Off to the races for the day.

 

Someone asked me recently, “How do you come up with the posts you write?” The honest answer? These thoughts just start running through my head—and they don’t let go until I get them out.

 

After more than 30 years in healthcare, I may have transitioned away from the work, but the need to problem-solve hasn’t left me. I still analyze. I still process. I still want to understand things—especially the things that have happened to me. This blog has become a place where I take care of unfinished business.

 

Addiction and the Addicted Brain

 

Today I want to talk about addiction. Specifically, addicted behavior and what it means to live with a substance use disorder.

 

For many years, I sat across from people dealing with addiction. As a nurse and later as a provider, I approached them with compassion. But if I’m being honest, I had no true concept of what addiction felt like—not really. I didn’t understand what people meant when they talked about the “addicted brain.” That would come later, and not in a way I would have chosen.

 

The Beliefs I Had to Unlearn

 

I’ve written before that I was the “good kid.” The one who tried to follow the rules, who thought that messing up was something you didn’t come back from. So yeah—I had some pretty rigid ideas. Here are a few that blew up on me once I had to walk this path myself.

 

1. “Why would someone with addiction want to work with other addicts?”

I used to think: Wouldn’t you want a clean, sober professional? Someone trained and removed from the chaos?

 

Turns out, no.

 

People who’ve been through it—people in recovery—are often the best possible support. They know what the compulsion feels like. They understand the tricks the mind plays and the pain that drives you to seek relief however you can. They’ve done the work. They’ve crawled out of the hole. And more importantly, they know what it’s like to fall back in and still keep climbing.

 

I once had an associate chief nurse tell me:

“All mental health conditions deserve treatment. If you’re treating someone and you live with a condition yourself, you don’t need to unload your whole story—but don’t pretend it doesn’t exist. Just letting them know they’re not alone can be the difference.”

 

We don’t treat high blood pressure without a plan. Why would we treat addiction differently?

 

2. “Addiction is forever. There’s no way out.”

I believed this for a long time. That once you’re in it, you’re stuck.

 

That’s a lie.

 

Yes, relapse is real. Yes, the road is long. But addiction doesn’t mean you’re doomed. Effective treatment gives you tools. Empathy gives you community. And sobriety, if practiced one day at a time, gives you freedom—especially from the shame that kept you quiet to begin with.

 

3. “Other people get addicted—not me.”

I thought I had too much going for me. A good career, a strong education, a sense of purpose. Surely I was immune?

 

I wasn’t.

 

And if you talk to people who’ve lived through addiction, you’ll find many of us lost people along the way. Friends, colleagues, even family. Some backed away for self-preservation. Some disappeared because they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand. The ones who stayed? They’re the real ones. No judgment. Just support.

 

So… What Happened?

 

People ask that. “What happened?”

 

Here’s the truth:

I didn’t wake up one morning and think, “Let’s try substance abuse today!” That’s not how this works.

 

It wasn’t one hit, one pill, or one moment. It was a slow unraveling—a flawed solution to a problem I couldn’t fix. I was in pain. I wasn’t coping. I reached for something I thought might help, and it did. Temporarily.

 

Then I used again. And again.

 

And one day, I found myself face-down on the floor of my living room, overdosed. Not dead, but not living either. I hadn’t hit what people call “rock bottom,” but I knew something had to change. I tried managing it myself—white-knuckling sobriety. It worked. Kind of. Until it didn’t.

 

Eventually, the bottom fell out. Career gone. Health wrecked. Identity fractured.

 

The Thing That Surprised Me Most

 

What hit me hardest afterward wasn’t just the fallout—it was the empathy. All those years I’d treated patients, trying to help them fight a battle I didn’t understand. Now I did. Not their exact story, but the why behind it. The pain. The desperation. The endless negotiating with yourself. I finally got it.

 

There’s a strange kind of grief in that realization.

 

But what do you do next?

 

You keep going. You be the good person your mom and your dog think you are. You show up, every day, for your sobriety.

 

Final Thought

 

I didn’t share every detail here—what I used, how much, how often. That part doesn’t matter anymore.

 

What matters is this: I’m sober. I’m still here. I’m doing the work.

 

And if you’re struggling? You’re not alone.

 

Even through everything—be the kind of person your dog and your mom hope you are.