Founder

I was just six years old when it all started. My great uncle handed me a pellet gun suggesting I take it back home to Colorado. Brimming with excitement and the exuberance of boyhood, I couldn't resist the urge to practice my aim the very next day. After rounds of practice, my attention was drawn to a flock of black birds swirling around our quaint mountain home. Out of curiosity, I lifted the barrel, aimed carefully, and shot. In an instant, one of the birds fell to the ground, rolling to a stop just a foot away from me. The thrill of the moment quickly gave way to a crushing sense of guilt as I realized I had taken a life for the first time. Heartbroken, I buried that little bird, marking the spot with a handful of stones. For one full year I never witnessed another group of black birds around our house, except for one lone figure—its forever mate. That singular event etched a profound change in my life. From then forward, every time I see a flock of black birds, something big will follow.

Fast forward to August of 2013, when I was jolted awake by the sound of men hammering away on my roof. Rushing outside, I spotted a flock of black birds pecking instead. I screamed to drive them away and felt an eerie sense of foreboding. Turning to my partner at the time, I declared, “Something big is going to happen”.

That same day, around noon, I hopped into my truck to grab a pack of cigarettes before work. As I navigated a corner, I was startled to see a motorcycle barreling straight towards me in my lane. In a desperate maneuver, I veered hard right into the guardrail. The cycle collided with my vehicle, its rider soaring into the air, landing onto the road. I crawled out through the shattered front left window only to discover the unsettling sight of blood splattered everywhere and the motorcyclist sprawled lifeless on the road. Racing to him, I instinctively began performing CPR. Minutes later, police arrived, pulling me away to announce the grim news: he was dead. In a daze, I asked the authorities to take me to work, where I clocked in, resuming my routine as if nothing had happened.

The weight of this traumatic experience settled heavily over me, leading to the development of PTSD. I was unaware that anyone, not just veterans, could suffer from it. In the months that followed, my struggles escalated into addiction. I like to call this time my “Black Cloud”. Just days after Thanksgiving, I found myself in a casino, playing poker completely inebriated at 9:00 AM. I left, completely blackout, awakening in a cramped cell two hours later with a brutal hangover. My partner bailed me out but left soon to pick up her son from school. Left to my own devices, I contemplated selling everything I owned, head to Vegas, and continue my downward spiral.

However, as my partner returned with her son, I noticed their vehicle struggling to ascend our driveway amidst a raging blizzard. Grabbing a shovel, I trudged down to help. When I opened the back door to let her son out, I was met with a profound realization sparked by the fear in his eyes. This child understood that something was wrong; he knew, he knew I was in jail, he knew I did something wrong, he knew that I was the bad guy. In that poignant moment, it struck me: my choices didn't only affect me but it also rippled through to my loved ones as well. It was time for a change.

As I ventured into the world of rehabilitation, I became acutely aware of its billion-dollar industry that I couldn't afford. While I explored Alcoholics Anonymous and appreciated its merits, I realized it wasn't the right fit for me. Instead, I opted to design my own path to recovery through my own outpatient rehabilitation. Rather than squandering my resources on gambling and drinking, I chose to invest in my well-being by engaging with a therapist weekly, indulging in relaxation therapies like massages, and immersing myself in fitness to rebuild my spirit and mindfulness.

While it may seem like an easy task at first glance, the reality of unearthing those buried experiences from the past can be a daunting and emotional process. Each week I found myself confronting not only known traumas but also hidden wounds that lingered within my body, often unbeknownst to me.

You see, the term "trauma" originates from the Greeks, meaning "wound," and it's enlightening to recognize that every traumatizing event leaves behind an wound—an essence of pain that can shape our feelings and perceptions of the world. And we like to numb ourselves from that wound with addictions. This shared experience of trauma, manifesting as feelings of emptiness, loneliness, and insecurity, is something many can relate to, highlighting our interconnectedness through shared human experiences.

Today, on the 28th of November, 2025, I proudly celebrate twelve years of sobriety. I've delved deep into the journey of recovery, embracing Gabor Maté's theory that addiction stems fundamentally from childhood trauma and emotional struggles. My addiction didn't originate with just the motorcycle accident; it traces back to my fractured family and began when I had my first beer at sixteen, fueled by a desire to numb the pain I was enduring from a young age.

Today, I serve as a recovery coach specializing in somatic therapy through Muay Thai. I like to call my training sessions my “meetings”. I also recognize that the initial stages of sobriety can be financially burdensome, which is why I've established a nonprofit dubbed Sober Rebellion. This initiative allows my peers to work through their trauma using holistic methods without financial strain. Talk therapy and meetings have their benefits, but they are not a universal solutions. I wholeheartedly believe that somatic therapy offers a unique and effective approach to achieving sobriety. I also believe sobriety is not so black and white, as we been told. There’s definitely a grey area with resources like plant medicine, that need to be recon. That’s why I picked the name Sober Rebellion, rebelling against the definition of sobriety with the Gabor Theory and Plant Medicine.

Much love!

Benjamin Robbins