Starting Over: A Raw, Inspiring Journey of Redemption and Resilience

Starting over feels impossible when life knocks you down, but this raw story of resilience and redemption will show you it’s never too late to fight back.

Starting over isn’t a clean slate; it’s a battlefield. It’s the bruised, bloodied, and battered fight against everything that’s tried to pin you down. Starting over is staring into the abyss, into your failures, your losses, and your brokenness, and saying, “Not today. Not ever.” It’s not for the faint-hearted. It’s for the fighters, the survivors, and the ones too stubborn to stay beaten. It’s for people like me. People like you.

I wasn’t born into failure, but I sure as hell built a life out of it. Addiction didn’t knock politely at my door; it kicked it down, took over my career, and robbed me of my dignity. I worked in IT in the government sector—a respectable gig—and ran a computer repair business on the side. Life should have been solid, but addiction has a funny way of turning “should” into “never again.”

I missed work—a lot. My employer had no choice but to let me go. That wasn’t rock bottom—it was the basement to rock bottom. My computer repair business? Gone. After that, I spiraled. For three and a half years, I drowned in alcohol and drugs. Every day was the same: a foggy mess of regrets and substances, numbing myself to the reality of everything I’d lost. But even in that haze, something inside me knew this couldn’t last forever.

August 2, 2015, is the day everything changed. It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks, grand speeches, or promises to the universe. It was just me, alone at 2:33 a.m., realizing I was done. I was tired of being a failure. Tired of hurting. Tired of not being human. So, I quit cold turkey. That decision saved my life, but it didn’t fix it. Starting over doesn’t give you a reset button. It gives you a shovel to dig yourself out of the rubble.

I didn’t work for six months after that. I wasn’t ready. I had to learn how to be human again, how to live sober, how to function without the crutches I’d leaned on for years. When I finally stepped back into the workforce, I took a job as a security supervisor for a big company. Less than 90 days in, I knew it was a mistake. It was a soul-sucking job, and I didn’t have the patience or the heart for it. But starting over means stumbling before you find your stride.

Next, I landed in loss prevention for a clothing retailer. It was like a shot of adrenaline straight to my soul. Catching shoplifters gave me a rush I hadn’t felt in years. I was damn good at it, too. But something about it didn’t sit right. I wasn’t just protecting profits; I was protecting people. And that flicker of purpose—the need to serve, to do something bigger—started to grow.

Working loss prevention put me shoulder-to-shoulder with law enforcement. I got to know the officers, saw what they did, and respected them deeply. Their presence, their courage—it lit a fire in me. I wanted to serve, too. Not a company, not just a paycheck—I wanted to serve my community. That desire became my compass.

It wasn’t immediate. Nothing worthwhile ever is. But a year later, a friend helped me land a job as a jail officer at the county jail. He also got me a gig as a reserve police officer for a small department. The reserve position didn’t pan out, but the jail job stuck. I learned the ins and outs of corrections for a year and a half. It was gritty, raw, and eye-opening. But something was missing: the adrenaline, the rush, the connection to the outside world. So, I left.

Back to loss prevention. This time for a grocery retailer. I was back in my groove, thriving in the chaos of shoplifting cases. Then COVID hit, and the world flipped upside down. Crime exploded, riots broke out, and my role morphed into something more intense. I was stabbed twice while apprehending shoplifters. Twice. Most people would’ve quit. I didn’t. Starting over isn’t about playing it safe. It’s about knowing what you’re made of and proving it.

Then, an opportunity came knocking—a job as a correctional officer at a county community corrections facility. They promised that if I proved myself, I could become a Special Deputy Field Officer. It felt like fate, like all the pieces were finally falling into place. So, I left loss prevention behind and dove headfirst into this new chapter. Months later, I was sworn in as a Special Deputy. That day was one of the best of my life. I’d found my calling.

For nearly three years, I thrived. I was out in the field, serving warrants, checking on people supervised by the courts, and teaching new officers. I loved every second of it—the grind, the adrenaline, the life-or-death stakes. I was respected, at the top of my game, and doing work that mattered. Because of my reputation, I even picked up a part-time job as a police officer for a small department. But life has a way of throwing punches when you least expect it.

A personal trauma knocked me off balance, and my performance slipped. My leadership gave me grace at first, but my mistakes piled up. I was terminated. Losing that job felt like losing myself. It wasn’t just a career; it was my identity. I clung to my part-time role as a police officer, but eventually, even that became too much. I had to walk away.

Starting over doesn’t get easier, no matter how often you do it. It still feels like someone’s ripped the floor out from under you. But I didn’t stay down. I went back to where I started, working as a jail officer. It’s not the same rush as before, but it’s meaningful. I work with inmates battling addiction and mental health issues. I’ve been through extensive training to help them, but more importantly, I’ve lived it. They know I understand. I hope they see that if I can climb out of the pit, so can they.

Some days, I still miss being out in the field, the thrill of chasing down warrants, the satisfaction of making an arrest. But I’m needed here. And maybe, just maybe, this is where I’m meant to be right now. Starting over isn’t about going back to who you were. It’s about becoming who you’re meant to be.

Life doesn’t hand you second chances wrapped in pretty bows. It throws them at your feet, wrapped in barbed wire and broken glass, and dares you to pick them up. Starting over is bloody work. It’s raw, painful, and messy. But it’s also the most honest thing you’ll ever do.

You won’t get it right the first time. Or the second. Maybe not even the third. But you don’t stop. You don’t quit. Because every time you start over, you prove to yourself—and the world—that you’re not done yet. And if you’re reading this, neither are you.

Stay disciplined. Stay resilient.

Jim Lunsford

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Use of Artificial Intelligence: Jim Lunsford is committed to sharing authentic and meaningful content. To enhance the clarity and effectiveness of his writing, Jim utilizes Artificial Intelligence (AI) as a tool in the content creation process. While AI assists in organizing and refining his ideas, every thought, insight, and story shared on this website is genuinely his own. The use of AI does not alter the authenticity of his work; rather, it helps Jim communicate more effectively with you, his audience. Jim's goal remains to inspire, motivate, and connect, and AI is simply a tool that supports that mission.

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