I’m an Addict and I’m Not Sorry

Let’s drop the polite bullshit for once. If you made it here, you’re either in it, have clawed your way out of it, or love somebody who’s been dragged through hell by addiction. And if that’s your reality, you know exactly what I mean when I say the worst part isn’t the withdrawal sweats, or wrecking your life, or waking up face-down in your own mess. It’s the shame. That choking, oil-slick weight that seeps into your bones and tells you, over and over, “You are less. You are broken. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Well, fuck shame. I mean it. Fuck it sideways, backward, with both middle fingers up.

I’m not hiding. I’m not apologizing. I’m an addict. I’ve done things I promised myself I would never do. I’ve lied to people who trusted me. I’ve stolen. I’ve torn up every good thing I could get my hands on, thinking maybe, finally, I’d feel something other than empty. But here’s what that doesn’t mean: it doesn’t mean I’m broken past repair. It doesn’t mean I don’t get to want a life worth a damn, or that I can’t crawl toward a little peace. I still deserve moments of quiet. I still get to want love, safety, a real fucking chance. And you do too.

Our past doesn’t disappear. We drag it around with us—sometimes like a badge, sometimes like a corpse. Sometimes both. But the only thing that matters is what you do next. Not what your mom thinks, not what the neighbors gossip about, not the checklist some rehab brochure says equals “success.” What are you going to do today? That’s it.

You can hate what you did but not who you are. There’s a world of difference there—and nobody gets to decide that for you. We’ve all pulled moves we’d sell our own teeth to undo. Regret isn’t a private club. But the difference between people who sink and people who scrape out something like a life is this: the ones who stop running from themselves. The ones who show up, even when showing up means sitting alone with your own shit and doing nothing but not using, just for today.

Recovery isn’t a purity test. It’s not about gold stars, perfect attendance, or performing sainthood for people who’ll never get it. It’s about being a touch less unhinged today than you were yesterday. Eating a bowl of cereal, answering the phone, not lighting yourself on fire—progress isn’t pretty, but it counts. Every boring, brutal inch of it counts.

And yeah, you’re going to backslide. You are going to mess up. There will be nights you want to smash something just to feel real, mornings you wake up angry you woke up at all. And you’ll live through it. Sometimes easier would be relapsing, sinking, vanishing; but “easy” is the trap, not the exit. Getting free is hard, and it’s still yours for the taking.

Here’s what I’m done with: letting people who haven’t lived it tell me what I “deserve.” I get to want good things. So do you. Real rest. Love that doesn’t feel like payday loans. One day in your own skin without the urge to crawl right out of it. We deserve all that, just on the off-chance we survive long enough to see it.

So here’s the deal. No more swallowing shame. No more apologizing for surviving. You and me—we’re not just addicts. We’re survivors. We’re stubborn as hell, and we’re not fucking sorry.

Screw the shame. Live anyway.

-Belle-

 393 people.

That’s not just some random number. That’s 393 folks who are done pretending, who crave the real stuff—the late-night honesty, the scars, the ugly wins, and the truth nobody else talks about. If you’re here, you’re my kind of people. You’ve stuck around for the nights it got raw, the mornings it didn’t make sense, and the moments where progress was just dragging yourself through one more impossible day.

Every time someone hits subscribe, it reminds me there are more of us than they think. More people tired of self-help BS, sick of the highlight reels, ready to grit their teeth and get real about recovery, relapse, and fighting for something better.

Here’s the deal: I want to smash through 400. Not for the vanity, but because every new person means the stigma gets a little weaker and the truth gets a little louder. So if you know someone who’s struggling, burnt out, or just wants to stop faking it—send them my way: Progress is Progress.

Let’s hit 400. Hell, let’s blow past it. Because progress is louder—and stronger—when we’re in it together.

Thank you. For reading, for showing up, for proving that scars are just proof we kept surviving.

Ready for the next round? Share, subscribe, tell a friend. Let’s keep building this movement—one honest voice at a time.

 🎉 Sick of fake “New Year, New Me” posts? SAME. If you’re ready for real talk about recovery, parenting chaos, fighting for your own health, and what “progress” actually looks like in the messiest year ever—this one’s for you. 👏

🍂 This year, my world flipped: child custody battles, adoption rollercoasters, loving someone through relapse, and how “self-care” actually works when you’re a trauma survivor AND a counselor (spoiler: it’s not bubble baths and gratitude lists 😏).

🧠 Whether you’re neurodivergent, a chronic overthinker, living with addiction, or just tired of cheesy advice, I wrote the rawest New Year’s re-boot you’ll find—in therapist mode AND full-on human mode.
➡️ Creative tips for people who don’t fit the mold
➡️ Advice for counselors, professionals, & real-life helpers (let’s get honest about burnout!)
➡️ Actual, practical tools for tough brains & tender hearts

💥 If you want #addictionrecovery, #mentalhealth, #parenting, #traumasurvivor, and real lived experience—WITHOUT the sugarcoating—click now.

✨ Progress isn’t perfect. It’s messy, stunning, hard-won, and sometimes just hanging on. Read my all-new post and let’s walk this wild year together. 💬

👇👇 Jump in, join the community, and subscribe now for radically honest stories, hope, and practical help:
https://progressisprogress.substack.com/

👣 Progress is progress, no matter how messy. Drop a comment if you’re walking your own crooked path. Let’s blow up the myth of the “perfect” New Year together! 🖤🔥

Resolutions Reimagined: Progress Is Progress—Even When You’re Still Crawling

Every December, the world seems to lose its mind. Suddenly, everyone’s promising themselves that starting January 1, they’ll wake up as somebody else. You know the drill: the gym memberships, the blank journals, the list of things to quit, the list of things to start. The implied message? The “real” you is waiting just around the calendar corner, if you can will yourself through it.

Let me save you some time: the real you is already here, probably reading this in pajamas, possibly with dry shampoo in your hair and coffee in your veins, maybe nursing a bruised heart, an unpaid bill, or a secret “what if.” If you’re expecting a Pinterest-perfect reinvention, you’re reading the wrong blog.

If you need proof, I’ll offer myself up: this year did not turn out the way my January self imagined. My kid’s father—the man who was safely out of the story—walked back in from prison then walked right back out. My husband’s relationship with alcohol got so toxic, we had a ride-or-die moment that nearly tore things at the seams. At the same time, I walked through the fire on child custody or Termination of rights, lost a shed’s worth of sleep, and filed adoption papers with hands that were still shaking. I got real acquainted with heartbreak, uncertainty, and that old counselor curse: looking at your own mess and thinking, “How am I supposed to help anyone when I’m not even sure I can help myself?”

But here’s where it gets weird—instead of breaking me, or confirming all those lurking impostor feelings, this year made something else snap in place. I found myself fiercely protecting my own health, saying no with more honesty, and understanding what I actually wanted to fight for. Not every battle is worth waging, and “healthy” started to look more like boundaries and bad days survived, not just salads and yoga classes logged.

“Progress Is Progress”—and Sometimes It’s Survival Mode

Somewhere along the way, I landed on the one mantra that survived into every version of myself: Progress is progress. I mean it. That’s not the kind of slogan you slap on a water bottle for a “girlboss” vibe; it’s the only way to make sense of a year that threw the kitchen sink at my supposed plans. Some days, progress looked like paperwork getting filed. Some days, it was dragging myself to a session. Some days, it was admitting that some wounds needed more than a night’s sleep and a gratitude list.

This is the part the world skips over when we talk about "resolutions." Real life will demand that you choose, minute to minute, which progress matters—what’s worth the fight and what isn’t. Sometimes, “success” is not unraveling. Sometimes it’s crying behind a locked door and still making lunches the next day.

Counselors, Professionals—Let’s Talk About the “Helper’s Mess”

Let me speak right to my fellow helpers: Clients can tell when their therapist is running on fumes. I know because, hell, I’ve seen it from both chairs. And this year, my own tank was closer to E than I’d ever admit in public. You want to know what’s dangerous? Not being honest about it. We are conditioned to keep showing up, to silence our own pain, because “the client comes first.” It’s the great unsaid of the helping professions. But the truth is, if we don’t pause and deal with our own brokenness—if we don’t get as real with ourselves as we expect of our clients—we risk doing harm instead of good.

So here’s an ugly truth: Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do as a counselor, or any “professional,” is to stop pretending. Ask for help. Take a step back. If you’re modeling honesty and lived experience for your clients, you’re doing the real work.

What I Learned the Hard Way (and Why You Don’t Need to Do It Alone)

This year, I got blindsided—by my kid’s father getting out, by my husband nearly choosing alcohol over family, by a system that sets parents up to fail. But here’s the double-twist: I also found out I could handle more than I imagined, and that “handling it” didn’t look like other people’s stories. It looked like crisis-mode parenting, interactive journaling (literally talking to my journal out loud!), and teaching myself, day after day, that being “okay” sometimes just means not giving up on myself.

If you’re neurodivergent, or someone who lives in their head, or just too tired for the usual advice, you already know: Tips like “make SMART goals” and “just go to the gym!” are about as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. This year, I learned how to make self-care brutally specific, flexible as hell, and just a bit weird.

The Actual, Unfiltered Progress Toolkit (For Real Humans—Counselors, Addicts, and the Rest)

Here’s the secret: all those big, shiny, one-size-fits-all resolutions are built to fail. Our brains crave something else—creativity, specificity, permission to do it ugly.

Try these instead (tested by a neurodivergent, trauma-carrying, caffeine-fueled counselor in ongoing recovery):

• Interactive Journaling: I know, every therapist says “journal”—but this year, the only way I kept up with it was pretending my journal was a person. I wrote, argued, sometimes literally said things out loud for my future self to read back. Try talking to your journal like it’s your best friend, or like it’s someone who “gets it.”

• Designate a Battle of the Month: Instead of ten goals, try one ridiculous, hyper-specific, winnable battle a month—like “This January, I’ll forgive myself for bad days before noon,” or “In February, I’ll try one new recipe that makes me laugh, not just fills me up.”

• Choose Your Chaos: This year taught me that I only have so many spoons. Pick your non-negotiables: three little things, max, that you actually care about, and let the rest go out with the trash.

• Make Use of “Pivot Rituals”: Don’t push through the willpower wall. Instead, create little rituals, triggers, or signals for transition. When I start spinning out, I play a single song—the same one, each time. Or I walk outside and count the cracks in the sidewalk. Doesn’t have to make sense. Just has to pull you back into your body.

• Assemble the Weirdest Recovery Toolkit: Some people like affirmation cards and gratitude stones. This year? My toolkit included a playlist called “Songs for When I Want to Fight the World,” a stress ball shaped like Nicolas Cage’s face, sarcastic memes, and voicemails I left myself during panic attacks. Build yours however you need.

• Abandon Perfection—I Promise This Is Allowed: Your resolutions don’t need to look polished. They don't even need a neat ending. Progress is measured in do-overs, detours, and dumb jokes that get you through another Monday.

For the Overthinkers, Intellectualizers, and Neurodivergent Warriors

You want practical? Here’s practical:

• For every “why can’t I get this right?” moment, try writing a “rebuttal” from your bravest self, even if you don’t believe it. One voice on paper doubting, one encouraging. Battle it out.

• If your brain rebels against self-soothing, try absurdity—write your to-do list as if you’re planning world domination, or ask ChatGPT to coach you like an overenthusiastic sports announcer.

• Set up “accountability exchanges” with someone who doesn’t judge you, and who might occasionally bribe you with pizza or leave you the hell alone when you need space.

• Let yourself “win” at something so small it feels stupid. Your nervous system keeps score, and every tiny win is a vote for “possible.”

The Only Resolution Worth Keeping

Here’s where we land: Progress is progress. Not everyone in recovery needs the same finish line. The best counselors aren’t the ones who’ve never stumbled, but the ones who got back up and kept it messy and real. This year, my victory wasn’t in becoming a new person—it was in not giving up being me, while the whole damn world tried to make me quit.

So, when you sit down to “resolve” something for 2026, make it this: Give yourself credit for crawling, for staring down the same battles, for showing up with scars, and for every tiny decision to not give up.

You don’t need anyone’s permission to do life differently. Recovery, parenting, healing, just surviving December—that’s all progress.

I’m not better because I “fixed” everything. I’m better because I keep trying, keep refusing to quit, and keep remembering: there is no wrong way to get to your own next chapter.

If you’re reading this in your mess, hands shaking, heart heavy, wondering if another year can really change anything, you’re not alone. Some years, progress is just showing up at all. That’s enough.

Here’s to the messy, un-photogenic, wildly imperfect new year. And to every single kind of progress.

—Belle

 

Ready for Real Progress in Recovery? Your First Session Is On Me.

If you’ve been thinking about making a change—whether it’s day one or day hundred—sometimes what makes all the difference is having that one person in your corner.

That’s exactly what recovery coaching is: someone who gets where you’re coming from, who knows the slip-ups and setbacks, and who can walk with you (not just talk at you) as you figure out what your next chapter looks like.

Right now, you can book your first recovery coaching session for free through CleanCircle.io—a brand new platform built for people who want more than “just another app.” CleanCircle connects you with a community, live chat rooms, group meetings, real accountability, and certified coaches who know this path inside and out. (Seriously… every coach on there has lived it.)

There’s no catch, no pressure, and definitely no credit card required.

What you get:

• Your first session free with a recovery coach (that’s me!)
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Change doesn’t always start with some big, dramatic leap. Sometimes it’s as small as clicking a button, trying a single free session, and seeing how it feels to have someone in your corner.

Ready to get started?
Book a free session right now through CleanCircle.io, or just reach out if you have questions or want to know more about how recovery coaching actually works. No pressure—just progress.

(And if you want to keep following my journey & thoughts on real, imperfect progress, go ahead and subscribe here. The archive is open, and you’re always welcome.)

Self-Forgiveness The Final Boss of Recovery (And, Honestly, Just Being a Human)

For more posts like this come visit the new platform Progressisprogress.substack.com 

If you’ve ever spent your Friday night staring at the ceiling, counting your regrets like sheep, you know self-forgiveness isn’t some mushy meme. It’s work that can feel impossible. Forget climbing Everest, try letting go of that one thing you did “back then.”

If addiction, mental health, trauma, codependency, any of it, has ever torched your life—or if you just love someone who’s been there—here’s the dirty secret: the hardest person to forgive is staring back at you in the mirror. Ask me how I know.

Why Do We All Suck at Self-Forgiveness?

Maybe you grew up being told, explicitly or with every dismissive glance, that when you screw up, it’s permanent. I’m not talking about “Who broke the vase?” but honest-to-god, core-deep, believe-it-in-your-bones shame. For me, that feeling started before I could ride a bike. There’s a point, too, where shame becomes your primary operating system—for me, it ran like spyware, sabotaging relationships and self-worth. I remember lying awake as a kid, convinced if people knew what I really was, they’d walk away.

Life didn’t exactly disprove the theory. Stuff happened. Bad stuff, then worse. When I was assaulted as a child, the shame was corrosive. Turns out, forgiving the man who hurt me wasn’t even the hardest part—it was forgiving myself for existing in his orbit, for being “bad” enough for something like that to happen. Even after years of therapy and endless cups of bitter coffee with other survivors, I still catch myself looking for ways to turn the blame my way. That’s what shame does. It turns you into both the judge and your own executioner.

Then came my marriage—an accidental masterclass in learning just how much pain people can hold and still call it “love.” My ex-husband was, at best, a master manipulator, at worst… well, you fill in the blank. Abuse of every flavor. And yet, he’s the father of my children. Forgiving him felt impossible. But raising kids with that much resentment in my veins only taught me that revenge and bitterness are hereditary. The day I truly started to forgive him was the day I looked at my children and wanted more for them than I ever got as a kid.

But here’s the twist nobody ever prepares you for: Forgiving myself—after years of putting myself in harm’s way, staying too long, becoming codependent as a survival skill—felt like the greater betrayal. Everyone talks about “not being a victim,” but nobody tells you how to get rid of the stink of guilt, when deep down you think you signed the permission slips for your own suffering.

Most people with addiction issues have a PhD-level education in shame and self-condemnation. Even people who love addicts get caught in the crossfire, blaming themselves for not fixing, not saving, not being enough. The result is always the same: we decide we’re unforgivable. Cue the spiral.

The Clinical Stuff: What’s Actually Happening Here?

Let’s get nerdy for a sec. Research shows self-forgiveness is a predictor of mental health outcomes, including relapse, depression, and how much you want to hide from your own reflection. Patricia Frazier et al. (2001) define self-forgiveness as a process of letting go of self-condemnation, while still taking responsibility for what happened—without pretending it didn’t hurt anyone. Messy, right?

Self-forgiveness isn’t excusing, minimizing, or denying. That’s toxic. In fact, dodging guilt and pretending “it wasn’t that bad” leaves you stuck. True self-forgiveness starts when you can say, “Yeah, I did that. It hurt. And I accept that I am worth more than my worst mistakes, even if my lizard brain hisses otherwise.”

Addiction science says shame and unresolved self-blame are rocket fuel for relapse. Johann Hari nailed it: “The opposite of addiction isn’t sobriety. It’s connection.” But you can’t connect to anyone if you’re certain you’re a monster.

Process vs. Substance Addictions: No One Gets a Free Pass

It’s not just heroin users staring down this beast—gamblers, over-eaters, rage-quitters, porn scrollers, you name it. Behavioural addictions might not leave tracks on your skin, but they sure as hell will on your soul.

The same principle applies: If you don’t forgive yourself, you’ll keep chasing fixes to numb the pain. You’ll keep acting like a villain, because that’s the only script you know.

What the Gurus Get Wrong

You don’t “just forgive yourself.” Instagram platitudes are great until they crash into memories of every person you’ve let down, every body you’ve hurt (including your own). If you could white-knuckle your way to self-forgiveness, we’d all be fixed by now.

And then there’s people who throw out lines like “If you can forgive your enemies, surely you can forgive yourself.” Like, sure, Sharon, let me just hop in my time machine and undo my entire personality, cool?

But here’s the thing: People have forgiven the “unforgivable.” There are stories out there of parents forgiving their child’s killer, survivors forgiving their abusers. And I’ve had to do it too—when I was a kid, I was sexually assaulted. I carried that rage and guilt for decades. The notion that forgiveness was possible made me furious. If you’ve ever felt that, you’re not broken. You’re just real.

When I had to face the man who assaulted me—not physically, thank God, but emotionally—I realized I’d built an entire universe out of not forgiving him. It was my armor. I thought hating him made me powerful. It actually just kept me chained to him. The day I forgave him wasn’t anything dramatic. No choir of angels. Just… a little more breathing room in my own head. I put down the burden. Not for him. For me.

Same with my ex-husband. Forgiving him (which waxes and wanes, if I’m honest) means my kids get a mother who’s not bitter. It means I get a shot at freedom. But it’s messy. Unsexy. Rarely “finished.”

As for myself—some days I wake up and don’t hate who I am. I’ll call that progress.

So, How Do You Forgive Yourself When You Think You’re Unforgivable?

This is the one people DM me about at 3AM. How do you do it? Here’s the truth: everybody’s walk to forgiveness looks a little different. Here’s what I’ve learned—my way, and from a thousand unlikely teachers.

1. Name What Happened—No Bullshit Allowed

Jumping straight into “it’s okay” skips the most important step: honesty. Own it. Say it out loud, in a mirror, to a friend, to your dog (dogs have seen it all). “I did X. It hurt Y. Today, I feel Z.”

For me, this meant dragging stuff out of the darkness, stuff I thought I’d buried forever. Admitting “I stayed with a man who hurt me and I kept picking the scab” felt like setting my whole house on fire. But secrets rot. Say them first—even if you whisper.

Some people journal. Some people go to meetings. Some need to scream it into a pillow. Fine. The point is, you name it, so it stops naming you.

2. Separate Guilt from Shame

Guilt says, “I did something bad.” Shame says, “I am bad.” Learn to spot the difference—only one is useful. Guilt motivates change. Shame paralyzes.

When I forgave myself for letting abuse happen, I told myself, “You made choices, but you were surviving.” That’s guilt: I regret what happened, but I know I can do different next time. My default was shame: “You’re a ruined person.” Unlearning that is daily labor.

A therapist once asked me: “Would you talk to eight-year-old you the way you talk to yourself?” Of course not. But adult-me picks up where the abusers and critics left off. That’s what you have to break.

3. Apologize, If You Can—But Don’t Force It

Not everyone will want your apology. Sometimes the person you hurt is… gone. Sometimes it’s you. I wrote letters to people—my kids, old friends, hell, even my younger self. Most of them never saw daylight, but it wasn’t for them. It was for me. To admit what I wished I’d done, and to let it go. To forgive myself for past blindness rather than punish myself for eternity.

If you need to apologize to yourself for surviving, for staying, for using, so be it. Give yourself the words no one else did.

4. Make Amends—But Don’t Turn It Into Self-Punishment

Real amends are about fixing what you can, not endless self-flagellation. Nobody likes a martyr or somebody who bleeds all over everyone else as “proof” they’ve changed.

For me, making amends sometimes meant honest, simple things: being the mom I wished I’d had, breaking contact with people who were toxic, showing up for therapy even when anxiety shrieked at me not to. Sometimes it meant saying to my kids, “I screwed up yesterday. I’m going to try better today.” They don’t need a perfect parent. They need a real one.

Making amends can be as literal as paying back money or as subtle as not using someone’s past against them when you finally find some peace in your own.

5. Forgive the Child Version of You

If you grew up marinating in shame and codependency, a lot of your “worst” decisions were survival tactics with bad side effects. Little you did their best. Even if your “best” as an adult was a tire fire, try not to add more gasoline.

I had to, literally, hold an old photo of myself as a child and say, “I forgive you for not knowing. For just wanting to be loved.” Do this a hundred times, if you have to. The point is to cut yourself some slack. You’re not a villain. You’re the only person who’s been there for you every step of the way.

Some folks need therapy to get here, or spiritual practice, or a damn good heartbreak playlist. However you get there, stop burying the little kid inside you beneath all the blame.

6. Accept That Healing Is Not Linear

You will backslide. You will f*ck up again. (“Progress is progress,” right?) The trick is getting a little better at catching yourself each time. Big wins are built on a mountain of tiny moments where you don’t make the same mistake twice.

One year I thought I’d “healed” from everything. The next, my mental health face-planted and I was back at square one. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean your previous progress didn’t count. You’re not a robot, and you don’t get to delete old programming overnight.

Give yourself grace for backward steps, and celebrate forward ones, even if the world doesn’t notice.

7. Find Humor in the Awfulness

Dark humor saved my life a hundred times. The moment you can joke—even just with yourself—about the things that happened, you shrink them down to size. Laughter isn’t denial; it’s proof you’re not stuck in the past anymore.

My favorite therapy session ended with my counselor and I trading sarcastic “rock bottom” stories. We laughed so hard we cried. That was the day I realized I didn’t have to be just the sum of sad stories.

Channel your inner disaster into a punchline. It keeps the monster from winning.

8. Borrow Other People’s Eyes

If you absolutely can’t see your own worth, ask people you trust: “What do you see when you look at me?” Sometimes you need a friend or therapist to hold up a mirror. Sometimes you need a support group—a bunch of beautifully broken humans who just get it, no judgment.

It’s hard to believe the case for your own goodness when your own jury is rigged. Borrow strength until you can stand on your own.

The Ripple Effect: Why It’s Not Just About You

Maybe you’re here trying to forgive your partner, parent, friend, betrayer. Maybe you carry the collateral damage of addiction like a dented shield. Here’s the wildest thing: the people who heal first are the ones who learn to forgive themselves. When you do, you give everyone else permission to do it, too.

If you’re the loved one of an addict, know this—your self-forgiveness for whatever imagined crimes you’ve charged yourself with (not leaving, leaving, enabling, not being enough) is step one in getting your life back.

But What About the Unforgivable Stuff?

Some things are so heavy you think if you open the door, they’ll crush you. But hear this loud: nothing is unforgivable. That doesn’t mean you have to forget. It doesn’t mean you’ll get a Hallmark ending. It means you see the wound, you stop keeping it infected, and you let it scar over in its own time.

I forgave the man who hurt me, eventually. Not because he deserved it. Because I deserved better than carrying his sickness around inside me. Sometimes forgiving yourself is the only way to put the poison down.

As for the men I let into my life who harmed me—my ex-husband included—it isn’t about condoning what they did. It’s about evicting them from my daily thoughts. I want more room inside myself for things I actually love.

Final Thoughts—Or, The Will to Move Forward

Self-forgiveness isn’t about pretending the past didn’t happen. It’s about saying, just for today: I am not my worst day. I am not the sum total of my disasters. I am learning to try again.

If you’re here, limping into self-forgiveness for the first or fiftieth time—welcome. You’re in good company. We’re all just building little islands of grace, one apology, one bad joke, and one honest try at a time.

Progress is progress.

Why Addiction Isn’t About Willpower: Why That Truth Matters for Everyone

For more posts, come to the updated platform

progressisprogress.substack.com

Let’s just be honest: For years, I thought addiction was just being weak. Weak-willed, weak-minded. No one ever forced a pipe into my hand. No one held a gun to my head and told me to get high. That was my choice. Or so I thought. That’s what I told myself whenever I felt judged — or wanted to judge someone worse off than me. “If I wanted to quit, I could. If you wanted to quit, you would.”

Turns out, that was bullshit.

I didn’t know what I didn’t know. And honestly, neither did most people around me — family, friends, even professional helpers, the ones who were supposed to know better. “Why can’t you just stop?” That was the silent question behind every look. Most of the world still thinks addiction is just a question of willpower — like you’re failing a test that everyone else passes, like you’re just lazy, selfish, or enjoy burning your life to the ground for fun.

But here’s the truth: addiction rewires the brain, and not in some poetic, fuzzy way. In the grittiest, most mechanical “holy shit, this isn’t about bad choices anymore” kind of way. Let me break it down, plain as I can.

How Addiction Actually Hijacks Your Brain

Imagine this: your brain is a circuit board, all neatly wired up. Every time you win at something — finish a run, taste your favorite food, even hear your kid laugh — your brain gives you a zap of dopamine. It’s the “good job, keep going” chemical. At first, drugs or alcohol feel like a shortcut to the same reward. Faster, stronger, brighter. Like hacking the system.

But the system pushes back. Over time, your brain learns that these artificial zaps aren’t real. It starts to “reset” reality: the normal things — eating, sex, friendship, sunlight — stop lighting up the board. More and more, only the substance cuts through the noise. The map changes. And the part of your brain that controls logic and long-term planning? That part gets dimmed, turned back to static.

At some point, the “choice” to use becomes as involuntary as pulling your hand away from a hot stove. Not because you “want” to get high, but because not using feels like drowning, burning, suffocating, all at once. It’s primal, not personal failure.

Real Stories, Real Pain, Real People

Let’s talk real. You want stories? Here’s one:

I remember sitting in the back of a cop car, skin sticky with sweat, meth buzzing through my blood, the cop way too kind. He asked, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” I gave him some smart-ass answer about liking the chaos, because honestly, I didn’t want to tell a stranger that sometimes the pain in my chest feels so big, I’ll do anything to make it stop. Even light my own life on fire. The truth was, by that point, using didn’t feel like an escape — it felt like survival.

Another one:

A mom I knew, sweet as pie before the pills, trying to raise two kids on nothing after her husband left. She cleaned houses for cash, counting pills to make each day bearable. She told me she sometimes prayed, not for sobriety, but for her kids to find her before she OD’d, so they wouldn’t wonder why she just disappeared. That’s not selfishness. That’s grief. That’s the brain breaking.

And a third:

A professional, starched collar, everyone says “not the addict type.” Opioids after a back surgery, and the spiral happened quietly — first to “manage pain,” then to “keep up at work.” He was showing up, doing his job, running a company while his mind slowly unraveled. He told me later the scariest part was how *invisible desperation can be.*

Every person’s addiction is tuned to their own pain, their own history, their brain chemistry. There’s no playbook. Some use because of trauma, some because of mental illness, some just got unlucky with their wiring at birth. Some find God, some find boxing, some find methadone, some don’t find anything except another day. So yeah: there is no one-size-fits-all solution, and expecting otherwise just creates more shame and failure.

This Isn’t About Willpower (And Why That Myth Hurts Us All)

If addiction were about willpower, I would have kicked it the first time I promised myself I was done, the first time I swore I wouldn’t let my mother see me strung out again. Shame, guilt, desperation — those never cured me. Neither did those motivational posters in rehab.

Addiction is a chronic brain disorder. You know how diabetics need insulin? People with addiction need ongoing support, structure, new ways to rewire those circuits — sometimes medication, sometimes community, always compassion. “Just try harder” isn’t medicine. It’s ignorance.

The science backs this up. MRI scans literally show changed pathways in addicted brains. Stress hormones, reward centers, decision-making — all different from non-addicted brains. And it happens to regular people. Anyone. That’s why you see CEOs, teenagers, teachers, moms, all stuck on the same wheel, and nobody knows how to get off alone.

Real Calls to Action — For Families, Professionals, and Anyone Who Cares

If you love someone with addiction, drop the shame. If you are someone with addiction, drop the shame. Shame never saved anybody.

For people in the trenches:

Start with honesty — not just with others, but yourself. The little wins — five minutes, five hours, five days — those all count. Tell the people you trust what it’s really like. Fuck the highlight reel. The real story saves more lives than you think.

For professionals and helpers:

Listen. Actually listen. Instead of, “Why can’t you just stop?” ask, “What does it feel like when your cravings hit?” When’s the last time you asked a client, “What do you need from me?” Assume nothing. Trust what they tell you, even if it sounds strange or “unmotivated” or angry. If they don’t show up perfect, meet them where they are. Your job isn’t to fix people — it’s to walk next to them, even when they stumble. Want to do right by us? Advocate for low-barrier access, fight stigma in staff rooms, stop expecting cookie-cutter recoveries.

Progress is Progress — Mile or a Millimeter

Recovery doesn’t look like TV movies. Sometimes it’s getting a job. Sometimes it’s getting out of bed. Sometimes it’s just not using at 11 a.m. That counts. On days I barely move, I remember that moving at all is a kind of miracle.

Progress is progress. Mile or a millimeter. Anyone who tells you otherwise hasn’t lived this.

And for anyone reading this, wherever you are on your path — know that waiting for perfection is just another way to stay stuck. Progress, not perfection. Human, not superhero. Real, and worth loving.

Let’s keep having these brutally honest conversations. Let’s keep pushing for better treatment, more empathy, less judgment everywhere — at work, at home, in clinics, in our own heads. Because every single millimeter matters. And sometimes, the person who needs to hear that most is the one who used to think willpower was enough.

You’re not alone. And neither am I.