Modern Love

Engelbert (third row, second from right) with some of the more than 150 people in recovery she has worked with in the last decade, “joining them on their life-changing and lifesaving journeys.” | Photos courtesy of Phyllis Engelbert

The writer owns Detroit Street Filling Station, North Star Lounge, and the Lunch Room Bakery & Cafe. This article was originally submitted to the New York Times’ Modern Love section. 

My first recovery hire was Alex. He walked into my restaurant in August 2014 and asked for a job. He explained that he was a recovering alcoholic, living in a sober transitional house run by Dawn Farm addiction treatment center. Alex had been drinking hard for years. At the ripe age of twenty-one, after having attended residential treatment programs in lieu of high school and having dropped out of college, he was back in his hometown. Alex was not happy with the turns his life had taken and was not particularly excited to wash dishes. But he needed employment. This interaction was my first encounter with someone experiencing addiction and treatment; somehow in fifty years of living I had been unaware of the recovery world.

A week or so into Alex’s employment, I sensed his frustration. I went back to the dish sink, brought him a scone, and told him he was doing a good job. Alex later told me that that simple gesture was the encouragement he needed to keep going. He soon started bringing in job-seeking friends, also in recovery. The first was Andy—a former auto mechanic with a flair for fashion and fun. He would entertain the crew by singing into the dish spray nozzle, pretending it was a microphone. Next came Jon, who had just wrapped up a stint in the Marines. Jon was a tall and affable redhead with a voracious appetite; he ensured we never had leftovers! Next came Nigel, a sweetheart of a guy with an easy laugh and bright shining eyes. Nigel and I often worked side by side making sushi or pasties for dinner specials.

To this day, the stream of applicants from the recovery community has not abated. They are like our very own LinkedIn and Indeed all rolled into one. Over the ensuing ten-year period, while owning and operating a growing vegan food business that now includes a restaurant, a bakery/cafe, and an events venue, I have hired more than 150 people in recovery. As their employer, I have had the privilege of joining them on their life-changing and lifesaving journeys.

My recovery staff are filled with heart and soul and operate in a way that exemplifies community, camaraderie, and accountability. Together in a fight for their lives, they see the world in a special way. Their continued sobriety—and their struggle for a meaningful existence—depends on the strength of their relationships. Many of them live together, work together, attend AA meetings together, and socialize together.

The years have been filled with celebration and heartache. Many of my recovery hires continue to celebrate sobriety milestones. Alex now has ten years of continuous sobriety. He finished his undergraduate degree, went on to law school where he graduated first in his class, and currently practices law in Washington, D.C. Megan K now has eight years sober; she completed a bachelor’s in science while raising a teenager. David—Megan K’s partner—has seven years of sobriety and is now in his second year of law school and holds a leadership position at the law review. This is quite a feat for anyone but nothing short of miraculous for someone who spent years addicted to drugs and living in abandoned buildings or county lockups.

Nigel and Andy launched successful careers in videography and advertising. Dillon—who worked as a dishwasher and a cook at three of my establishments for six years—resumed his studies while working. He is now a nurse and has been sober for the entire time I’ve known him. Zoe, a beautiful young woman with a complicated past, now has a year and a half sober; she has regained her confidence and has resumed her studies at the U-M. Jamaine, with two-plus years of sobriety, is acing his classes at Washtenaw Community College and is planning to transfer to the university to study engineering. Cameron, Nathan, and Craig are kitchen managers at my flagship restaurant, and they are five, three, and four years sober respectively. Nathan is back in school. Cameron and Craig are both managers of sober-living houses. Cameron just finished a degree in graphic design, and Craig has discovered a love for the wilderness. Our recovery staff members have rebuilt relationships with their children, moved into their own apartments or houses, gotten driver’s licenses reinstated, paid off years of back taxes, and improved their physical and mental health.

As the years pass, the cast of characters in our recovery workforce gradually change. But the feeling of love and familiarity remains constant. My recovery staff are there for each other, and I am right there with them. So are our so-called “normies”—individuals not in recovery. Being respectful and supportive of their peers in recovery is a workplace requirement and one that people accept enthusiastically. When someone among us is struggling, everyone knows. We talk to that person, find out what’s going on, and see what they need. Our crew surrounds them and forms a protective cocoon, guiding them back on track.

Relapse, unfortunately, is part of many people’s recovery journeys. When a sober staff member resumes drinking or starts using again, they typically disappear from sight. Their phone goes straight to voicemail, they lose their wallet and keys, and manage to drain their bank account. I have witnessed my recovery staff going to the ends of the earth to help each other; they scour parks, motels, and liquor stores to find the relapsed individual. They rescue them from dangerous situations and take them home to spend the night, or to a meeting, the hospital, or a detox facility. They do not give up on one another.

When someone relapses, they don’t always make it back. Eight of my former employees, to date, have died. When the pandemic began and in-person AA meetings were canceled, it hit our people hard. One staffer, Cady, overdosed and died almost immediately. Then a kitchen manager, Mitch, started using again. Mitch was a charismatic, energetic, mischievous, and fun-loving young man with electric blue eyes. He loved all things scary, the outdoors, and bugs in particular. After years of struggle with addiction and months behind bars, Mitch had finally gotten sober. His life revolved around work, meetings, meditation, friends, and service to others.

At the time of his relapse, Mitch had been sober for nearly three years. When he resumed using, his roommates (and coworkers) tried everything to get him back on track. They took away his keys and wallet. They took turns watching him. They tried to keep him safe at home. For a moment it looked like Mitch was coming around, and he returned to work. But that did not last. The day he left the restaurant, clearly high, our recovery staff held an impromptu AA meeting in our dining room, empty under Covid rules. I hadn’t realized quite how many recovery staff we had until I looked around and realized that only two of us were left to run the restaurant.

Mitch regained his sobriety after that, but a year and a half later he overdosed and died. Megan K, who I hadn’t seen for most of that time, came to the restaurant seeking comfort. She didn’t know where else to go. Many staff members attended Mitch’s funeral. I invited them back to the restaurant afterward for a family dinner. It was such an awful time and a beautiful time. The love everyone felt for Mitch and each other was palpable. There were tears and hugs.

In the summer of 2023, we suffered two more losses. Ed, who had struggled with a variety of substances for years, got sober but was unable to find contentment. He was a kind, likeable, and intelligent soul. He and I had discussed things that might make him feel better: volunteering, being in nature, and artistic expression. One day he didn’t show up for work and the next was found dead in a garage of an overdose. His mother, bereft, flew to Michigan from Florida to identify the body and bury her son. She came to the restaurant to see Ed’s workplace and to meet the people he had told her so much about.

Two weeks later, Alex R—an adorable young gay man I had hosted at Thanksgiving at my home just months earlier—drank himself to death. His father found him at his apartment, barely alive, and got him to the hospital. Alex spent the next five days on life support, with only a sliver of a hope of recovery. I accompanied his best friend, Kat, to the ICU. A young woman in recovery and a college friend of my son, Kat is a special soul with a musical gift. Lying in that hospital bed, Alex’s face was swollen, and he was barely recognizable. I wanted to turn and run from that haunting image, but Kat pulled up a chair and spoke to him gently. She stroked his arm and then played her guitar and sang to him. Alex died two days later.

When someone dies, it reminds everyone of the fragility of life when you have substance use disorder. Our whole staff, whether in recovery or not, comes together. They redouble their personal efforts, they recommit to each other, and they mourn and remember the one who passed.

My employees in recovery have changed me profoundly. I now have insight into the workings of addiction and the monumental effort it takes to manage it and overcome it. I have become a less judgemental and more understanding person, always searching for the gem beneath an individual’s rough exterior.

My recovery staff brought me in as a fellow traveler: someone who understands and participates in their recovery. I’m gratified to be an honorary member of such a special club. To my staff in recovery, I say: I love you. Thank you for allowing me to come along on your wild and wonderful ride.