The thing I have noticed, more than anything else, in the people I have watched come back from relapses — is that the come-back, done right, makes them more durable, not less, in the long run. That sounds like a strange thing to say. It is not glorifying the relapse. The relapse cost them something real, and it cost the people who loved them something real.
What I am saying is that the shame they carried, in the immediate aftermath, that told them their recovery was over — that voice was wrong. The recovery was not over. The recovery had a hard chapter in it. The next chapter, when they got to it, was, in many ways, sturdier than what they had before. Because they no longer underestimated the disease. Because they knew, now, exactly what their unguarded doors looked like.
Recovery is not a continuous-attendance trophy. It is a long, sometimes interrupted, sometimes rebuilt project of staying in honest contact with what your life actually requires. People who do that, over years, recover. They do not all do it on the first try. The number does not matter, in the end. The trajectory matters. The fact that you are still in the work matters.