Saying the Words ‘I Need Help’ Saved My Life

My father always told me he thought I was too smart to be a chef. It wasn’t that he looked down on the work — he was a blue-collar man his whole life. I think he said it because he knew exactly what this industry can take out of a person. He knew stress. He knew pain. And he knew what happens when you don’t talk about either one.

I grew up watching my hero shiver under blankets, sweating through opiate withdrawals. When you see that as a child, your entire understanding of pain shifts. You learn early that suffering can happen quietly, right in front of the people you love.

Growing up Puerto Rican taught me strength, loyalty, and courage. Family shows up for each

other. We handle the hard times together. But watching my father battle addiction was my first

lesson in what it looks like when someone carries everything alone. He didn’t share much. He didn’t open up. His release valve was drugs, because no one ever gave him permission to speak about the weight he carried.

I swore I wouldn’t follow that path.

Life had other plans.

The Kitchen Years

I’ve spent close to three decades in a kitchen — it’s the only world I’ve ever known. I started cooking at 17. While my friends were dancing at senior prom, I was on the line slinging plates, learning how to survive the rush.

After high school, I went to Johnson & Wales University in Providence, earning a B.S. in Food Service Management and an A.S. in Culinary Arts. From there, I found myself in the healthcare side of foodservice. Feeding sick patients, their families, and the medical staff who cared for them gave me purpose, but the volume and pressure pushed me into bad habits.

In college, drinking is celebrated — almost expected. You don’t realize those habits follow you out into the real world.

I wasn’t a daily drinker in my early career. I kept things together because I was balancing kitchen work and a dream in hip-hop. But the weekends? I drank heavily. More than I ever admitted at the time.

Losing My Father

Eventually my father got sick — cancer. I had a choice: stay in a high-volume hospital kitchen three states away, or go home and spend what could be the last year of his life with him.

I chose home.

That year changed me. Losing him hurt deeper than I ever allowed myself to admit. But he also left me with the values I still carry in the kitchen today:

Strength. Integrity. Accountability. Loyalty. Honesty.

He wasn’t perfect, but he loved me. And he showed me what it means to keep going even when life is brutal.

Hiding in Work, Hiding in a Bottle

Returning home, I stumbled into a Sous Chef role at an independent school. I had no idea what private-school dining even looked like. But the schedule? Home by 4 p.m.? No weekends? A chef hears that and thinks, Sign me up.

It was a culture shift, but a good one. We cooked real food — from scratch, daily. Roasting meats for the deli, building salad bars with fresh produce, serving meals we were proud of.

But while the job changed, my grief didn’t. I never processed losing my dad. I poured everything into work... and into the bottle.

For nearly a decade, my routine was simple:

Cook. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.

Twelve beers and two pints of whiskey a day.

Everyday kitchen pressure on top of unresolved pain.

And the weight gain — emotionally and physically — spiraled.

I passed 500 pounds.

I was hurting inside and out.

The Breaking Point

Eventually, after enough dangerous moments, enough hard conversations, enough denial, I hit a wall. And the truth finally landed:

Being a chef is damn hard — but I was making it harder by trying to survive it alone.

If I wanted to live to see 50, something had to change.

And to change, I had to be honest.

Not with other people — with myself.

Sobriety, Recovery, and Reclaiming My Life

I made the decision to enter a substance-abuse treatment program — the same kind I watched my father walk in and out of when I was growing up. Ironic. And humbling.

But I knew he wouldn’t want my story to end like his.

After treatment, I committed to a new life. I have been sober now for nearly eight years. I underwent bariatric surgery and lost 140 pounds. I’m still on the journey, but I’m healthier emotionally, spiritually, physically — and professionally — than I’ve been in decades.

And it all started with three words I was terrified to say: “I need help.”

Those words saved my life.

What I Know Now

Sobriety didn’t just give me back my health.

It gave me back my passion — my curiosity, my creativity, my leadership, my connection to

people, my love for this craft.

When I was drinking, I was leading big kitchens but I was never truly present. I was surviving. Now I live my life awake — for my team, my community, my family, and myself.

I don’t claim to have all the answers. I’m not pretending this is easy. But here’s the truth I stand on:

If you want to change where you’re headed, you have to look in the mirror and be honest about what you see.

We can be our own worst enemy, but we can also be our own rescue.

We owe ourselves honesty.

We owe ourselves compassion.

We owe the people who love us the version of us that’s trying — not just surviving.

Life doesn’t get easier.

We get stronger.

Don’t stop fighting.

You are worth every bit of the work it takes to heal.

Author

Moses Hernandez