I want to talk about something uncomfortable.

 

Not new uncomfortable—most of what I write lives somewhere in that space already—but the kind of uncomfortable that people actively avoid because it carries stigma. The kind that makes conversations trail off, eyes shift, and people suddenly remember they have something else to do.

 

A while back, I wrote about normalizing mental health treatment. I shared a moment where a former boss talked openly about her diagnosis of depression and her decision to seek treatment. At the time, it struck me as radical—not because depression is rare, but because honesty about it still is. What I didn’t do then was expand that idea outward to everything else we whisper about.

 

So let’s do that now.

 

Let’s talk about substance use.

 

We speak about it in hushed tones, if we speak about it at all. We label people quickly and permanently. And we tend to act as if acknowledging its existence is the same thing as endorsing it. It isn’t.

 

Here’s a bold idea: maybe we should normalize the fact that substance use exists.

 

Not everyone who uses a substance wants—or is ready—to stop. Not everyone can quiet the underlying pain driving that use. And treating people like they’re morally broken or dangerous because of it doesn’t help anyone. It just drives the problem underground, where shame thrives.

 

In my own journey, the stigma surrounding substance use nearly kept me from seeking help at all. Admitting I had a problem felt like admitting I was a bad person. And once I did admit it publicly, the fallout was immediate.

 

I lost people. A lot of them.

 

I’d estimate about 60% of the casual friendships and acquaintances I’d built over the years disappeared within a fairly short period of time. Some stopped reaching out. Some became politely distant. Some simply vanished.

 

To those people: I’m sorry that my admission—what my addiction therapist called an incorrect solution to a real problem—was enough to redefine me in your eyes. I’m not sure why people believe the act of having struggled somehow permanently alters who someone is at their core.

 

There’s a difference between distancing yourself from someone actively deep in substance use and walking away from someone who is doing the work to get sober. The latter raises some uncomfortable questions about how conditional our support really is.

 

Here’s the hard truth most people don’t want to admit:

the person with a substance use problem is still the same person.

 

The substance didn’t erase their character, their values, or their capacity for connection. And while everyone has the right to set boundaries—or even walk away entirely—it’s worth examining why recovery is sometimes met with more silence than the addiction itself.

 

Support doesn’t mean hovering. It doesn’t mean inserting yourself into someone’s life. It means being an outward sign that you see the effort, even if you keep your distance.

 

What hurt the most during sobriety wasn’t confrontation. It was the silence. The people I respected most simply said nothing. And yes, I understand that some people don’t have the bandwidth. Trauma, addiction, grief—these things thin a social circle quickly. Thanksgiving being “optional” is a real thing.

 

But silence still stings.

 

Here’s another uncomfortable truth: everyone self-medicates.

 

Maybe not with substances people label as “hardcore,” but with something. Food. Religion. Fitness. Work. Control. Perfectionism.

 

None of these things are inherently bad. Healthy spirituality is fine. Exercise is good. Eating is necessary. But when something consumes your life to the point where it replaces introspection, connection, or healing, it’s no longer a solution—it’s just a different escape hatch.

 

That’s where the phrase trading one addiction for another comes from. Too much of a good thing still applies.

 

Recovery—of any kind—is slow. It’s awkward. It comes with loss. People who once felt close become distant. Former colleagues step back, sometimes out of concern, sometimes out of professional discomfort. I understand that. I really do.

 

So what happens?

 

You build new alliances. You invest in the people who stay. You allow new people into your orbit. And yes—there’s mourning involved. Real mourning. Because some of those relationships mattered, and letting go of them takes time.

 

Sobriety itself requires vigilance. Relapse is always a possibility, and despite what people think, it isn’t a moral failure—it’s a road bump. I’ve said this before, and I’ll keep saying it.

I’m 23 months sober.

I’m sober right now.

And that’s how it works. One moment at a time. Tools help. Awareness helps. Learning your triggers—old and new—helps. But it’s never “over.”

 

The bottom line is this: you do the best you can with the people who show up. And sometimes protecting your peace means shrinking your circle—even online. It isn’t personal. It’s survival.

 

My mom and my dog may not fully understand any of this. But they support me anyway. And honestly, that counts for a lot.