From Isolation to Inspiration
Finding My Place with Fully Vested Recovery Movement
A few years ago, a friend from Milwaukee told me about an organization called The Phoenix and the incredible, free recovery-based fitness programming they offered. Curious and motivated, I searched for a local chapter near me—only to discover that, at the time, there was just a small group doing CrossFit workouts together. Initially, I was disappointed, but the workouts were held at a gym owned by a family friend, and that familiar connection felt like a nudge to at least give it a try. So, I showed up. What I didn’t realize then was how deeply this decision would change the course of my life.
I live with a genetic disease called Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), specifically type 4, which tends to show symptoms in early adulthood. I had been active for most of my life and played many sports growing up, but as my muscle function slowly declined, I began stepping away from the activities I loved—snowboarding being one of the hardest to let go. At the same time, I was caught up in a “work hard, play hard” lifestyle, traveling the world doing seasonal work and leaning heavily into drinking and late nights. When the travel ended, the drinking didn’t. Eventually, I reached a breaking point: I was out of shape, drinking every night, unhappy with myself, and living a lifestyle that worsened my condition. I made the decision to change. I went to an AA meeting and started working the steps. They helped immensely—but something was still missing. When I found Fully Vested Recovery Movement (FVRM), and with it, a community of sober people moving together, encouraging each other, and showing up without judgment, I felt—for the first time in a long time—that I had found a place where I truly belonged.
FVRM has had a profound impact on my life. Living with SMA often means navigating a body that doesn’t work the way most expect. I’ve had to explain, often with embarrassment, why I move the way I do—why I struggle to get up from a chair or walk up stairs. I can’t do a regular push-up or lift a barbell over my head. That reality made me feel intimidated by traditional gyms and resistant to CrossFit, which I admittedly judged as a kind of “cult.” I was full of anxiety before my first class. I even emailed Kate ahead of time to explain my situation and concerns. She replied with encouragement and reassurance that I could adapt the movements, have fun, and that everyone was welcome. That single act of kindness helped ease my fears.
What I found when I walked into that gym was nothing like the stereotype I had imagined. Instead, I met people of all abilities and backgrounds, each on their own recovery journey—from a few days sober to multiple decades—moving in whatever way they could, and cheering each other on. No one cared that I was doing wall push-ups or modified movements. I got my butt kicked in that first workout and was sore for days—but I came back. That first step planted the seed of a “can-do” attitude, helping me focus on what was possible rather than what wasn’t. That mindset has grown to touch every aspect of my life. I’ve learned to ask for help when needed and to see my differences not as limitations but as part of my unique journey.
When I quit drinking, I had to let go of the identity I had built around it—“the wine guy.” In the same way, I’ve learned to no longer let my diagnosis define me. I now teach my kids never to say “I can’t.” We may have to do things differently, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do them. The mind is powerful—where it goes, the body will follow. That mindset isn't just about fitness; it’s now a guiding principle in everything I do. Just recently, I even got back on a snowboard for the first time in years, taking a lesson alongside my daughter. I don’t ride like I used to, but I’m older now, and the joy of making that first turn again was a rush no drink could ever match.
FVRM gave me more than workouts. It gave me community, confidence, and a new sense of self-worth. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.