges and would try to bring each other new “bridge facts” each week (e.g. the Williamsburg Bridge was completed in half the time it took to build the Brooklyn Bridge!). He had just successfully finished a half marathon, and by doing so helped repair a relationship with his family. He was moving back to live with them in Charlotte. I asked how he could leave all these fantastic bridges and he said:
“You can love a city. But it can’t love you back.”
If you (or someone you know) needs help, ask for it now. Email me [evan.cudworth (at) gmail.com] if you want to talk.
Get involved in a local chapter or donate to my fundraiser for Back on My Feet.
