From the Wreckage: Rebuilding My Life After Losing Everything
The Day My World Stopped: Losing a High-Stakes Career
I was called into the shop while working—a feeling that always brought a knot to my stomach. This time, it was different. My immediate boss had no idea why, but the area manager was there and wanted to see me. That's when the real panic set in. My boss couldn't tell me why, and a sense of impending disaster washed over me.
Walking into his office, he offered me water. I tried to play it cool, but my hands were shaking, my stomach churned, and a wave of fear and uncertainty consumed me. When he spoke the words, "You're losing your job," the entire world stopped. He had to repeat himself multiple times; I was in such a state of visible distress. I just sat there, blankly staring, muttering, "This can't be happening. This isn't real." I wished, with every fiber of my being, that it was a nightmare. But it wasn't. It was the brutal reality I had created through poor decisions made under the influence.
The Aftermath: Facing Addiction and the Pivot Point
The first person I called was my mother. She's been my constant since my parents divorced when I was three, my biggest supporter. I knew she'd help me when I couldn't help myself. I'm not proud to admit that I then embarked on a two-day binge while packing my place in Sudbury with her. She saw me and my addiction at its absolute worst; I was completely lost.
It wasn't until my partner at the time arrived and I had to confront her about what happened that something shifted. For the first time, I heard myself say it out loud: "I want to quit drinking and using, and I know I need help."
The Identity Crisis: Who Am I Without the Job?
The weeks that followed were pure chaos. My routine evaporated. Some days, I wouldn't get out of bed until noon, endlessly scrolling on my phone, avoiding calls and texts. Waking up was the worst part. For a split second, I'd forget, and then the crushing realization would hit. A heavy, sinking dread settled in my chest. I'd gone from being up at 5 a.m. for physically demanding work to having nowhere to be and nothing to do. I felt utterly useless.
Sleep offered no escape; I was plagued by nightmares and, without substances, struggled to fall asleep. I longed for daylight to arrive, to distract myself from the guilt, shame, depression, and the unbearable weight of worrying about my future. In those initial weeks, simply getting through each day was the goal. I experienced suicidal thoughts daily.
It wasn't until I started therapy in early November that I began to sort through the overwhelming emotions. I had to consciously cultivate gratitude for the simplest things: a roof over my head, a small group of supportive people, a bed, and meals. To maintain any semblance of positivity, I had to prevent myself from being miserable 24/7. I found a new appreciation for the everyday things so easily taken for granted.
The hardest part of losing my job wasn't primarily the financial stress, though that was real. It was the profound shame and the loss of my identity. Being a Powerline Technician for Hydro One was a badge of honor, how I defined myself. I was the guy who did a tough, important job. Without it, I felt like a failure. I'd always craved the approval of other men, and in my mind, I had just lost the ultimate "guy's guy" job.
I saw myself as weak, a fraud. I avoided old co-workers, friends, and family, unable to bear their pity or judgment. I even changed my phone number and removed my SIM card, cutting ties with my old life unless I explicitly approved it. Some friends were incredibly supportive, but others drifted away, unsure how to react. The worst part was the stories I told myself—that everyone was talking about me, that I'd thrown it all away for an "adrenaline rush." I had no awareness of my addiction then, or how normalized chasing highs, drunks, and thrills had become in my life. I had completely lost touch with reality.
Thriving in Limbo: Managing Uncertainty and Legal Stress
I was stuck in a period of limbo, waiting for further repercussions for over two years after losing my job. My only option was to get comfortable with the uncomfortable uncertainty of my future. I decided not just to survive in limbo, but to thrive. I told myself that if I could succeed during this period, I would be even more successful, and find life easier, on the other side.
The "aha" moment came during a therapy session: I had to try my hardest to forget about what was out of my control and make the best of what I could control. Otherwise, I'd waste two years achieving nothing. I chose to take action, even knowing it could all be for naught, and lived as if "limbo" was a comfortable place to be. The mantra "This too shall pass" resonated deeply, a simple truth a good friend in AA shared. I knew she was right—eventually, the limbo period would end, and I could move on. I've since expanded on this, realizing that nothing in life, good or bad, lasts forever.
One of my lowest points was a Friday night, alone, fighting the urge to use with every ounce of my being. I felt incredibly isolated. The only thing that got me through was the structure of AA. I had committed to chairing the meeting on Monday. The thought of letting those people down, of having to reset my sobriety date... it was a lifeline. Just that one small commitment kept me anchored.
Beyond that, the first few weeks home after losing my job were some of the lowest of my life—filled with suicidal thoughts, hopelessness, fear, guilt, and shame. The only thing that helped me through was finding gratitude for what I still had (a roof over my head, a bed, meals, genuine support) instead of focusing on what I had lost.
A simple realization also sparked a new perspective: despite how badly I wanted to drink or use, neither would help me achieve my goals or change the past. There was no point in regressing to using them as crutches.
In an AA meeting, someone shared the concept of "playing the tape forward." It's a simple idea: before making a bad choice, play out the entire scenario to its inevitable, ugly conclusion. I started applying this not just to sobriety, but to my life. Playing the tape forward on self-pity showed me it only led to deeper depression. It forced me to think about what actions, no matter how small, would lead to a better ending.
The Reconstruction: Practical Steps to Rebuild Identity
Separating my identity from my job title was forced, then gradual. In AA, nobody cared that I was a lineman. My introduction wasn't my job; it was, "I'm Cole, and I'm an alcoholic." That was strangely freeing. It was the first place where my worth wasn't tied to my profession. Gradually, I realized my identity in that room was based on honesty, service, and showing up. That began to feel more real than my old job title ever did.
Through this process, I discovered a profound capacity for service by chairing meetings and helping newcomers. I found a resilience I never knew I possessed. Most importantly, I found a passion for helping people see their own potential because I was being forced to find my own. I realized I was a good leader and speaker, skills I never got to utilize on a powerline.
Practically, I took several steps to rebuild:
Structure: I forced myself to get up early and go to the gym (Rize Up). This gave me a routine and a crucial sense of accomplishment.
Humility: I took a job helping a local plumber as a laborer. It wasn't Hydro One, but it was a job, and it taught me to swallow my pride and simply work.
Investment in myself: I was in therapy weekly and completed a month-long Relapse Prevention Course with Grey Bruce Health Services. I attended AA meetings 3-5 times a week, became involved in service work within the AA community, got a sponsor, and started working the steps.
Play: Instead of drinking or drugging, I got to discover who I truly was without substances. I reconnected with my childhood roots before addiction took hold, revisiting video games, bike rides, hiking, swimming, crafting, and exploring new interests.
The Ongoing Journey
Today, I continue to practice this new identity. My morning routine is non-negotiable—meditation and breathwork ground me for the day. My commitment to chairing my Monday AA meeting is a constant reminder of a service-based identity. And every coaching class I take, every self-improvement book I read, is me actively building and practicing this new version of myself.
It still happens. I'll see a Hydro One truck and feel a pang of that old life. Or someone will ask, "What do you do?" and I'll feel a moment of hesitation. My response now is to pause and mentally re-anchor myself. I remind myself: "My mission is to help people navigate their own rock-bottom moments.
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