96. Progress Not Perfection: A Personal Reflection on Recovery

There was a time in my life when I thought perfection was the only acceptable goal.  Anything less felt like failure.  That mindset nearly destroyed me.  As an addict, I clung to the illusion that I had to be all or nothing — either I was completely healed and "fixed," or I was broken beyond repair.  I now understand that this thinking was not only flawed, but deadly.  The recovery slogan "progress, not perfection" didn’t mean much to me in the beginning.  It sounded like a cute little catchphrase people said in meetings — something stitched on a pillow or printed on a magnet, but over time, I’ve come to see that those three words carry a depth and truth that have saved my life more times than I can count.

When I first got sober, I was drowning in shame.  I felt the weight of every lie I had told, every relationship I had shattered, every promise I had broken.  The wreckage behind me was overwhelming.  I couldn’t look in the mirror without feeling disgusted.  I was so focused on how far I had fallen, on all the things I hadn’t done right, that I couldn’t see the most important thing: I had taken the first step.  I had asked for help.  That was progress.

Progress didn’t feel like enough back then.  I wanted instant redemption.  I wanted to be the perfect son again, the perfect friend, the perfect coach, the perfect employee.  I wanted everyone to forgive me immediately and see how hard I was trying, but recovery doesn’t work like that.  It’s not about flipping a switch or putting on a show.  It’s about building a life — slowly, honestly, and humbly.

There were days when I would go to a meeting, share from my heart, and still come home feeling broken.  There were days in detox when I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and I wondered if I was strong enough to make it through.  I relapsed after nearly four years of being clean, and the shame of that nearly took me under.  I felt like I had betrayed every person who ever believed in me.  I remember lying in that hospital bed, sick and hollowed out, thinking I was beyond redemption.

But the truth is that moment was progress, too.

I didn’t run.  I didn’t give up entirely.  I checked myself into rehab.  I admitted I needed more help. That wasn’t weakness — that was growth.  That was progress.  It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t clean.  But it was real.

This slogan — progress, not perfection — taught me that healing doesn’t come from pretending to be okay.  It comes from showing up, even when I’m not okay.  It comes from being willing to be seen in my imperfection, in my messiness, in my humanity.  Each day I stay clean, each time I tell the truth instead of hiding, each moment I choose integrity over ego — that’s a victory.

I used to think of progress as big things — getting a job back, making amends, rebuilding my reputation, but now I see progress in smaller moments: waking up early to meditate.  Calling someone from my support network when I feel triggered.  Apologizing to someone I love without making excuses.  Writing honestly about my struggles instead of spinning a story.  Saying no to something that might jeopardize my sobriety.  These little choices, stacked together, are what recovery is made of.

And perfection?  I’ve let it go.  It was never real.  It was never the goal.  Trying to be perfect was just another way I avoided being present.  It was a shield I used to hide behind, afraid of being seen as weak, flawed, human.  But in recovery, I’ve learned that vulnerability is strength.  That honesty is courage.  That being real is more powerful than being perfect could ever be.

I’m still healing.  I still have days when I feel like I’m not enough.  I still carry guilt for the pain I’ve caused.  I still miss people I’ve lost to this disease.  And sometimes, I still hear that voice in my head whispering that I’ll never truly change.  But I know now that voice is a liar because every day I choose to stay sober, every time I reach out instead of isolating, every honest word I write or speak, I am proving that voice wrong.  Recovery is not linear.  I’ve fallen down.  I’ve made mistakes.  I’ve disappointed myself and others, but I always get back up.  I always try again.  That’s progress, and the more I lean into that truth, the more grace I find — not just from others, but from myself.

"Progress, not perfection" means I’m allowed to grow at my own pace.  It means I’m not defined by my worst day.  It means I can forgive myself, even when the path is messy.  It means that every little bit of effort I make matters — even when nobody else sees it.  I’ve seen miracles in this journey.  I’ve watched other addicts rise from their own ashes and become the most compassionate, wise, and resilient people I’ve ever known.  As a result of that, I’ve begun to believe that maybe, just maybe— I’m one of them too.  I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.  But I know this: I will keep trying.  I will keep growing.  I will keep showing up, messy and imperfect, but honest and willing, because that’s what recovery is.  Not perfection.  Just progress.

And today, that’s enough.

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.