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Last week I traveled to Houston while my wife attended a seminar for her wreath-making business. She worked—I played! My highlight adventure was a return visit to the Johnson Space Center. The last time I had been there was nearly 50 years ago, and walking back through its doors stirred memories I hadn’t felt in decades.
When I walked into Mission Control at Johnson Space Center, I expected to enjoy the nostalgia of history. What I didn’t expect was the rush of emotion that came when Neil Armstrong’s voice filled the speakers: “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed.”
In that moment, I wasn’t a 63-year-old man visiting on a quiet morning. I was a young boy again, sitting in a lounge chair in my backyard, pretending to pilot an Apollo rocket. I was the kid who mailed hand-drawn rocket designs to NASA with a childlike hope they might one day be used. And I was the kid who nearly jumped out of his shoes when NASA wrote back with a personalized letter, thanking me for my creativity and sending me some swag that made me feel like part of their team.
A lot of life has happened between that wide-eyed boy and the man I am today. Decades filled with joy, love, mistakes, regrets, and ultimately recovery. Sitting in that gallery, looking at the preserved consoles of Mission Control while the Apollo 11 landing data scrolled across the screens, I realized something important: the sense of wonder and possibility that once fueled a boy’s space dreams is the same spirit that now sustains me in recovery.
Recovery, much like space exploration, asks us to step into the unknown. It requires courage, preparation, trust, and the humility to accept help from those who guide the mission. Astronauts carried humanity’s fragile hope to the moon; in recovery, we carry our own fragile hope into each new day of sobriety.
Hearing Armstrong’s words that morning wasn’t just about reliving history. It was about rediscovering that spark—the belief that even after decades of detours and struggles, the same spirit of exploration and possibility still lives within me. Recovery hasn’t erased the little boy who dreamed of rockets; it’s given him back his voice.
And maybe that’s something for all of us to consider: where does your childlike wonder still live? What dream, what spark, what voice inside of you is waiting to be rediscovered? Life has a way of piling on layers that bury it, but recovery—and even simple moments of presence—can bring it back into the light.
One small step at a time. One giant leap of faith.
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