I'm an Addict & I/m NOT Sorry 2.0

Let’s get real for a second. If you’re reading this, chances are you or someone you love has been through the wringer of addiction. And if that’s the case, you know the worst part isn’t the withdrawals, the broken promises, or those gut-wrenching moments of clarity on the bathroom floor. It’s the shame. Oh, the shame. The kind that soaks into your bones, the kind that makes you believe every awful thing you’ve ever heard about yourself.

But I’m here to tell you something: fuck the shame. No, really. Fuck it right in the ear. You don’t need that poisonous garbage holding you back anymore.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I’m an addict. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I’ve woken up in strange places with even stranger people. I’ve done the kind of things that should’ve written me off for good. But you know what? I am still here. I am still a person, no matter what I’ve done. And I deserve to be happy, to love and be loved, to leave something better than I found it.

You can’t change your past. That ship has sailed, baby. But you can change your now. And your now is the next decision you make. Is it a step toward the light, or back into the dark? That’s yours to choose—every single day.

Two years ago, I wrote those words and people took notice. It was the first time I felt like maybe, just maybe, my story could matter. Since then my world has cracked wide open. I got married. My husband adopted my two kids—last week, we sat in a courtroom and listened as a judge, in a court of law, told us how amazing we are. Full circle, all the way. I used to stand in front of judges praying for mercy. Now I’m standing there being told I am more than my past. That my family, built out of all this chaos and hope and hard work, is something to be celebrated.

I left my safe clinical job. I started my own business—Progress is Progress—because I was sick of the one-size-fits-all recovery bullshit. I wanted to be the person I needed when I was clawing my way out. Now I get to do that. Every day, I get to show up for people the way I wish someone had shown up for me.

I’m not just talking to the people in the trenches. I’m talking to the families, too. The ones who sit up at night waiting for the phone to ring. The ones who love us even when we’re impossible to love. I see you. I know how hard it is, how lonely and helpless it can feel. But there is hope. There are full-circle moments. There are days you’ll walk into a courtroom and hear someone in a robe and a gavel call you amazing. That can happen. That’s real.

And to anyone out there still struggling, still hearing “junkie,” “meth head,” “lost cause,” every time you look in the mirror—listen to me. Those words are lies. You are not worthless. You are not broken beyond repair. You are a human being who deserves peace, love, happiness, and a damn good night’s sleep. You deserve a life, just like anybody else.

Yeah, there will be setbacks. There will be days when standing up feels impossible. But you get back up anyway. That’s what matters. You keep moving. You keep choosing the next right thing, even if it’s just eating a vegetable or showing up to a meeting or hugging your kid a little tighter.

Now, let’s get something straight for the haters, the doubters, the ones who whisper that addicts can’t change, that we’re doomed to screw up forever: you don’t get to write my story. You don’t get to decide what’s possible for me, or for anyone like me. Every time I fall, I get back up. Every time someone says I can’t, I prove them wrong just by living, just by loving, just by building something beautiful out of the ashes.

If you’re ready to leave the shame behind, if you’re ready to take your power back, come find me. Read my blog. Join our Progress is Progress community. This is how I’m supporting my family—by showing up, by telling the truth, by making the world a little more beautiful than I found it.

Screw the shame. Screw the labels. We are warriors. We are survivors. And we are not sorry.

Let’s get on with the living.

— Belle

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? 👇🔥