Founder and Contributing Writer – Jason Mayo
Every other week, I visit the local jail. I walk through a steel door that buzzes, slams, and locks behind me with a sound you don’t forget. It’s not symbolic—it’s real. I pass through security and enter a dorm where men in orange jumpsuits wait in the common area. They’re not behind bars when we speak. They’re seated in uncomfortable chairs, at metal tables bolted to the floor, under fluorescent lights. Some look restless. Some look tired. Some look afraid. A few look hungry—for truth, for change, maybe even for hope.
I come to bring a recovery meeting as part of my work. I can carry the message because so many people I have met in recovery have carried it to me.
I’ve never been locked up. I can’t pretend to know what that experience is like. But I know what it feels like to be stuck in a cycle you can’t break. I know what it’s like to hate the person in the mirror and still try to bargain your way through another day. I know addiction from the inside out. And I know recovery—not just the kind you read about, but the kind you bleed for.
When I enter that dorm, I don’t show up as a savior or a person who can solve any of their problems. I show up as a peer. As someone who gets it. As someone who’s lost a lot and fought hard to live differently. I usually bring a topic to kick off the meeting—something about recovery, change, or identity—but what matters most is what happens after I stop talking.
Because these guys? They show up, too. They speak honestly, sometimes raw, sometimes with more courage than they know they have. Some are brand new to recovery. Some have been in and out of it like a revolving door. And some are in that fragile space between maybe and yes.
And that space matters. That’s where recovery begins.
There’s something powerful about listening to a man talk about hope while still wearing the uniform, which is a constant reminder of where he’s been. There’s something sacred about witnessing someone make a decision for change in a place designed to hold them still.
It humbles me every time.
This isn’t just work. It’s soul work. It reminds me of what I stand to lose if I forget how far I’ve come. And it reminds me that healing doesn’t care where you are—it only cares that you’re willing.
I don’t go in to fix anyone. I go in to hold space, to listen, to share what I’ve been given and what I’ve been taught. And I leave each time with more than I brought. More gratitude. More perspective. More proof that even in the hardest places, people are still trying. Still reaching. Still showing up.
That’s recovery. That’s the heartbeat of it.
And I’ll keep coming back—as long as they’ll have me.
Jason Mayo is the creator and founder of Sober Not Subtle. He is a certified recovery peer advocate at a Recovery Community and Outreach Center in New York.
Before working in recovery, Jason was owner and executive producer of award winning visual effects and animation companies in NYC.
He currently writes for The Sober Curator, has been a contributing writer for the Forbes Business Council, creator of the popular Dad blog Out-Numbered, and author of the children’s books, “Do Witches Make Fishes?” and “The Boy and the Billy Goat.” His debut memoir, In Case of Emergency, Break Childhood is due out Fall 2025.
When Jason isn’t working or writing, you can find him watching Netflix with his wife or grabbing coffee with one of his two daughters. You might also catch him in his studio playing Fortnite as a Partnered streamer on Twitch.
The coolest thing that ever happened to him as a Dad Blogger was being named to the “25 Dads Who Rock” list published by Working Mother – keeping company with Barak Obama, Jay-Z, Will Smith, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Matthew McConaughey and Brad Pitt.
Jason is passionate about advocating for people living with substance use disorder and mental health issues. His goal is to use humor, creativity, and lived experience to make a positive impact on the world.
Jason has been sober since March 25th, 2010.
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