107. You’re Only as Sick as Your Secrets

There’s a phrase we hear often in the rooms of recovery: “You’re only as sick as your secrets.”  At first, I brushed it off, the way I used to brush off a lot of things that made me uncomfortable.  When I heard it, I didn’t nod along.  I didn’t smile in agreement.  I got angry.  Because if it was true… then I was terminal.  I didn’t understand the depth of those words—not really.  But as I sit here today, a man in recovery from substance use disorders, I know exactly what they mean, and I’ve learned—sometimes the hardest way possible—that secrets are poison.  And when we keep them, they rot us from the inside out.

I used to be full of secrets.  I carried them like a second skin.  Hell, I was a secret.  I wore a thousand different masks, told a thousand different lies, and built walls so high around myself that even I forgot what was real.  I’d smile when I was dying inside.  I’d say I was sober when I had pills in my sock.  I’d tell my family I was okay when I was using in gas station bathrooms.  I was hiding the truth—not just from others, but from myself, and in doing so, I was feeding my addiction every single day.

Addiction thrives in the dark.  It loves silence.  It loves shame.  It tells you that if people really knew who you were, they’d leave.  That you don’t deserve love.  That you’re broken beyond repair.  And when you believe that lie—when you start keeping secrets to avoid the pain—you give your disease all of the power.

For a long time, my secrets were my identity.  I was a coach, a writer, a friend, a son.  But I was also an addict, and I couldn’t let those two worlds collide.  I told myself that if I could just hold it together on the outside, no one had to know the hell I was living on the inside, but secrets are heavy.  They don’t just sit quietly in your chest.  They fester, they twist your thinking, and they keep you sick.  When I finally got honest, it wasn’t pretty.  It didn’t come in a neat little breakthrough moment.  It came in the form of broken relationships, ruined trust, and staring at myself in the mirror with tears in my eyes, wondering who I had become.  I had to own up to the truth: I was sick, and I couldn’t get better until I let go of the secrets I’d been holding for so long.

Recovery has taught me that truth is freedom.  It’s not easy.  God, it’s not easy.  Telling someone you hurt them.  Admitting that you used again.  Owning up to stealing, lying, and cheating.  Sitting in a room full of strangers and saying, “My name is Kyle, and I’m an addict.”  That takes courage.  Every time I’ve told the truth—and I mean really told it—something inside me has healed.  I’ll never forget one of my first group sessions in treatment.  We were doing a trauma inventory, and I was literally shaking.  Not because of withdrawal, but because I was about to speak out loud the things I had buried for decades.  Things I swore I’d never share.  I remember spilling some of my deepest secrets and looking around the room and seeing nods.  Not judgment.  Not disgust. Just understanding.  In that very moment, I realized that I wasn’t alone anymore.  I was amongst people who knew exactly what it felt like to drag a secret into the light and survive it.  The secrets I spilled, almost immediately, lost their power.

There’s something holy about being known fully and still being accepted.  That’s what recovery has given me.  When I stopped hiding, I found connection.  When I dropped the mask, I found real friendship. When I told the truth, I found healing.  The thing is—it doesn’t end there.  Secrets try to sneak back in.  Old patterns whisper in your ear: “Don’t tell them that.  Just keep this to yourself.  They wouldn’t understand.”  That’s why honesty has to be a daily practice.  I’ve learned to check in with myself, to ask hard questions, and to call someone when I want to isolate because I know now—without a doubt—that secrets will kill me. Slowly, yes.  But absolutely.

I often think back to the people I’ve lost.  I’ve seen what happens when people keep one secret too many.  I’ve buried friends who “seemed fine” until they weren’t.  Plain and simple, secrets killed them. I’d be lying if I said I was immune.  I know I’m one good lie away from that same fate.  I think about the friend who swore he was clean but overdosed alone in a motel.  I think about the mother who never told anyone she was struggling again and ended up back in jail.  Their secrets became their coffins, and it terrifies me to know that could have been me.  So today, I make a promise to myself: I won’t keep secrets anymore.  If I’m hurting, I’ll say it.  If I’m tempted, I’ll admit it.  If I fall, I’ll reach out. Not because I’m weak, but because I want to live.

I want to be the kind of man who walks in the light.  A man who stands tall in his truth, no matter how ugly it might be. I’ve learned that honesty isn’t a one-time confession — it’s a muscle.  If I don’t use it, it withers, and when it withers, I get sick again.  I want to be a coach who shows his players that honesty isn’t a flaw—it’s a strength.  I want to be a writer who tells real stories, even when they’re messy.  I want to be a son my mother can trust again.  And I want to be a friend to others in recovery who might still be drowning in silence.  I’d rather face temporary embarrassment than permanent regret.

To anyone reading this who’s still holding onto secrets—please, let them go.  Your secrets will not save you.  They will not protect you.  They will eat you alive until there’s nothing left.  I know it’s scary. I know the shame feels unbearable, but I promise you, there is nothing you’ve done, nothing you’ve felt, nothing you’ve hidden that will ever be helped by silence.  Speak it, share it, and set yourself free.

We are only as sick as our secrets, and I’ve been sick enough for one lifetime.

Today, I choose healing.
Today, I choose truth.
Today, I choose 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.