As I often say when I start to tell my story, I grew up in a family that checked three boxes: we had a struggling, troubled relationship with alcohol that went back generations. We were Irish and loved to celebrate our heritage and culture. Finally, we lived in Wisconsin. If being Irish was in our blood, being from Wisconsin was in our DNA! For any of us, drinking would have been a problem by just checking ONE of those boxes. We checked all three. This made drinking a very normative thing, something that we fully believed was integral to our identity. If you were a Farley, if you were Irish, if you were from Wisconsin – you drank.
Those beliefs and behaviors continued through my college years and beyond. I had left Wisconsin for Georgetown University and then began my career in New York City. But my relationship with alcohol never changed (in fact, it was getting worse). Whenever I was reminded that my drinking was not normal, I could always return home to Wisconsin, to my family. Safe, normal drinking environments where I did not stick out. And with that came the Farley’s secret ingredient. The one single emotion that helped mask our behavior and serve as a coping mechanism for everything we were feeling. Humor. And we were very good at it.
Out of this environment came my brother, Chris. The middle child of the five Farley siblings. We watched as Chris rose to the very heights of both comedy and addiction. We were all so proud of his talent and career. And so worried as his alcohol use and then his addiction surpassed us all. Chris’s struggles and tragic death was unbearably hard on us all. So hard that we could not see or understand that we too were on a journey. From the very early stages of Chris’s addiction, up to his death, we all told ourselves that we were not as bad as that. We did not have a problem.
After college, I followed the crowd up to New York and began my marketing career in the financial services sector. A few years later, Chris moved to New York as well, continuing an acting career that was about to take off. With the rest of the family back in Wisconsin, it was just Chris and I in New York. We knew nothing of substance abuse or mental illness because we were taught to never let those things affect your lives or work. And certainly, you never spoke about those things. We were just trying to survive. We both saw our drinking as a behavior to be corrected. We did not see, or even talk about, the mental health issues that were driving that behavior. All our efforts were spent giving the world the person we thought they wanted us to be. For me, that was the image of a smart, successful banker and head of a growing family. For Chris, that was a happy and joyous person who created laughter for others. Looking back, I see myself being surrounded by people, the center of attention, making everyone laugh… at the same time, feeling like I was standing on the surface of the moon. I know Chris had those moments too.
We all saw ourselves as garden variety Irish binge drinkers, and therefore “normal”. Yet, Chris seemed to need more. As his popularity grew, so too did his addictions. Early attempts at treatment were driven by a desire to seek approval, please others, and demonstrate compliance. Everyone, including Chris, believed that his short stays in residential treatment would change his behavior and sustain his sobriety. It’s no surprise that these early attempts at sobriety were unsuccessful. And as frustrating as that was for everyone, I could see that it was absolutely demoralizing for Chris. In fear of losing his “dream job”, he entered treatment one more time. And he did one more thing. When he returned to New York and SNL, he also went right into a sober living facility on the lower east side. He was on TV every Saturday night but also checking into a cot every night. He was making his bed every morning and working his recovery program every day. I was blessed to still be in New York as he began working his recovery program. Yet, at the time, I just saw what everyone else saw – a career that was literally blasting off.
On December 18, 1997, I was in a friend ‘s office in Fairfield, Connecticut where I was living. Off to the side was a TV. It was on, and CNN was playing. From the corner of my eye, I saw Chris’s face appear. Then, as I turned my head, I heard the anchor announce that my little brother had died of an apparent drug overdose.
So many things changed after that. In fact, the moments that followed are worthy of a story all their own. For the most part, it was here that everyone in our family began their own journey. On the surface we were a close, happy, connected family. We communicated through laughter, not realizing that laughter had also become our coping mechanism for avoiding any deeper emotions. With laughter gone (literally) it was hard for us to communicate. And so, we managed this pain and grief in our own individual ways. Along with the pain I was feeling came a whole host of other emotions- guilt, shame, regret, anger, resentment.
As a family, we avoided addressing alcohol at all, fearful of the honesty that may’ve taken—and what truths it would reveal. Outside recovery resources were few and far between, with parents relying on word-of-mouth (“a friend said you should go to this place”) or a family doctor with no real insight into the deeper issues at play. Chris couldn’t get the help that he needed, and that lack of clarity and resources led to a tragic end.
When Chris died, I wanted to go out there and be an advocate by telling Chris’s story. This experience and others from my youth shaped my desire to help others and fight the stigma around addiction. But I had my own problems to address. For a long time, I was sober but not in recovery and telling Chris’s story but not my own. With Chris gone, drinking was causing train-wrecks in my own life.
I needed to look at everything differently and a cycle began. I’d stop drinking for long periods of time, would go to meetings, look at other people and say, “That person drinks more than me, so I don’t belong here.” It’d be a matter of time before I told myself, “You’ve been sober five years, so you’re okay to have a beer or glass of wine.” For myself and many others considering recovery, there is a fear of what it might really mean for your life as you know it; you walk right up to the point and then experience that fear, and a vision of the pain and life changes that might be on the other side of that door. Becoming a father changed how I looked at recovery. I wanted to do everything in my power to make sure my kids didn’t end up with the same casual relationship with alcohol that we had growing up.
The moment during this time period that really struck me was when walked into a 12-step meeting and first heard the term “rigorous honesty.” I realized that I was projecting this person that I thought the world wanted to see because of the school I went to, the town I grew up in, or the expectations I thought others had of me. When I heard “rigorous honesty,” I started to be an authentic person and relationships soon started coming back. While recovery didn’t solve every problem—whether interpersonally or financially or otherwise—it did make life get better, and it was never getting better before.
From there, I made it my life’s work to help others. I began by speaking out and
supporting people through community service, serving on the Dane County Human Services board and the boards of several non-profits, advocating for comprehensive social services and support systems. In 1999, I established The Chris Farley Foundation, a tribute to my late brother focusing on harnessing the power of humor to create engaging educational programs on substance abuse prevention for young people. I became a Professional Relations Coordinator for Rosecrance Behavioral Health in my home state of Wisconsin, championing prevention and recovery through initiatives promoting mental wellness and substance abuse prevention. This gave me a deep appreciation for ethical and quality care.
Now I’m bringing that passion to Recovery.com, an easily accessible network of
treatment centers focused on behavioral health and addiction recovery. This has been a meaningful next step in both my personal journey and a broader mission to make recovery easier to navigate for everyone—helping to pull those in need into recovery instead of them feeling “pushed” through.
My family intimately understands the challenges of finding quality care for your loved ones, and my background makes me even more committed to our mission: to make it easier for people to find recovery options by offering simple and clear resources for families and individuals.
Back when my brother Chris and I were both struggling, the conversation was related to behavior, with no real awareness or discussion of mental health. Now the environment has shifted for the better, with heightened awareness, greater resources, and more open discussions, etc. Another way to put it—back in the day, your choices of recovery treatment were basically chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, but treatment today offers a whole Ben & Jerry’s-style array of unique options.
I need to get people help. Starting from this family that had a lot of drinking with a sibling that died of this disease, to being an advocate and then being in recovery myself, and now working in the field, it’s been an incredible journey for me.
I often talk about how important it is to feel connected to a community. Whether I’m speaking at events or attending recovery meetings, I always feel that sense of
belonging. This connection is not just comforting—it’s key to making real change. My recovery community has allowed me to find that deep sense of belonging, regardless of what anyone in the group looked like or where they came from.
I’ve been talking about connection for years, but it’s that sense of belonging that drives it home. When I walk into a meeting, I immediately feel connected, no matter where I am. It’s a reminder that recovery isn’t something you do alone—it’s about finding a community that truly understands your journey. And your journey is never over. Recovery has allowed me to understand myself and become a human again.