114. Humility in Recovery
When I first heard the word “humility” in treatment, I’ll be honest—it rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t think it applied to me. In my mind, humility meant weakness, submission, or lowering myself beneath others. I already felt broken enough, so why would I want more of that? What I didn’t understand then—and what I’ve slowly come to learn through my journey in recovery—is that humility is not about weakness at all. Humility is about truth. It’s about seeing myself clearly: not better than anyone else, not worse than anyone else, but as I truly am. For someone like me, who spent years hiding behind lies, masks, and substances, that realization has been life-changing.
Addiction is the opposite of humility. At its core, addiction thrives on arrogance, denial, and self-deception. I used to think I could control it, that I could outsmart it, and that I didn’t need help. I told myself I was different, that I wasn’t “as bad” as the people I saw on the street or in rehab. My pride whispered that I was still in charge, even as everything around me crumbled—my health, my relationships, my dignity. Humility wasn’t in my vocabulary back then. I thought asking for help was a sign of failure. In reality, my refusal to humble myself was what kept me chained to the bottle, to the pills, and to the lies.
The first time I truly tasted humility was the day I admitted I was powerless. I walked into detox shaking, sweating, and sick beyond words. I remember lying in that bed, realizing that I wasn’t in control anymore. That moment was humiliating, but it was also the first step toward humility. There’s a huge difference between the two. Humiliation breaks you down while humility builds you up—but it builds you up in truth. Humility was me finally saying, “I can’t do this alone. I need help.” And for someone like me, those words were a miracle.
Recovery has taught me that humility is not just about admitting my weaknesses—it’s also about accepting my humanity. I used to live in extremes. Either I thought I was invincible, or I thought I was worthless. Humility has shown me that I am neither. I am simply human, capable of good and bad, strength and weakness, and that’s okay. In fact, that’s enough. Humility shows up in my daily life in ways I never expected. It’s there when I sit in a meeting and listen instead of talking. It’s there when I admit to my counselor that I’m struggling, instead of pretending everything is fine. It’s there when I call a friend to apologize for the damage I’ve caused. It’s even there when I look in the mirror and decide to forgive myself for my past mistakes. Humility is not about groveling or living in shame. It’s about honesty, openness, and the willingness to keep learning.
There’s a saying in recovery: “Pride leads to relapse.” I’ve seen it happen. I’ve felt it in myself. The moment I start thinking I’ve got this all figured out, that I don’t need meetings, that I don’t need to pray, that I don’t need to stay connected—that’s the moment I’m in imminent danger. My pride is deadly. My humility, on the other hand, keeps me alive. Humility reminds me that I’m one drink, one pill, one bad decision away from losing everything again. It grounds me. It makes me reach for the phone when I’d rather isolate. It makes me admit when I’m wrong before resentment has the chance to grow.
Humility also plays a huge role in making amends. Facing the people I hurt was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every instinct in me wanted to hide, to justify, to downplay, but humility pushed me to own my actions fully, without excuses. To look into the eyes of the people I love and say, “I was wrong. I hurt you. I’m sorry.” That kind of honesty is terrifying, but it’s also freeing. Humility healed relationships that I thought were beyond repair. Even in the cases where forgiveness didn’t come, humility allowed me to find peace.
Perhaps the most beautiful gift humility has given me is gratitude. When I was in active addiction, I felt entitled to everything and grateful for nothing. I thought the world owed me something. Now, I see life for what it is—a gift. I don’t deserve the second chances I’ve been given, yet here they are. I don’t deserve the love my family still shows me, yet they’re still here. Humility opens my eyes to these blessings. It reminds me to say thank you to my higher power, to others, and even to myself for choosing recovery one more day. Humility does not mean I am weak. In fact, it takes more strength to live humbly than it ever took to live arrogantly. Anyone can puff out their chest and pretend they’re fine. It takes real courage to admit you’re not. It takes courage to ask for help, to show up to meetings, to share your story, to start over. Humility is the foundation of my recovery because it keeps me teachable. The moment I stop being teachable, I stop growing, and if I stop growing, I start dying.
Today, humility is not a burden—it’s a gift. It doesn’t lower me; it frees me. It frees me from the lies I used to tell myself. It frees me from the need to be perfect. It frees me from the chains of pride that nearly killed me. Humility allows me to walk this path of recovery with honesty, with openness, and with hope. I am an addict in recovery, and I am learning every day what humility truly means. It’s not about being less than others. It’s about being real. It’s about admitting that I need help, that I make mistakes, that I can’t do this alone. And most importantly, humility reminds me that as long as I remain open, honest, and willing, there is hope—for healing, for growth, and for life.
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.
