92. More Than a Choice: The Truth About Addiction

For a long time, I lived in shame.  I walked through life with my head down, crushed under the weight of judgment—not just from others, but from myself.  I was labeled an addict, a screw-up, a disappointment.  For years, I believed that label.  I thought I was weak, broken, and incapable of making the "right" choices.   People told me to just stop, to get it together, to think about my family, my job, and my future.  But they didn’t understand what I was up against.  They didn’t know the war raging inside my body and mind.  Addiction isn’t just a bad habit or a series of poor decisions. Addiction is a disease, and I didn’t choose it—it chose me.

That statement alone may turn some people away.  "You chose to use," they might say.  "You put that substance in your body.  You could’ve walked away."  And I get it.  On the surface, it looks like a choice.  But no one chooses addiction the way someone chooses a career, a partner, or a hobby. No one dreams of waking up sick every morning, needing a fix just to feel normal.  No one dreams of burning bridges, losing everything, and lying awake at night begging God for mercy, knowing they’ll still use again tomorrow.  That’s not a life anyone would choose. That’s a prison.

Addiction hijacks the brain.  It rewires your reward system, and floods you with dopamine in ways that natural pleasures—like love, success, or even the sound of your child’s laughter—can’t compete with.  Over time, the brain stops caring about anything else.  It becomes obsessed with one thing: the next high.  That’s not weakness.  That’s biology.  That’s chemistry.  That’s a chronic illness just as real as cancer or diabetes.

I didn’t want to hurt the people I loved.  I didn’t want to see the look in my mother’s eyes when I told her I’d relapsed—again.  I didn’t want to break promises to my friends, steal, lie, or isolate myself.  But my disease didn’t care what I wanted. It only cared that I fed it.

There were times I cried in the shower, trying to scrub off the shame, wishing I could go back and make different choices.  By then, I wasn't making choices anymore.  I was responding to a craving so deep, so consuming, it felt like life or death, and sometimes, I chose death.  Over and over again.

But something changed.

It wasn’t some magical moment.  It wasn’t a single rock bottom—there were many.  But eventually, I reached a point where I was tired.  Tired of surviving.  Tired of lying.  Tired of being numb.  I checked into detox again.  My body shook, my stomach twisted, and sleep was a stranger.  I was full of fear, full of guilt.  But underneath it all, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: a flicker of hope.

That hope grew in treatment.  It grew in group therapy, when I looked around and realized I wasn’t alone.  I heard stories that echoed my own.  Stories of lost years, shattered families, near-death experiences . And yet, there we were—still alive, still fighting.  It grew when a counselor told me, “You’re not a bad person trying to be good. You’re a sick person trying to get well.”  That broke me open. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a failure.  I felt human.

Recovery hasn’t been easy.  It’s a daily battle.  Some days, the disease whispers in my ear, telling me I’ll never be enough, that I’ll always be broken.  But now, I know that voice isn’t me.  It’s the illness talking, and I don’t have to listen.

I’ve learned to forgive myself.  That might be the hardest part of all.  I’ve learned that relapse doesn’t mean I’m hopeless—it means I’m still learning.  I’ve learned to ask for help, to admit when I’m struggling, and to reach out instead of retreat,. I’ve learned that vulnerability is strength.

And I’ve learned that I am so much more than my addiction.

I’m a son.  I’m a friend.  I’m a coach.  I’m a writer.  I’m a person with dreams, with a future, with something to give this world.  My disease tried to steal all of that from me.  And for a while, it almost did.  But I’m taking it back—one day at a time.

I write this now for anyone who still believes addiction is a moral failing or a character flaw.  I write this for the families who are losing hope, for the friends who don’t understand, for the employers who can’t see past the stigma.  But most of all, I write this for the addict who feels alone, ashamed, and beyond saving.

You are not your worst day.  You are not your disease.  You are worthy of love, of healing, of a second chance.  Addiction may be a disease—but recovery is possible, and it’s the most courageous thing I’ve ever done.

So, before you judge someone struggling with addiction, remember: that they didn’t choose this.  But they can choose to fight it.  And if they’re lucky—if they have support, treatment, and even just one person who believes in them—that fight can lead to something beautiful.  It can lead to a life worth living.

I know because I’m living it now.

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.