98. The Need to Be Seen: Validation & My Addiction
Validation is oxygen to the fragile lungs of my spirit. Before the first pill touched my palm or the first bottle kissed my lips, I was already starving for the simple proof that I mattered. I looked for it everywhere—in my mother’s moments of approval, in the roaring bleachers when I scored the winning goal as a teenager. Each nod of praise felt like sunlight, and each moment without it felt like the dead of night.
Before I ever picked up a drink or used a drug, I was already aching for something I didn’t have a name for. I thought it was love. I thought it was respect. The truth is, I just wanted to be seen. To be heard. To be told, in some way, that I mattered. That I was enough. That’s what validation is. It’s not just a pat on the back or an occasional “good job.” It’s someone looking you in the eyes, listening to your voice, and saying without words: You’re real. I see you. For a kid who always felt like a ghost in his own home, that kind of recognition became something I would chase for the rest of my life—sometimes through achievements, sometimes through relationships, and eventually through illicit substances.
A drink did not just warm my throat; it applauded me. It whispered, You’re enough, and the ovation grew louder as the buzz set in. Pills followed, then powders, then needles, each substance another cheap standing ovation. Yet addiction is the loneliest audience in the world. It claps only for itself, and when the show ends, it leaves you alone on stage, holding a bouquet of dead silence. My need for validation was not vanity; it was survival. Human beings are wired for connection, and connection begins with recognition. When that recognition is inconsistent, the brain learns to hunt for it anywhere, at any cost. Substance abuse disorders are, in many ways, attachment wounds dressed up as chemical ones. The bottle does not simply contain alcohol—it contains the promise that someone, even a liquid someone, sees me.
I didn’t start using because I loved getting high. I used because when I was high, the need to be validated didn’t scream so loudly. The alcohol and drugs quieted the voices in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough, not strong enough, not lovable. When I used alcohol and drugs, I felt fearless. I felt worthy. I felt seen—even if only by myself in a mirror I couldn’t quite look into. But the alcohol and drugs are liars. They give you confidence on loan and leave you bankrupt in the end. The more I used, the more validation I needed—and the less of it I ever actually got. The truth is, even before the drugs, I couldn’t feel satisfied by anyone’s approval. I was chasing a level of recognition that no one could realistically give me. My expectations were so high—so specific and so fragile—that even when people did care, even when they did show up, it somehow never felt like enough. I was asking the world to fix something inside me that I didn’t yet know how to touch. Eventually, I couldn’t tell the difference between wanting to be loved and wanting to be numb.
When I got sober the first time, I started to feel human again. I shared my story, and people clapped. I wrote a column about recovery, and people wrote back. I coached kids and saw admiration in their eyes. All of that attention felt good—no, it felt incredible. But it was also dangerous, because even in sobriety, I was still addicted to validation. I thought if I kept performing—if I kept impressing people—I’d never fall again. Unfortunately, that’s not how this disease works. It doesn’t care how many TED Talks you’ve given or how many articles you’ve written. If your worth is tied to how loudly people cheer for you, then the silence between those cheers can feel unbearable, and eventually, that silence crept back in.
When I relapsed, it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was because I cared too much—about what others thought, about who I was supposed to be, about not disappointing anyone. The pressure of being “the success story” crushed me, and the shame of falling again nearly killed me. I checked myself into detox at Bon Secours, shaking and broken, convinced I had let everyone down. What I didn’t expect was that this place—this cold, clinical detox unit—would show me a deeper kind of validation than any stage or newspaper column ever had.
It came in small, quiet moments: A nurse sitting by my bed, just letting me cry. A counselor nodding while I confessed everything I hated about myself. Nobody here needed me to impress them. They didn’t care about my past successes. They only cared that I was still here. Still trying. Still breathing. And for the first time in a very long time, that was enough.
Validation is essential for recovery—not the applause, but the acknowledgment. The feeling that someone, somewhere, understands you. And that you are allowed to take up space in the world, even when you’re not at your best. Especially when you’re not at your best. When we don’t get that kind of validation, especially early in life, we start searching for substitutes. For some, it’s approval from partners or parents. For people like me, it becomes alcohol or drugs. Substances promise quick acceptance. They wrap you in false comfort and whisper, You don’t need anyone else. You’ve got me. But it’s a lie, and it always was.
I’m slowly learning to speak without polishing every word. I’m learning to share the messy parts of my story without trying to make them sound noble or inspiring. And when someone listening to me nods, or says “me too,” I feel a kind of healing I never got from any high. Even more important, I’m learning to validate myself. That’s the hardest part. Some days, I still look in the mirror and see failure. Other days, I see a man who is fighting like hell to change. I’m learning that self-validation isn’t arrogance—it’s survival. It’s saying, I’m worth saving, even when the rest of the world hasn’t voted yet.
Recovery has taught me that validation is not a luxury. It’s a need, and it’s not a weakness to admit that. In fact, it takes strength to look someone in the eye and say, “I need to be seen. I need to be heard. I need to know I’m not alone.”
So I write this now for the person who’s still suffering. For the one who thinks no one cares. I see you. I know your pain, and I want you to know this: Your worth is not measured by your mistakes. You don’t need to earn love. You don’t need to impress anyone to matter. You are enough, simply because you’re still here. And that, in itself, is everything.
I am an addict. I am also a coach, a writer, a friend, and someone’s child. My worth did not evaporate in the fumes of my relapse. Craving validation is not weakness; it is a signal that we are alive and wired for belonging. The substances that once delivered counterfeit acceptance are not the enemy—they are the evidence. They prove that what we seek most is to be known. I’m not cured. I’m still learning. But today, I can say this with honesty: I don’t need a standing ovation to know I’m on the right path. I just need to keep showing up, keep telling the truth, and keep learning to validate the man I’m becoming—one day, one breath, one honest word at a time.
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.
