The Power of Presence: Reclaiming the Moments We Once Gambled Away

For a long time, I thought I was physically there with my loved ones—but the truth is, I wasn’t really present. My body might have been sitting on the couch or gathered around a table, but my mind was in another world entirely—one filled with odds, parlays, live lines, and the constant dopamine hits of wins and crushing losses. I didn’t realize how deeply gambling had pulled me away from the people I cared about until it was too late.

In the Corner of the Room

I remember one night a few years ago, a group of us were at our friend’s house. We were all there—laughing, eating, sharing stories—but I was in the corner of the room, glued to my phone. I wasn’t just checking it casually—I was locked in. I was live betting on a European soccer match. Portugal, I think. Or maybe it was the Bundesliga. It honestly doesn’t even matter anymore.

What does matter is what one of my friend’s wives said to me that night.

She walked over, looked at me and gently said, “You’re always in the corner, on your phone. You’re here, but you’re not here.”

That hit me. But not enough to change me—not yet. I brushed it off with a fake laugh, maybe even made a joke about a “lock” that was about to hit. But inside, I knew she was right. I wasn’t laughing with my friends, I wasn’t soaking in the memories. I was sweating the over/under on a meaningless match in another continent while the people who truly cared about me sat just a few feet away.

I missed so many nights like that. I thought I was multitasking. I thought I could have both. I couldn’t.

The Night Before My Last Bet

There’s another night I’ll never forget—because it was the last time I let gambling rob me of a moment I could have shared with someone I loved.

It was the NBA Playoffs—Lakers vs. Warriors. High-stakes matchup, LeBron and Curry going head-to-head. My significant other at the time was in another room of the house. I don’t even remember what she was doing—reading, maybe? Watching her own show? What I do remember is sitting in the living room with the glow of the TV and my phone lighting up my face.

I was live betting throughout the entire game. Chasing losses. Bet after bet. Warriors first half. Lakers to cover the third quarter. Over on Curry’s points. I lost all of it.

And while I spiraled through every possession like it was life or death, she was just one room over. Alone. I could have been sitting next to her. I could have been holding her hand, laughing about the game or just being still and enjoying her company. But instead, I was consumed by numbers and stats and money I didn’t have.

That night, something broke in me. And the next morning, I placed my last ever bet.

Presence is the Gift of Recovery

One of the most powerful things recovery has given me is the chance to be present again. To look someone in the eye when they’re talking. To laugh without checking my phone. To sit at dinner and remember the conversation—not the odds for tomorrow’s game.

As recovering gambling addicts, we carry a heavy past. But we also carry something powerful—a renewed ability to show up fully for the people we love.

Because here’s the truth: moments are fleeting. The game you’re watching? There will be another one tomorrow. But the people sitting across from you at dinner tonight? You don’t get infinite nights with them.

You don’t realize how many memories you miss until you start making new ones sober.

Be Where Your Feet Are

Today, I try to live by a simple phrase: “Be where your feet are.” When I’m with family, I put my phone down. When I’m with friends, I lean in. When I’m in conversation, I listen—really listen. And when I find myself drifting into thoughts about the past or cravings for the rush, I bring myself back.

I remind myself of that corner of the room. I remind myself of that playoff game. I remind myself that presence is something I once lost—and I will never take it for granted again.

To anyone in recovery: be present. Be grateful. And soak in the moments we used to trade for bets we couldn’t afford to lose.

Because this—connection, love, laughter, quiet nights and meaningful conversations—this is the real jackpot.

Loneliness and Gambling Addiction: When Silence Becomes a Sign of Healing

 Gambling addiction is often thought of in terms of financial ruin, dishonesty, or obsession—but what’s less talked about is the loneliness. It’s quiet. Hidden. And deeply painful. It seeps in slowly, disguising itself as independence or “me time.” But underneath the surface, it's a growing disconnect—from people, from ourselves, and from the lives we once cared about.

In the darkest days of addiction, I didn’t think I was lonely. I thought I was in control. I believed that gambling was my escape, my entertainment, my thing. What I didn’t see at the time was that gambling had replaced every meaningful relationship in my life—starting with the one I had with myself.

The Illusion of Connection in Addiction

Gambling gives the illusion of excitement, purpose, and community. You’re constantly checking apps, watching games, joining group chats, diving into research, chasing the next big win. On the outside, it looks like involvement. On the inside, it’s isolation.

You lie to your partner about the bets. You hide losses from your friends. You avoid family gatherings because you’re too consumed—or ashamed. Even when you're with people, you're not really present. You’re thinking about a line shift, a parlay, a bankroll strategy, or whether your next deposit will hit before kickoff.

The worst part? You're not just avoiding people—you’re avoiding yourself.

And that isolation doesn’t go away the moment you stop gambling. In fact, for many of us, it gets louder.

Loneliness in Recovery: The Quiet That Feels Too Loud

Early recovery can be a shock to the system.

Without the constant noise of gambling, the silence is overwhelming. Suddenly, you're no longer buffering your emotions with dopamine highs. There are no more distractions to keep your mind racing. And so you feel… empty. Alone. Bored. Disconnected. Anxious. Even hopeless.

It’s easy to panic in that space. To question your decision to quit. To wonder if this new version of life is just going to be an endless stretch of nothingness.

But here’s the truth: this loneliness isn’t a problem—it’s a portal.

Why Loneliness in Recovery Should Be Welcomed, Not Feared

Loneliness in recovery is different from the loneliness in addiction. Addiction loneliness is about separation—from your values, your loved ones, and your truth. Recovery loneliness is about reintegration. It’s a transitional space. An in-between.

It’s the place where you:

• Start feeling emotions again—even the uncomfortable ones.

• Recognize the damage done in addiction, and begin the long work of healing.

• Sit with your thoughts without scrambling for the next escape.

• Grieve the time, money, and relationships that gambling took from you.

• Discover who you really are—not the version of you who was always chasing or hiding, but the real, raw, resilient one.

In addiction, silence feels like punishment.
In recovery, silence becomes your teacher.

What You Can Do With That Feeling

If you’re sitting in that lonely space right now, here are a few reminders:

• You’re not failing. You’re healing. Feeling lonely doesn’t mean you’re doing recovery wrong. It means you’re finally slowing down enough to feel.

• Community matters. Join support groups. Talk to others in recovery. Open up to safe people in your life. Even when you don’t feel like talking—listen. Be around others who get it. That connection will slowly fill in the emptiness.

• Create a new relationship with yourself. Read. Walk. Journal. Go to therapy. Try something new. Let the loneliness become an invitation to rebuild your identity—not just as a “non-gambler,” but as a whole, worthy person.

• Understand it won’t last forever. The loneliness in early recovery is real—but it’s temporary. Over time, you’ll build a life with new routines, friendships, and moments of peace. That emptiness will be filled with meaning. Real meaning. Not fake wins.

Loneliness Is the Starting Point, Not the End

Loneliness is part of recovery that we don’t talk about enough. It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun. But it’s necessary. And when you walk through it—really walk through it—you begin to heal in ways that gambling never allowed you to.

So if you’re feeling alone right now, let me say this:

You’re not alone in your loneliness. We’ve all felt it. We’ve all sat in that quiet room and wondered, Is this it? Is this all there is now that I’ve stopped gambling?

But stay there long enough, and you’ll begin to hear something else in that silence: your own voice. Your own truth. Your own life, slowly coming back.

Loneliness isn’t the end of your recovery—it’s the beginning.