When I was a kid, work was a way of life. I started young, first for my grandfather on his tobacco farm at just six years old. By the time I was nine, I was splitting my time working for my uncle’s construction company. At twelve, I was a full-time laborer and hod carrier, logging 40-hour workweeks. Then, just after my 14th birthday, I dropped out of high school and dove even deeper into the grind, working 50-70 hours a week.

Back then, my days were long and grueling. One thing I always looked forward to was lunchtime. It wasn’t just about the break from hard labor—it was the chance to listen to Paul Harvey on the radio. I still remember the feeling of anticipation when he’d say those famous words: “And now, the rest of the story.” It meant the break was almost over, and it was time to gear up and get back to work.

So when Cory asked me to write a follow-up blog post to share the rest of my Mitragyna speciosa story, those words from my childhood came rushing back: “The Rest of the Story.”

In my first post, I shared how the doctors at the VA abruptly cut my medication without warning. What I didn’t dive into was why. The truth is, it wasn’t just about me or my situation—it was a ripple effect of a nationwide crackdown. The DEA had started putting pressure on doctors to stop overprescribing opiates. This was in the wake of the OxyContin epidemic, when prescriptions were handed out like candy, often for minor injuries. The crackdown was understandable; the overprescribing never should have happened.

But that wasn’t the only reason the VA cut me off. My liver was in serious trouble.

Over the years of taking my prescribed medication, my liver had slowly deteriorated. Liver function tests revealed alarmingly high ALT and AST levels—clear signs that my liver was struggling, if not outright failing. My doctors feared that if I didn’t stop taking opiates immediately, my liver would give out completely. So they made the call: cold turkey. No tapering, no support, just a sudden and brutal stop.

As I wrote in my first post, the withdrawal hit me hard. By the end of the second day, I had hit rock bottom. I was in so much pain, both physical and emotional, that I didn’t see a way out. I was ready to end everything.

But my wife saved me. She saved me twice, actually. First, she removed all the weapons from the house, knowing I was in a dangerous headspace. Then, she did the research I couldn’t. That’s how she found Mitragyna speciosa.

When she first brought it up, I didn’t care about the risks. I wasn’t thinking long-term. I just wanted the pain to stop—whether that meant feeling better or dying didn’t matter to me. At that moment, I saw both outcomes as a win. But Mitragyna speciosa didn’t kill me. It gave me a lifeline when I desperately needed one.

At first, all I noticed was the relief. The withdrawal symptoms eased, and for the first time in days, I felt human again. Beyond that, I wasn’t paying attention to what Mitragyna speciosa might be doing to the rest of my body. My liver, for example, wasn’t even on my radar. The liver is a strange organ—it doesn’t feel pain or give obvious signals when it’s in trouble. You can’t see it or feel it working; it’s just there.

It wasn’t until my next yearly exam that I learned what was happening behind the scenes. My doctor came into the room looking stunned. My ALT and AST levels had plummeted. For the first time in years, my liver was showing signs of recovery. Each year after that, my test results continued to improve. Two years ago, I hit a milestone: my liver function was back within the normal range.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying Mitragyna speciosa healed my liver. It didn’t, and it couldn’t. What I believe is that Mitragyna speciosa gave my liver the chance to heal itself. By helping me manage the pain and withdrawal without turning to more harmful substances, it allowed my body to start repairing the damage.

I’m alive today because of Mitragyna speciosa—and because of my wife. She found the information we needed when I couldn’t see a way forward. Cory and Herba ReLeaf played a role too, creating a technology that let me use a much smaller amount of Mitragyna speciosa to achieve the same relief. It all came together to give me another chance at life.

When I think back to those days of working on the farm and the construction site, listening to Paul Harvey, I realize that life has a funny way of coming full circle. “The Rest of the Story” wasn’t just a catchphrase—it was a reminder that every chapter has more to it than we might see at first glance. My story isn’t over yet, and neither is yours.

If you’re struggling, whether it’s with pain, withdrawal, or something else entirely, know this: there’s always a rest of the story. You just have to hang on long enough to see it.