One August day in 1989, my mother picked me up from a hospital psych ward in New York City and put me on a plane to Minnesota. A treatment center there became my temporary abode for the next 30 days, followed by another four months in a "halfway house," which fell far short of being half the distance to anywhere I was going. Twenty-five years later, I'm still in Minnesota, and though I'm certain I've now lived more than half my life, I am not so sure I've lived half of my experiences on this twisted journey from addiction to recovery. Stuff happens. There's still a lot of stuff to crash through or revel in.

"Wow, 25 years — that's a long time," offered a neophyte who was born the year I landed in Minnesota.

"It's gone by fast," is all I replied, selling him short and me, too. I spared him the details because I didn't want to burst his bubble pumped up with his three weeks of being drug-free. And besides, he couldn't possibly put any context to what I've experienced in these years. A span of time at least gives some kind of hint about the jaggedness of what happened along the way. Yes, I'm still figuring it out, too.

Here's what I should have told him, based on what I've learned:

—Consequences count. What always got me to stop drinking or drugging were opportunities wasted, money gone, white lies and black dishonesty, the searing hurt of a hangover and the agony of withdrawal the day after, the shame of regret, and the harm I caused my family. Futility was the penultimate punishment, because I vowed never to repeat these consequences but then did, until I realized that by themselves, consequences are no bulwark to stay stopped.

—Rewards matter. A life free from substances is infinitely more satisfying than the alternative. With it come all sorts of opportunities, from being a good employee to being a better parent, having money in my pocket, not fearing the cop car behind me and, most of all, feeling OK in my own skin. The pursuit of happiness is so much easier than the pursuit of oblivion, and when I began to see that progress is measured in these rewards, I garnered the ability to stay stopped.

—Faith without works is dead, as they say. Yes, I had to finally come to believe that I could stop using long enough to start recovering. And for many of us (especially our families), the spark of that moment may seem miraculously divine. But it takes hard work to cross the abyss. Though I never did it alone, nobody did it for me. Only when I invested as much effort and energy in staying sober as I had in getting high did I finally move from the consequences to the rewards.

—Not all the rewards are fun. Rainbows happen only after it rains. I've known dark, dreary days in my life in recovery, especially since 2005, when my own shortcomings and those of others I care about fractured the foundation I had worked so hard to build. From those times to this moment, the greatest gift I've come to embrace is the ability not just to endure the darkness but to move through it — without straying to the shimmering mirage of the old oasis of substances. Today I know that the only thing more difficult than living life sober is living life drunk or stoned. Take away the substances and I am still required to live life, and darn it, sometimes that is hard. It's not fun all the time. Yet it is forever worth it.

I knew where I was going Aug. 28, 1989. To stop my illness from destroying me. I had no idea my whole life would change, a day at a time. It sure adds up after a while. I'll keep counting and get back to you in a quarter-century. Stay tuned.

William Moyers is the vice president of public affairs and community relations for the Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs. His book "Now What? An Insider's Guide to Addiction and Recovery" was published last year. Please send your questions to William Moyers at wmoyers@hazelden.org. To find out more about William Moyers and read his past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.