The Gray After the High: What Nobody Tells You About Getting Sober

I didn’t want to wake up. Not in the poetic sense—just in the dead literal, every-morning kind of way. I’d open my eyes and there would be the same ceiling, the same mess of diapers and bottles and sticky juice cups, the same shriek of cartoons from the living room. My body felt like jello in a too-tight skin. Nothing smelled good. Food tasted like drywall. My toddlers would crawl across me, sticky hands and wild giggles, and I could barely register it. I wanted to want to laugh. I wanted to feel anything. Instead, I just went through the motions, autopilot, every day.

Nobody tells you that sometimes, the nothingness that comes after quitting drugs is worse than the pain that came before.

“Do you remember the first time you realized you couldn’t feel anything?”For me, it was after I quit meth. The cravings were hell, sure. But the numbness? That was its own kind of torture. I couldn’t enjoy my kids in their chubby-cheeked, toddler-cutest years. I couldn’t enjoy food, music, or even relief. I’d sit through five million viewings of the Lorax, and all it did was make me want to crawl out of my skin.

And I know I’m not alone. Matt J., who got sober after a decade on pills, told me, “I thought quitting would make me feel alive again. Turns out, it made me feel like a robot.” 

Sarah T., a mom in my group, said, “I’d do anything to feel pain, even. Just to know I still could.”

Why Numbness Happens: The Science (For Real People)

Let’s break it down: Methamphetamine (and most drugs of abuse) hijack your brain’s dopamine system. Dopamine is what lets you feel pleasure, motivation, satisfaction. When you use, your brain gets a tidal wave of it—so much so that, eventually, your brain stops making “normal” amounts. Why bother, if you’re pouring in gallons every day?

So when you stop, your brain is suddenly running on fumes. Not just metaphorically. Research shows (Volkow et al., 2011; Wang et al., 2012) that dopamine activity is physically lower in people post-addiction. You can’t just “choose happiness”—your brain literally can’t access it yet.

Imagine a city after a blackout. The lights don’t all come back on at once. Some streets stay dark for weeks. That’s your brain in early recovery.

The Physical Reality: What Numbness Feels Like

Let’s get graphic.

I’d go days without a shower because water felt like nothing—like standing in a cold cloud. Food was either tasteless or made me want to gag. Sex? Don’t even get me started. For months, I didn’t want it. Then sometimes I’d crave it, just to feel something. But sex without drugs felt awkward, mechanical, pointless. I’ve heard this from dozens of people: sex is either all you want, or the last thing on your mind, but it never feels “right” for a while.

My hands would shake. Sometimes, my insides felt like they were made of Jell-O—wobbly, unstable. I’d look at my kids, at their impossibly big eyes and sticky faces, and feel nothing but guilt for not being able to feel joy.

And I know you’re out there, reading this, feeling the same way. So let me ask:

Have you ever felt so empty that even pain would be a relief?

The Messy Middle: Fighting for Every Feeling

Here’s the truth: Recovery isn’t a straight path from misery to joy. There’s a middle part—maybe months, maybe a year or more—when you’re slogging through the gray. You feel like a ghost in your own life. You wonder if you’re broken forever.

I almost gave up. More than once. Some days, the only thing that got me out of bed was the sound of my kids fighting over a juice box. Other days, I wanted to disappear. I relapsed. I screamed into pillows. I watched the sun rise and set and felt nothing.

But then, one day, I laughed at something stupid on TV. Just for a second—a flicker—and then it was gone. Another time, the smell of fall leaves hit me when I took out the garbage, and I actually noticed it. These tiny, blink-and-you-miss-it victories? They matter. They’re proof your brain is rebooting, one light at a time.

How Long Does It Take to Feel Again?

Nobody wants to hear this: It takes as long as it takes. Dopamine systems can take months, a year, even more to heal. Some people start to feel better in a few weeks. Some take longer. There’s no magic number.

But your brain is plastic—it can heal, even after years of being hijacked. What matters is that it’s possible.

How to Actually Feel Again: Real, Practical Steps

1. Move Your Body—Even When You Don’t Want To

Science shows exercise boosts dopamine. I started with slow walks around the block. Some days, just stretching was all I could do.

2. Eat Real Food

Protein, healthy fats, fresh stuff. It’s not glamorous, but your brain needs the building blocks.

3. Sit With the Discomfort

When feelings do start to come back—anxiety, sadness, random anger—they’re intense. Don’t run. Set a timer. “Feel this for 60 seconds, then breathe.” Repeat.

4. Find Micro-Joys

Don’t wait for big happiness. Grab the tiniest sparks—a warm mug, the way your kid’s hair smells, a song that makes you want to cry. At first, it feels fake. Over time, it teaches your brain to notice pleasure again.

5. Connect, Even If It’s Awkward

Isolation is a dopamine killer. Text someone. Join a group. Sit in a room with people, even if you don’t talk.

6. Sex: The Awkward, Honest Truth

Your sex drive might be all over the place—gone, too much, or just weird. Give it time. Don’t judge yourself. Sex without drugs feels different. Awkward is normal. Notice what you feel (or don’t feel), and try to be gentle with yourself and your partner.

7. Ask for Help

Therapy, support groups, medication, online communities. If numbness hangs on, talk to a pro. You’re not failing—you’re just healing.

Questions Nobody Asks (But Should)

Is this numbness normal?

Absolutely. You’re not alone. You’re not broken.

Will I ever enjoy life again?

Yes. It takes time. I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it, and so have hundreds of others.

What if I never feel anything again?

That’s the fear talking. Your brain is healing. Hold on.

Anonymous Voices from the Gray

“The hardest part wasn’t quitting—it was the nothing that came after. Every day, I wondered if I’d feel again. One day, I did.” – Matt J.

“I wanted to run. Instead, I just sat and stared at the wall. Now, I can cry again. I even laugh sometimes. It’s slow, but it’s coming back.” – Sarah T.

Forr Loved Ones and Clinicians

If you love someone in recovery, or work with them, know this: numbness isn’t laziness or lack of gratitude. It’s biology, trauma, and a necessary stage of healing.

What You Can Do:

Celebrate tiny victories—“I noticed you smiled today.”

Hold space for the gray. Don’t pressure them to “just be happy.”

Ask: “What feels numb today? What would you like to feel?”

Be patient. Show up, even when it seems like nothing’s changing.

What Not to Do:

Don’t push toxic positivity.

Don’t compare them to others or their “old selves.”

Don’t make it about you.

For Clinicians:

Ask open-ended questions: “What’s one thing you noticed today?”

Pay attention for signs of depression or hopelessness—numbness can mask risk.

Normalize the timeline. Educate on the neuroscience.

Encourage micro-goals and reinforce every step forward.

Resources for the Messy Middle

SAMHSA’s National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP

The Recovery Village on Anhedonia

SMART Recovery

Reddit’s r/stopdrinking—Peer support, honest stories

Mental Health America: Finding Help

Local peer groups, online counseling platforms, and harm reduction organizations

Final Image: The Fall Day

One day, after months of gray, I stepped outside and it was fall. The air was cold and sharp, and the leaves were starting to rot on the ground. For the first time, I smelled the earth—wet, sweet, a little bit decayed. The sun was bright but the wind was cool, and I felt it on my skin. It wasn’t joy, not yet. But it was something. It was real. It was enough for that day.

Call to Action

If you’re reading this in the thick of numbness, please—don’t give up. Reach out, move your body, notice one thing today, even if it’s tiny. You’re not alone. The lights will come back on, one by one, and you’ll feel again.

If you want to talk, share your story, or just need someone to say “me too,” you can find me at Progress Is Progress. You don’t have to do this alone.

References:

Volkow ND, et al. (2011). Dopamine in Drug Abuse and Addiction: Results from Imaging Studies and Treatment Implications.

Wang GJ, et al. (2012). Recovery of brain dopamine transporters with methamphetamine detoxification.

McKetin R, et al. (2019). Methamphetamine dependence, withdrawal and recovery: A review of the literature.

 Hey there, friends—

I’m just about to cross a milestone: 500 subscribers. That number isn’t just a stat to me—it’s a living, breathing community of people who get what I’m fighting for. If you’ve read my work, if any of these words have made you feel seen, less alone, or a little more hopeful, I’m asking you for a small favor.

If you believe in what I’m building here—real talk about addiction, recovery, grief, and the messy parts of being human—please take a second to subscribe. It’s free. That’s right, zero dollars, no strings. (And if you’re feeling especially generous, a paid subscription helps me keep this platform alive, support my family, and keep the lights on—every single bit counts more than you know.)

Already subscribed? Thank you. Truly. If this work has been a tool for you, would you consider gifting a subscription to someone who needs it? Or just share this newsletter with one person who could use a little hope in their inbox.

Likes, comments, shares—they help more than you might think. If you can’t swing a paid subscription, that’s okay. If you can bring in one more free subscriber, you’re helping me reach more people who might need to hear these stories.

We’re all in this together. Let’s break 500. Let’s grow this community so no one has to face recovery—or life—alone.

Thank you for reading, supporting, and believing in what I do.

With gratitude,
Belle

Subscribe here: progressisprogress.substack.com

My Brain Is Loud, But My Will to Keep Going Is Louder

 

Let’s talk about those nights when your mind is running laps and sleep is just a rumor. You know the ones—every regret, every awkward comment, every wild “what if” scenario just bounces around your skull like a pinball machine that never turns off. 🤯🌀

Here’s the thing: your brain is loud because it’s trying to protect you. That overthinking? That’s survival mode. That anxiety? That’s your system refusing to give up on hope, even when hope feels like a joke. If you’re still fighting, you’re still winning. 🥊

Here’s where you jump in: what’s the weirdest thing your mind has fixated on at 2 a.m.? (Don’t leave me hanging. I once spent a solid hour debating if cereal is technically soup. Yeah, it gets weird in here. 🥣💭)

Drop your most ridiculous late-night thought in the comments—let’s see who’s got the wildest brain! Or tell us how you talk yourself off the ledge when the noise gets too much. You never know who needs your trick tonight. 🌙✨

And if you’re tired of feeling like the only one with a brain that won’t shut up, you’re not alone. The Progress Is Progress crew is here for the deep thinkers, the overanalyzers, the insomniacs, and the “is this normal?” crowd. DM me if you want in on the chaos, or just need someone who gets it. 🤝

Tonight, let’s out-loud our brains together. Sound off below—what’s on your mind right now? 👇🔥

Addiction Has Us Mourning People Who Are Still Alive

 

It’s a weird kind of grief—to mourn someone who’s still breathing. I wrote that on Facebook, just a few words on a picture, and people came out of the woodwork. Hundreds of comments, stories, likes from people who’d never “liked” anything I posted before. Because it’s true. Addiction has us mourning the living, carrying a kind of grief that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. But if you know, you know.

I’ve been on all sides of this thing. I’ve been the one people mourned. I’ve been the one mourning. I’ve been the counselor, the criminal, the voice in the back of the squad car, the mom, the wife, the friend, the person fighting tooth and nail just to get another inch of progress. Mile or a millimeter, progress is progress. But this is what it really looks like:

Mourning the Living: The Stories That Don’t Make the News

There’s a mom who sits at the kitchen table every night scrolling through old photos of her son. He’s alive somewhere—at least, that’s what she tells herself. She checks her phone every hour, just to make sure the battery isn’t dead. She can’t sleep in case he calls and needs help, or in case it’s someone telling her he’s gone. She keeps his room the same, just in case he comes back. Most mornings, she finds herself whispering good morning to an empty bed.

There’s a sister who keeps a box of her brother’s things—his favorite hat, a baseball, a note he gave her in third grade. She hasn’t seen him in years, but she can’t bring herself to throw it away. Every time the phone rings, her heart stops. Every time she sees someone who walks like him, she has to look twice.

There’s a grandma raising her grandkids because her daughter “isn’t dead, but she’s gone.” She’s lost her daughter to heroin, to meth, to the system, to the streets. She sets a place at the table anyway, just in case. She tells the grandkids, “Mama loves you, she just can’t be here.” And then she goes in the bathroom and cries into a towel so they don’t hear.

This is what it’s like to mourn the living. It’s a slow, silent heartbreak. It’s holding your breath every day, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the worst, and then feeling guilty when it’s a relief not to have to wonder anymore.

The Collateral Damage: No Ladder Out

Addiction doesn’t just take the person using. It takes families, friendships, jobs, homes, hope. When I worked in residential treatment and outpatient, I saw it: people couch surfing, sleeping in cars, old friends avoiding them because they “just can’t do it anymore.” Kids bouncing from one foster home to the next. People with criminal records so long no one will rent to them or hire them. You fall so many times, burn so many bridges, that one day you look up and there’s no way back. No ladder, no rope, nothing. Just the bottom and the dark.

The system is set up to punish, not to catch. If you’re in tribal housing and there’s any illegal activity—drug use, even if it’s just your kid messing up, or a visitor who overdoses—your whole family can lose their home. Imagine working two jobs just to pay rent, keeping your head down, doing everything right, and your teenager makes one mistake, or your cousin comes over and uses in your bathroom, and now you’re all out on the street in winter. That’s not a safety net. That’s a trapdoor.

And what does that do? It just pushes people further out. It makes it harder for families to stay together. Harder for parents to keep jobs. Harder for kids to stay in school. Harder for anyone to believe things can get better.

When the System Makes You an Enemy

I’ve been there. I remember the probation officers, the cops, the system that looked at me like I was already lost. “You’re going to do this or else,” they’d say. The threat was always there. I learned fast not to trust the system—because the system never gave me a reason to. It’s not just punitive, it’s personal. When you’re desperate, when you’ve screwed up so many times, you’re not fighting for your life—you’re just fighting to be seen as human.

And when you finally want out, when you finally want help, sometimes there’s nothing left. No one left. No support. Just the criminal record, the shame, and the certainty that nobody’s coming for you. That’s when people fall through the cracks. That’s when people die.

Hurt People, Hurt People

There’s this story I need you to hear. I was posting about addiction on a local community page, just trying to educate, trying to crack open some real conversations. And there’s this guy—male, claims to be a doctor from Eagle River, Vilas County. He starts posting, says addicts should die, we’re wasting money, they’re not worth it. The kind of stuff that makes you want to scream, but also makes you want to walk away.

I tried to engage, but didn’t want to fight. So I messaged him. I said, “Look, there’s always more to the story. What happened to you? What shaped these feelings?” Turns out, his parent was an addict. Addiction killed them, tore his family apart, left him scarred and angry. That’s his story. That’s why he feels the way he does. Hurt people, hurt people.

But here’s the thing—he’s a doctor. Just like I’m a counselor. We’re both supposed to “do no harm.” But how do you do no harm when you see someone walk in and you already think, “They’re not worth saving”? That’s the damage addiction does—not just to the people using, but to everyone in its orbit. Trauma shapes how we see the world, how we treat others, how we show up. And sometimes, the ones who should be helping are the ones who are most broken by it.

Lac du Flambeau: A Case Study in Crisis

Lac du Flambeau is my neighbor. My family is part of that community. Not long ago, the Tribal Council put out another state of emergency—overdoses everywhere, families gutted, the system straining to keep up. The housing policy? If there’s any illegal activity in your home—drug use, an overdose, even by a visitor or your own kid—your whole family could be out. Homeless. It’s more punitive than proactive, and people are scared. Some say it’s necessary. Some say it’s cruel. I say it’s complicated as hell.

You see the arguments on Facebook, in community meetings. People are angry, scared, desperate. Some want harsher rules. Some want more compassion. But the reality is, with overdose rates in tribal nations nearly three times the state average, the pain is everywhere (Green Bay Press Gazette). There are no easy answers.

The Living Grief: Heartbreak in Slow Motion

We don’t talk enough about how this kind of grief feels. It’s like drowning in slow motion. Every family dinner with an empty chair. Every birthday without a call. Every time you see a stranger with the same walk, the same laugh, and your heart leaps before your brain catches up.

One client once told me, “It’s like there’s a ghost in my house, but they’re still alive somewhere.” That’s what it is—haunted by the living. You mourn every version of the person you used to know, every hope you had for them, every future that’s now impossible. And you keep hoping, because hope is all you’ve got left.

The System Isn’t Working—But Some Things Do

The system is broken, but not everything is hopeless. Some tribal communities are fighting back in ways that actually save lives. Bad River is handing out Narcan, teaching people how to use it, making sure no one dies just because they didn’t have a tool that costs a few bucks (STAT News). Menominee is trying new outreach, bringing culture and community into recovery in ways that make people feel less alone (WPR). Some counties are experimenting with keeping families housed while still getting people into treatment.

There are harm reduction programs, recovery coaches, medication-assisted treatment, trauma-informed care. None of it works for everyone, but every life saved is a win. A mile or a millimeter, progress is progress.

Scrappy Hope: Celebrate Every Win

Here’s the truth about hope—it’s scrappy. It doesn’t look like “miracle recoveries” or Hallmark moments. It looks like a mom getting her kid to school three days in a row. It looks like someone making it to therapy, even if they’re still using. It looks like a family surviving another day together, even if it’s messy as hell.

Celebrate every win, no matter how small. Because in this world, every inch matters.

Tools and Resources That Actually Matter

If you’re reading this and you’re in the fight—whether it’s your own, or someone you love—here are some things that actually help:

• Narcan/Naloxone: Learn how to use it. Carry it. Give it away. You can get it free from local health departments or harm reduction groups.
• Fentanyl Test Strips: Ask your tribal health department or local harm reduction group. These save lives.
• Peer Recovery Coaches: People who’ve been through it and know how to help without judging.
• Tribal Opioid Response Programs: Many Wisconsin tribes have grants for treatment, prevention, and support (SAMHSA).
• Local Support Groups: AA, NA, Wellbriety, and others—sometimes it’s just about not being alone.
• Mental Health Crisis Lines: In Wisconsin, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available 24/7.
• Free or Sliding-Scale Counseling: Some clinics and counselors offer reduced rates or work with you if you’re in crisis.

If you need help finding a resource, reach out. Message me, message a friend, ask at your clinic, your tribe, your church. There’s help, even if you have to dig for it.

This Is an Invitation

This isn’t just a post. It’s an invitation. If you’re mourning someone who’s still alive, share your story. If you’re the one being mourned, you’re not lost. If you’re angry, if you’re scared, if you’re tired—add your voice. Comment, email, message, talk about it in your community, at your kitchen table, with your town board. Keep the conversation going, even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard.

And if you’re the person who thinks addicts should die, I challenge you—where did that pain come from? What broke you, and how can you start to heal? We’re all shaped by our experiences. Hurt people, hurt people. But we can do better.

Progress Is Progress: Mile or a Millimeter

Addiction, recovery, grief—they’re not black and white. They’re gray areas, full of messy, complicated, heartbreaking beauty. There’s no one way out. But there is a way forward. Progress is progress. Sometimes it’s a mile, sometimes it’s a millimeter.

If you’re still here, still fighting, still hoping—thank you. You matter. Your story matters. Mile or a millimeter, we keep going. That’s all any of us can do.

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If you want to keep this conversation alive, drop a comment. Share this post. Tell your own story—anonymously if you need to. Let’s show the world what real hope, real pain, and real progress look like. Let’s mourn together, and let’s fight for each other, too.

You’re not alone. Not ever.

I Am Not “Too Much”—I’m Exactly Enough for the Right People

Ever been told you’re “too much”? Too loud, too honest, too emotional, too complicated, too real? Yeah, me too. Here’s a wild idea: maybe you’re exactly enough—and the people who can’t handle you just aren’t your people.

Read that again. You are not too much. Not for the right crowd. Not for the ones who want you real, not watered down. So let’s flip the script: what if the world needs more of your “too much” and not less?

I want to hear from you—what’s your “too much” story? Did someone try to shrink you? Did you ever try to shrink yourself? Did you finally meet someone who said, “hey, I like you just the way you are”?

Drop your story in the comments—seriously, go for it. Let’s make this the most unfiltered, no-shame thread on the internet today. Let’s show every person who’s ever felt “too much” that they’re not alone, and they never have to apologize for it.

And if you need a place to be 100% yourself, weirdness and all, the Progress Is Progress community is wide open. 🦋 DM me if you want in, or just say hi. I answer every message.

Here’s your challenge:
What’s something about yourself that you were told was “too much,” but now you’re proud of? Share it below—let’s turn the comments into a wall of “too much” pride.

Ready? 3… 2… 1… GO.👇