Today we’d like to introduce you to Amy Daeschel.
Hi Amy, we’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
When people look at me today, a social worker with multiple degrees, a director at a respected treatment facility, and a mother rebuilding a relationship with my daughter, it’s hard for them to imagine the person I was just 8 years ago, homeless, addicted, and praying for death on the streets of Salt Lake City. My descent didn’t happen overnight. At 36, after enduring 12 foot surgeries, I found myself dependent on pain medication. What began as legitimate medical treatment spiraled into something far more sinister as my life began unraveling at the seams. During this vulnerable time, my mother committed suicide, my marriage disintegrated, and my father suffered an aneurysm that required care. The final devastating blow came when my ex-husband absconded with my children out of state despite me having sole, physical, legal custody. It was simply too much to bear. The medication that once dulled my physical pain now became my escape from emotional agony. Within just two months, I lost everything, my home, my dignity, and very nearly my will to live. The shame and hopelessness were suffocating, I still find my voice catching when I revisit those darkest days. I spent two years on the streets, caught in an addiction that had completely consumed me. I wasn’t living, I was existing in a shadow world where each day blurred into the next, marked only by the desperate search for the next fix to numb my pain.
Can you talk to us a bit about the challenges and lessons you’ve learned along the way. Looking back would you say it’s been easy or smooth in retrospect?
The years I was homeless and lost in addiction, were punctuated by seven incarcerations and two overdoses that nearly claimed my life. Each time I survived felt like a cruel joke rather than a second chance. I couldn’t see a way out, couldn’t imagine a future where I wasn’t defined by my addiction and failures. The turning point came with Operation Rio Grande, a law enforcement initiative that, for all its controversy, ultimately connected me with treatment instead of just another jail cell. After my seventh arrest, I was finally offered a chance at recovery through the House of Hope residential treatment program. Walking through those doors, I had nothing but the clothes on my back and a lifetime of regret. I was emotionally exhausted, and terrified of facing myself without the numbing embrace of substances. Yet somehow, I stayed. One hour became one day, became one week, became one month.
In treatment, I began to unpack not just my addiction, but the trauma and pain that fueled it, for the first time, I wasn’t running from my grief over my mother’s suicide or the heartbreak of losing my children. I was learning to sit with those feelings, to process them, and ultimately to find strength in my vulnerability. After completing residential treatment, I transitioned to their outpatient program while simultaneously navigating the strict requirements of drug court. Six months of sobriety earned me a housing voucher, a modest apartment that felt like a mansion after years on the streets. It was the first tangible proof that change was possible, that I could rebuild from the ashes of my former life.
Can you tell our readers more about what you do and what you think sets you apart from others?
After finding recovery, my professional journey began humbly, as support staff at The Haven and an intake coordinator for Volunteers of America. Each role taught me something valuable, but more importantly, allowed me to use my painful experiences to connect with others still struggling. Becoming a Certified Peer Support Specialist formalized what I already knew intuitively, that my darkest days could become a light for someone else still finding their way. Joining USARA (Utah Support Advocates for Recovery Awareness) as an ARCHES crisis peer support specialist marked a profound shift in my recovery journey. Suddenly, I was on call 24/7, rushing to hospitals to sit bedside with people who had overdosed or were in withdrawal, people whose stories mirrored my own not long before. There’s something incredibly healing about being the person I needed when I was at my lowest. When I tell someone in withdrawal that I understand their pain, they know I’m not speaking from textbook knowledge but lived experience. It creates an instant connection that can sometimes mean the difference between someone continuing to suffer or reaching for help.
While working full-time in recovery services, I made what many considered an impossible decision, to return to school. I enrolled at Salt Lake Community College with trembling hands, doubting my academic abilities after years of addiction had clouded my mind. To my astonishment, I not only passed my classes but excelled, maintaining a perfect 4.0 GPA through my associate’s degree, bachelor’s degree at the University of Utah (graduating summa cum laude), and finally completing my Master’s in Social Work in May 2024. Each assignment, each exam, each degree became a reclamation of the self I had lost to addiction. Even today, I still hold traces of disbelief. Education wasn’t solely about my career advancement, it was about proving to myself that my brain could heal, that addiction hadn’t permanently damaged my potential. My professional path continued to evolve through roles at Odyssey House in marketing and outreach, Utah Naloxone providing syringe service programs, Steps Recovery, and joining Noella Sudbury to establish RASA, a law firm providing affordable legal representation for expungement. Each position allowed me to address different facets of addiction, prevention, harm reduction, treatment, and removing barriers to recovery.
I have also been deeply involved in several landmark pieces of legislation, including Utah’s Clean Slate Law, which automatically expunges certain criminal records after time has passed without re-offense. Standing at the capitol, meeting with legislators, and sharing my testimony with lawmakers, I felt the weight of representing thousands of others whose lives could be transformed by these policy changes. There’s something profoundly healing about channeling personal pain into legislative action that creates pathways to real change and recovery options for others.
Today, I’ve returned to Odyssey House as the Director of Outreach, Clinical Intake, and Harm Reduction and also work part-time as therapist at The Haven. As a Licensed Advanced Substance Use Counselor and my LCSW licensure on the horizon in November, I reflect on the improbable journey from client to clinician, from homeless to homeowner, from lost to found. But of all the miracles recovery has granted me, none compares to rebuilding my relationship with my daughter. After years of separation, she has moved back home with me, and in a beautiful full-circle moment, now works alongside me at Odyssey House.
Having my daughter back in my life is the gift I never dared to pray for during those years on the street. Addiction stole precious years I can never reclaim, but recovery has given us a second chance to create new memories, to heal old wounds, and to forge a relationship built on honesty, forgiveness, and love. Recovery has taught me that life isn’t about avoiding pain but finding purpose within it. Each morning, I wake with a sense of gratitude that sometimes overwhelms me, for the stable home that shelters me, for meaningful work that challenges me, for relationships that sustain me, and for the simple miracle of being present in my own life.
The contrast between my life then and now sometimes feels surreal. There are moments when I’m sitting at my desk reviewing program data, or sharing dinner with my daughter, or even just paying bills, mundane activities most take for granted, and I’m suddenly struck by how far I’ve come. Those moments of awareness are sacred to me, little reminders to never take this second chance for granted. My journey from rock bottom to redemption wasn’t linear. There were setbacks, moments of doubt, and days when staying sober felt like climbing a mountain with bare hands. But with each challenge overcome, each milestone achieved, the person I was becoming grew stronger than the addiction and darkness that once defined me.
Today, I walk through the world with purpose and pride, my past neither hidden nor forgotten but integrated into every fiber of who I am. My scars, both visible and invisible, are testaments to a battle fought and won, daily reminders that transformation is possible even from the darkest depths of despair. If there’s one message I want people to take from my story, is that rock bottom doesn’t have to be the end of your story, it can be the foundation upon which you build a new beginning. No matter how far you’ve fallen, how much you’ve lost, or how hopeless things seem, the possibility of change remains as long as you’re still breathing. Recovery isn’t just about stopping destructive behaviors, it’s about creating a life so rich and fulfilling that returning to those behaviors becomes unthinkable.
As I look toward the future, my daughter beside me, the continued hope of reunifying with my son, my professional path unfolding, and my heart finally at peace, I carry with me the knowledge that my greatest qualification isn’t listed on my resume or diploma. It’s the journey I’ve traveled, from the streets to the classroom, from despair to hope, from surviving to thriving.
And for that journey, difficult as it was, I am endlessly, and profoundly grateful.
Are there any apps, books, podcasts, blogs or other resources you think our readers should check out?
Brene Brown: Unlocking Us and Dare to Lead
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.odysseyhouse.org/
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/amy_daeschel/?hl=en
- LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/amy-daeschel-csw-lasudc-87a23b4b
- Other: https://www.tiktok.com/@amydash12
Image Credits
Previously provided
