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Real Stories. Real Support. Real Community.
The power of peer support can be seen in the lives of the people we serve every
day. Throughout June and July, we'll be sharing stories from members, volunteers, peer coaches, and community leaders whose lives have been impacted by connection, support, and recovery. These stories remind us that recovery happens in many different ways, but one
thing remains constant
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Recovery Happens Together.
Week 2 stories
Sabastian Nelson - Peer Spokane
When I first walked through the doors of Peer Spokane, I was scared and exhausted. Years of battling anxiety and addiction had left me disconnected from everything and everyone I cared about. I didn’t think anyone could truly understand what I was going through, but at Peer Spokane, I found people who did. The first few weeks were tough.
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Opening up wasn’t easy, but hearing others share their stories gave me courage. In group meetings and one-on-one peer support sessions, I learned that recovery isn’t about doing everything perfectly; it’s about showing up and taking one small step at a time. The peers there didn’t judge me; they reminded me that healing is possible even after years of struggle.
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Through Peer Spokane, I found structure, purpose, and community. I attended art groups, recovery meetings, and mindfulness sessions that helped me rediscover myself. I learned coping tools that made everyday stresses manageable. Slowly, I started to believe I was worth the effort. Today, I’m grateful to call Peer Spokane part of my journey. It gave me a safe space to heal and the support to keep growing. My message to anyone reading this is simple: You are not alone. There’s a place where people truly get it, and for me, that place was Peer Spokane.
Aartson Masehla - Peer Seattle
When I first came to the United States, I carried more questions than luggage. I wondered if I would fit in, if I would find my people, if I would ever feel at home as a gay man in a place so new and unfamiliar. Some days, the excitement carried me forward; other days, the loneliness felt heavy. Then I found Peer Seattle.
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The first time I walked into the building, I remember feeling nervous, like I was stepping into a room full of strangers who somehow already knew each other. But something happened that I didn’t expect. People smiled at me. They asked my name. They saw me. And slowly, I felt the weight I’d been carrying start to lift. Volunteering there opened a part of me I didn’t even know I was keeping quiet. Every time I met someone new, every time I listened to someone’s story or shared a piece of my own, my confidence grew a little more.
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My communication improved not because I practiced speeches, but because I
practiced being myself. And for the first time in a long time, that felt enough. What started
as a search for community became something much deeper. Peer Seattle gave me a place to connect with other gay people, yes, but it also gave me courage, purpose, and a sense of belonging that I didn’t imagine I’d find so soon. I came to the U.S. hoping to build a new life.
At Peer Seattle, I learned how to build it with open hands, an open heart, and a voice that’s
no longer afraid to speak.
Melissa Hill - Peer Kent
Once upon a time, a little girl grew up in the breathtaking Colorado mountains. But behind the beauty, her childhood was marked by pain and abuse. Those early wounds led her down a hard road. Into abusive relationships, addiction, and despair. For 23 years, drugs and alcohol controlled her life. She fought every day just to survive. But then came a turning point. Two years ago, she chose hope. She packed her bags and went to California for a year of treatment. It wasn’t easy, healing never is, but she discovered something powerful: she was worth saving.
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After treatment, she moved to Washington and stepped into an Oxford sober house. Surrounded by others on the same journey, she found strength in community. She began volunteering at Peer Kent, giving back what was freely given to her. That passion grew into purpose. She became a recovery coach, earned her certification as a Certified Peer Counselor, and was hired at Sound Behavioral Health. Today, she dedicates her life to helping others find freedom. Her mission became even more personal after losing her 24-year-old son to addiction, a heartbreak that could have broken her, but instead fuels her fight.
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She is living proof that recovery is possible, that no matter how far you’ve fallen, you can rise again. If you’re struggling today, hear this: You are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. Your story isn’t over. There is hope, and there is help. Take that first step because the life you dream of is waiting for you.
Anonymous - Peer Olympia
I didn’t come to Peer Olympia because my life was together. I came because it wasn’t. When you’re homeless, people stop seeing you as a whole person. You become a problem to be solved, a statistic, or someone to step around. Days blur together. Nights are long. You learn how to stay small so you don’t attract attention, but inside you’re screaming just to be seen.
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I showed up to Peer Olympia tired… physically, emotionally, spiritually. I didn’t have a home. I didn’t have a plan. What I did have was a body that hurt, a nervous system stuck in survival mode, and a heart that was running out of reasons to keep hoping. What I found there wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It was presence. People looked me in the eye. They said my name. They didn’t rush me or talk over me or treat me like I was broken beyond repair. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged somewhere…even if just for a moment.
I moved my body without fear. I laughed without forcing it. I breathed deeper than I had in months. No one asked me to explain how I ended up homeless. No one made me feel like I had to prove my worth to be there. I’m still homeless. That part of my story hasn’t changed yet. But something else has. I have hope again. Hope that my body can heal. Hope that my life isn’t over. Hope that community exists, even when everything else falls apart. Peer Olympia reminded me that I am still human. That I still matter. That I am more than the worst chapter of my life. And sometimes, that reminder is enough to keep going one more day. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But now, I know I’m not walking toward it alone.
