“Healing on Two Wheels”

The first time I rode a bike after rehab, I vomited halfway through the ride and cried like a kid behind a pub.

It wasn’t physical pain. It was shame.

You see, when you’ve lived years numbing every feeling—joy, guilt, hunger, grief—having your heart pound naturally feels… foreign. Like your body is rebooting from inside out.

I was 29 when I finally admitted I needed help. I’d been living out of a friend’s car in East London, jobless, washed out, stealing painkillers from pharmacy counters just to feel something close to human. My sister had blocked my number. My mum, bless her, still left voicemails every Sunday, reading Bible verses she hoped I’d hear.

I hit rock bottom the night I nearly overdosed in a McDonald’s bathroom. It was a janitor—of all people—who saved me. Called an ambulance. Held my hand. Whispered, “Not like this, son. Not like this.”

After two months in a rehab center in Devon, I came out clean, trembling, and with nowhere to go.

I remember standing outside the center with a plastic bag full of my things, watching other families hug their loved ones. No one had come for me. And yet, weirdly, I felt free.

I walked 5 kilometers that day, just to remind myself that I was alive.

Two weeks later, I got a job delivering parcels on a secondhand cycle through an NGO that helped recovering addicts reintegrate. It wasn’t glamorous. Cold mornings, rude customers, bad coffee. But every time I rode, something shifted.

My mind, which used to be a noisy nightclub of regrets, slowly became a quiet library.

Riding gave me rhythm. Routine. Resistance.

After a few months, I started journaling. At red lights, in alleyways, between deliveries—I scribbled feelings I didn’t have words for before. Pages soaked in sweat and healing. I still carry that journal in my backpack. First entry reads:

“Day 14 clean. Legs hurt. But I didn’t steal today. And I saw a baby smile through a shop window. Small win.”

Now, it’s been three years. I haven’t relapsed. I mentor two young lads going through withdrawal. One of them calls me “Captain Calm.” I laugh every time. If only he knew the storms I’ve survived.

Healing isn’t magic. It’s mileage. It’s messy. It’s slow.

But somewhere between pedals and pages, I found myself again—not the old me, not the broken me, but someone I can wake up with and say: “Let’s try again today.”
Can you make a prompt to create a non-realistic digital illustration for this experience. The illustration can be of based on the person’s professional experience life, etc. should have a professional artist’s touch