My name is Donald Miykhoel Di Giacomo — but everyone calls me Donny.
I was born on April 9, 1982, in Luzzi, Calabria, Italy — a fact that surprises most people. I was raised in the heart of Philly, but life had other plans when my mother, five and a half months pregnant, ended up grounded in Italy during what was supposed to be a quick family trip. So, I entered this world somewhere between continents, between stories — and maybe that’s fitting. I’ve always lived in the in-between.
I’m a chef by trade, a father by blood and soul, a former undefeated amateur boxer (36-0, 20 KOs) who was on his way to going pro — until the first motorcycle accident changed the course of everything. But I’ll get to that.
Because today, I need to say something louder than I’ve ever said it before:
In two months, I’ll be celebrating FIVE YEARS CLEAN — no heroin, no cocaine, no relapses.
No shortcuts.
No handouts.
Just grit, pain, and a quiet, stubborn refusal to die before I truly lived.
People love to romanticize rock bottom, like it’s a one-time fall. I never hit bottom. I fell into an abyss — an endless drop, no floor in sight. But I clawed my way out and used it as a launchpad.
Now, I walk past the ghosts that used to own me — and they don’t even recognize the man I’ve become. That’s not luck. That’s warrior work.
It hasn’t been easy. I’ve stared relapse in the face more times than I care to count — especially recently. But I’ve come too far to go back. I’ve been through too much to start over.
Let me explain.
I grew up in Kensington — not the version they film for documentaries, but the one you survive in. By 17, I’d already been shot three times. I survived two motorcycle wrecks that should’ve killed me. I’ve been stabbed in the face with an ice pick. I’ve overdosed enough to know what dying feels like. I’ve buried friends. I buried my mom on New Year’s Eve 2010. My dad followed in 2019.
And yet — I’m still here.
I used to think all that pain was punishment. Now I know it was preparation.
Getting shot taught me to stay alert.
Getting stabbed taught me to stay aware.
Overdosing taught me that drugs are a slow suicide.
The crashes taught me that life curves fast, and you better hold tight.
Losing my parents taught me to love people while they’re still breathing.
For a long time, I wore masks. I performed. I tried to be who I thought people wanted. Arrogant. Untouchable. But the truth is, I was afraid to be seen. I wanted to be loved — but didn’t know how to love myself.
But I’ve always had a big heart. Always loved hard. And now? Now, I love myself too.
I’m a father to five. My oldest, Mearea, is 23 — and we’re rebuilding what I once broke. My youngest, Destiny Marie, is 7 — and she’s my light in a world that once felt like nothing but shadows. They are my anchors. My reminders. My reasons.
I collect toy cars the way some people collect regrets. Mine are memories in miniature. I still love old gangster flicks and Hollywood’s golden age. I’m an Aries through and through: bold, honest, stubborn as hell.
But more than anything, I’m this:
An In Between.
Not quite an angel.
Not quite a devil.
Somewhere between heaven and hell.
I’ve brought a little hell into the world. But I’ve learned how to offer a little heaven, too.
I’ve walked through fire — and came out forged, not burned.
Today, I don’t glamorize my past — but I don’t hide from it either. I’ve made peace with it.
And five years clean? That’s not a trend. That’s not a fluke.
That’s earned. Every damn day.
So yeah — I say it with my chest:
I’m not just surviving.
I’m thriving.
And I’m doing it clean.
#FiveYearsStrong
#SoberNotSorry
#BuiltDifferent
#InBetween
#SurvivingAndThriving
