116. Accountability: The Weight That Sets Me Free
Accountability is one of those words that, before recovery, I used to despise. It sounded heavy, burdensome—like someone breathing down my neck, waiting for me to fail. For years and years, I fought the very idea of it. I told myself I didn’t need anyone else’s opinion, that I could handle my life on my own terms. The hard truth was that my way was killing me. My best thinking, my fiercest independence, my stubborn refusal to let anyone in—those were the things that had me drinking and using until I lost nearly everything. In recovery from substance use disorders, accountability means taking ownership of my actions, being honest about my struggles, and inviting others to walk beside me as I heal. It isn’t punishment—it’s about truth, connection, and responsibility. I’ve come to see that accountability is not a chain. It’s not someone standing over me with a clipboard and a red pen, ready to mark down my failures. Accountability, in recovery, is love in action. It’s community. It’s surrender. It’s saying, “I can’t do this alone anymore,” and then letting people hold me up when I can’t stand on my own.
When I look back at my using days, I see a man running from the truth. I lied to others, but even more often, I lied to myself. I told myself I had control when I didn’t. I told myself I could stop tomorrow, but tomorrow never came. I told myself I wasn’t hurting anyone but me, when in reality, I was leaving a trail of pain everywhere I went—family, friends, coworkers, anyone who still cared about me. Addiction thrived in that isolation and dishonesty. It fed on my secrecy. It needed me to stay in the dark because the moment I stepped into the light and let people really see me, the grip of it began to weaken.
That’s where accountability came in. The first time I admitted out loud that I was an addict, I thought my chest was going to cave in. My voice shook, my palms sweated, and I wanted to bolt from the room. But I didn’t, and in that trembling moment of truth, something cracked open inside me. People nodded their heads. They understood. They didn’t shame me—they embraced me. For the first time in years, I felt seen and not condemned. That was the beginning of accountability: letting my truth exist outside of me, where others could help me carry it.
Accountability in recovery is layered. It starts with being honest with myself. I had to stop sugarcoating my failures, stop pretending I could “manage” my addiction. Accountability didn’t stop there. I had to start showing up for meetings, for therapy, for check-ins with my support network who actually cared about my progress, and for conversations with my counselors. I had to pick up the phone when I wanted to isolate. I had to look another human being in the eye and say, “This is where I fell short today.” There were times when this felt unbearable. There were days I didn’t want to tell the truth. Days I wanted to crawl back into my old lies and excuses. Days when I resented the people who loved me enough to ask the hard questions, but those were the days I needed accountability the most. When left to my own devices, I always slid back toward destruction. Accountability didn’t just keep me sober—it kept me alive.
It’s humbling to admit how much I need others to keep me on track. Before, I thought needing people was a weakness. Now I see it as a strength. I see it as courage. There is nothing braver than admitting your flaws and allowing someone else to help you grow beyond them. Accountability forces me to look in the mirror and not just see the addict I was, but the man I am becoming.
One of the hardest moments of accountability in my recovery was making amends. Facing the people I had lied to, stolen from, or hurt was absolutely excruciating. I remember sitting across from someone I loved deeply, someone whose trust I had shattered, and forcing the words out: “I’m sorry. I was wrong. What can I do to make it right?” Those moments ripped me open, but they also healed me. Accountability means owning the wreckage of my past instead of running from it. It means refusing to hide behind excuses. It means acknowledging that my actions had consequences and then taking responsibility to repair what I can.
The miracle is that accountability doesn’t just heal the past—it transforms the present. Every time I choose honesty, every time I let someone into my struggle instead of pushing them away, I build a new foundation. My relationships are stronger. My recovery is sturdier. My hope grows. The same walls that once kept people out now serve as guardrails, keeping me steady on the path. Accountability also keeps me humble. Sobriety is not a medal I get to wear proudly without maintenance. It is a daily choice, and without people checking in on me, without people willing to call me out when I slip into old patterns, I could easily deceive myself again. Accountability says, “You don’t get to coast. You don’t get to isolate. You don’t get to pretend you’re fine when you’re crumbling inside.” It strips me of my ego and reminds me that recovery is a team effort.
Sometimes, accountability hurts. Sometimes it feels unfair. Sometimes I want to lash out when someone I trust points out a blind spot or questions my motives. I’ve learned to pause and recognize that those moments are gifts. They mean someone cares enough about me to risk my anger in order to protect my sobriety. They mean I’m not invisible anymore. They mean my life matters too much to let me self-destruct unchecked.
If I could speak directly to the person still suffering in addiction, I would tell them this: accountability is not your enemy. It is not a punishment. It is freedom. It is the doorway out of the loneliness you’ve been drowning in. Yes, it will be hard. Yes, it will sting at times, but it will also give you your life back, and not just your life, but relationships, trust, purpose, and hope.
Today, accountability shows up in big and small ways. It’s in the texts I send to let people know how I’m doing. It’s in the times I sit down to write and tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s in showing up to coach my soccer team, because those kids are watching me and depending on me. It’s in calling my support network when I’d rather stay silent. It’s in choosing to live in the light instead of retreating to the shadows. Recovery has taught me that accountability is not about perfection—it’s about progress. It’s about letting others walk beside me, so I don’t have to stumble alone. It’s about building a life I don’t have to escape from. I used to think accountability was the thing that would weigh me down. Now I know it’s the very thing that sets me free.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
