Train Your Mind Like Your Life Depends On It—Because It Does

You don’t overcome depression, anxiety, or trauma by accident.

You don’t just wake up one day and feel better.

You rebuild—on purpose.

And at first, it’ll feel fake.

When your mind has been rewired by pain, your default settings betray you. Your subconscious systems—the stuff that keeps you breathing, blinking, and beating—become corrupted.

They’re stuck in survival mode.

Trauma, anxiety, addiction—they don’t just affect your thoughts. They hijack your operating system. They exist between conscious awareness and involuntary function, like a parasite living between heartbeats.

So what do you do?

You reprogram.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

But intentionally—every day.

To quote Alex Harmozi- “You need undeniable proof that you are exactly who you say you are.”

Harmozi says this is where confidence comes from, and it’s true

And you don’t get that by thinking about it.

You get it by doing something every single day that shows your brain, your body, and your soul:

“This is who we are now.”

You write the damn note.

You say the mantra.

You walk when you don’t feel like walking.

You smile when it feels fake.

You start the reps even when your body screams no.

You retrain the system.

It’ll feel inauthentic at first. Good. That means it’s working.

If you’ve lived in pain for years, your system’s used to it. Your brain’s built walls to “protect” you—but all they do now is trap you. And those walls?

They’ll scream when you try to leave.

They’ll whisper, “You don’t deserve this. You’re not ready. Go back.”

That’s the moment you need the mantra.

The note in your pocket.

The reminder on your screen.

Something that tells you the truth when your brain starts lying again.

Healing is not a mood. It’s a method.

It’s hard. It’s thankless. It’s slow.

But it works.

Three months of proving to yourself that life is still worth showing up for?

Six months of reminding yourself you’re not broken beyond repair?

Nine months of choosing mindfulness over despair?

That’s not just healing. That’s power.

That’s taking your agency back.

That’s free will in motion.

So what’s the trick?

Write it down.

Say it often.

Keep it close.

You are no longer at the mercy of your mind.

You’re training it.

And soon?

It will follow your lead.

Reclaiming Agency: Addiction, Free Will, and the Battle for Your Life

Let me tell you something about free will. It’s not about whether you order a burger or a salad. It’s not about choosing your outfit or picking which Netflix show to binge. Free will is about whether, in your darkest hour, when everything in your body and soul is telling you to go back to the thing that’s killing you—you choose not to.

Addiction strips away agency like a thief in the night. You don’t even realize it at first. One hit. One pill. One escape. And then suddenly you’re not choosing anymore—you’re obeying. The brain’s reward system has been rewired. Your limbic system—the primal engine that governs pleasure, survival, and impulse—gets hijacked. The rational part of your brain, the prefrontal cortex, takes a backseat while the monster drives.

You become a slave. A passenger. A marionette held up by strings you swore you’d never touch again.

So, is free will real? If you’ve ever battled addiction, you might say no. Because nothing feels more robotic than repeating the same destructive pattern over and over, even while hating yourself for it.

But here’s the twist: People get out.

They crawl their way through withdrawal. Through shame. Through the decimation of identity. They endure the unraveling of every emotional crutch they had. And even when every nerve screams to return to the numbing vice, they stay. They fight. They hold.

And that is the miracle. That is the proof. That is free will.

Because when every system in your mind and body says yes, and you choose no, you’re not a slave anymore.

Overcoming addiction is not just an act of healing—it’s the highest expression of personal agency we have. It is the mind, body, and soul uniting to reassert dominance over something that once owned you.

It is your human capacity to rise above biology. Above pain. Above story.

Science backs this up. Through cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), people have retrained their thoughts. Through neuroplasticity, the brain’s actual wiring can be reshaped. Dopamine pathways can be rerouted. Synapses can reform. The damage isn’t permanent. The hijacker can be evicted.

But you have to be relentless.

You can’t kill the system that makes you obsessive, driven, and intense. That system is you. You have to take the sword back from the addiction, not destroy the warrior that wields it.

Addiction used your best qualities against you. Your focus. Your sensitivity. Your need for relief. Your hunger for something more.

Now, repurpose those. Point them somewhere else. Obsess over something that serves you. Use your intensity to build. To learn. To connect. That part of you isn’t broken. It’s powerful. It just had the wrong master.

And don’t let anyone tell you you’re cursed. Or possessed. Or too far gone. That’s shame masquerading as spirituality. Screw that.

You are not cursed. You are capable.

Your will is not dead. It’s buried. And every sober day you live is a shovel.

The more you show up, the more you prove to yourself: I still choose.

That is power.

That is agency.

That is free will.

Now use it.

Rewire The Fire

For a long time, we’ve treated addiction like a character flaw, or worse, a cosmic punishment. A moral failure. A demon possession. The lie buried beneath it all is simple but dangerous: You are broken.

No. You’re not broken.

You’re wired for intensity, focus, and drive. Addiction didn’t give you that—it took it. Hijacked it. Rewired your brain’s motivation systems and used your strength against you.

The Science Behind the Hijack

The neuroscience is clear: addiction targets the brain’s reward system—particularly the mesolimbic dopamine pathway. It’s the same system that drives our ambition, our pursuit of goals, and our survival instincts. The same circuitry that once made you chase dreams, chase growth, chase more—is now chasing substances, distractions, and escapism.

In cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), this process is known as maladaptive reinforcement. It’s not just that you’re craving something harmful; it’s that your brain has learned to associate relief, escape, and pleasure with the addiction. You’re not weak. You’re operating on corrupted code.

Stop Suppressing. Start Redirecting.

Most recovery programs make a subtle mistake: they frame your wiring as the problem.

“Kill your ego. Deny your urges. Flatten your emotion.”

No. Don’t flatten yourself. Refocus yourself.

If your mind can go all-in on destruction, it can go all-in on creation. Recovery isn’t about numbing your edges—it’s about sharpening them and turning them toward something real.

Want proof? Look at recovered addicts who’ve become elite athletes, business leaders, artists, and healers. They didn’t “fix” themselves by becoming bland. They took that compulsive engine—the one that powered their addiction—and aimed it.

Rewire Through Practice

CBT has shown us that behavior leads emotion. Not the other way around.

Want to change how you feel? Change what you do.

Start small. Replace the hit with a habit.

• Go for a walk.

• Lift a weight.

• Paint a picture.

• Help someone.

• Write a page.

You are teaching your brain that relief, release, and purpose come from creation—not destruction.

You’re Not Cursed. You’re Capable.

Tony Robbins says, “The past does not equal the future—unless you live there.”

Maya Angelou reminds us, “We may encounter many defeats but we must not be defeated.”

You? You’re not cursed. You’re just untapped potential.

You’re not a victim of God’s wrath. Not a prisoner of your past. You are a fighter with a mind that runs hot—and that’s your gift.

What To Do Now:

1. Stop waiting for permission to change.

2. Pick something worth obsessing over.

3. Build your identity around who you want to become.

4. Surround yourself with people who pull you forward.

5. Use the obsession for something meaningful.

Don’t let a hijacked system keep you small. Your drive isn’t your enemy. It’s your edge.

Reclaim it.

Build something from it.

And if you still feel broken? Let that be the crack the light gets through.

God Won’t Save You - But You Can

When I was in the thick of it—addicted, depressed, and barely holding on—I prayed.

I prayed a lot.

I read the Bible constantly. I fell asleep to it on my phone. I’d play it in the car. I’d pray in the shower, in the dark, on my knees. I begged for the pain to stop. Begged for the strength to change. For the will to fight.

I believed that if I just believed hard enough, God would step in. He would reach into my mess and pull me out.

But here’s what really happened:

Nothing.

Nothing changed until I did.

And I know that statement is going to rattle some cages. I get it. I grew up in church, too. I grew up believing in an all-powerful, all-knowing, loving God who could rescue me from anything if I had enough faith. But when you’re addicted to opiates, when your trauma is eating you alive, when you feel like a hollow shell of a person—faith isn’t always enough.

You can scream to the heavens all you want, but if you’re not willing to take action, the silence will swallow you whole.

Let’s talk theology for a second.

Christianity tells us we’re broken by sin. That we’re born into imperfection and in need of saving. And when you’re an addict, that message lands hard. You already feel broken. You already feel like a failure. The shame feels biblical. The guilt feels earned. So you reach for a savior. That’s natural.

But this is where it gets dangerous:

Waiting for rescue can keep you from doing the hard work of rescuing yourself.

It’s like standing in a burning building with the door wide open—and choosing to stay put because someone might come carry you out.

Here’s the truth, and it took me years to say this out loud:

If there’s a God, He’s not coming.

Not like that.

Not in the way you want.

And I don’t say that to crush anyone’s hope. I say it because for so many of us, hope became a form of procrastination. “God will fix this.”

“It’s not my time yet.”

“I’m waiting for a sign.”

No. That sign is you, lying to yourself.

The only miracle you need is the decision to change.

If you’re lucky, someone will help you. Maybe a parent. A partner. A therapist. A stranger in a meeting who says the exact right thing. But even that? It’s just water. You’re still the one who has to drink it.

Addiction hijacks your brain’s reward system.

It rewires your body.

It’s not a moral failure. It’s not a spiritual curse.

It’s a neurochemical trap that keeps you dependent—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

And the path out is long. It’s brutal. It’s lonely.

But it’s yours. It’s possible.

And it’s powered by you.

No amount of scripture or sermon will bypass the work.

No prayer will carry the barbell for you.

No verse will rebuild your serotonin.

No pastor is going to fix your trauma for you.

You will have to wake up and fight every damn day until you’ve carved out a new life with your own two hands.

I still believe in love. In awe. In mystery.

I believe in goodness and grace.

But I don’t believe that a cosmic puppet master is pulling the strings, rewarding some and damning others based on vibes.

That’s not God. That’s superstition with branding.

So if you’re on your knees, praying for help, I say this with love:

Stand up.

God isn’t going to save you.

But you can.

And when you do, it will be more sacred than any sermon you’ve ever heard.

Because you’ll know—without a doubt—that the divine lives in you.

Not in some cloud. Not in a book.

In you.

Now go prove it.

The Sacred Now

I do not know what created the universe. I do not pretend to.

I do not fear a god that may not exist.

I do not worship stories written to control.

I believe in the power of presence.

I believe in kindness without reward.

I believe in awe, in meaning, in the miracle of consciousness.

Even if it’s temporary. Even if it ends.

I reject eternal torture.

I reject shame as virtue.

I reject systems that profit off fear, silence, and blind obedience.

I honor love, curiosity, and integrity as sacred.

Not because they’re commanded—because they matter.

I will live this life as if it’s the only one.

Because it might be.

Because that makes it beautiful.

Because that makes it mine.

One Thought Changed Everything

I grew up Christian.

And with that came a mindset—a system of reward and punishment, love and fear. I believed God loved me, but I also believed I needed to be careful. Careful not to anger Him. Careful not to slip up. Because even if I was doing everything right, like Job, I could still be punished, still be tested. And no one would ever explain why.

It was a spiritual tightrope.

I internalized the idea that if things were going well in life, I must be doing something right. But if things were falling apart? It must be because of something I’d done. Or maybe it wasn’t even me—maybe it was some generational curse, some inherited guilt I didn’t know how to fix.

But then one thought changed everything.

What if it’s not true?

What if the religious framework I was handed—well-meaning as it might have been—was just wrong? What if the narratives were invented to control behavior, to offer hope in a world that often feels hopeless, to explain the unexplainable with stories passed down through generations?

And more importantly—what if there’s no scoreboard?

What if life isn’t a cosmic test? What if it’s not a game where I’m trying to earn love, avoid wrath, and decipher some divine plan written in invisible ink?

That thought broke everything open.

I stopped seeing myself as a character in a play I didn’t write.

I stopped imagining God and Satan moving pieces around like pawns.

I started taking responsibility. For all of it.

My success wasn’t divine favor.

My failure wasn’t divine punishment.

It was life. Random. Chaotic. Beautiful. Brutal. And in many ways—mine.

It was terrifying at first. Because if there’s no one pulling the strings, it’s all on you. But it was also incredibly freeing. Because if there’s no one pulling the strings—it’s all on you.

That means change is possible. That means growth is real. That means I can stop begging the sky for mercy and start showing up in my own life.

I stopped blaming evil.

I stopped fearing punishment.

I stopped waiting for miracles.

And I started living.

One thought changed everything. And maybe it can change something for you, too.

If you grew up in a belief system that made you afraid, that told you your pain was part of some higher test—you’re allowed to question that.

You’re allowed to explore other ideas.

You’re allowed to think for yourself.

Sit with it.

Challenge it.

See what’s real.

It might just be the first step toward freedom.

Cosmic Honesty

I’m sharing some core tenets that have helped me, I hope they help you too.

1. I Don’t Know, and That’s Okay

I will not pretend to know what started the universe, or why it exists, or if it even needs a why.

I will sit with mystery without demanding it explain itself.

I will respect the unknowable, but I will not worship it.

2. Consciousness Is Weird, So Let’s Respect It

I have a mind. A will. I can choose things. That’s absurd.

I can reflect on my own reflection. I can imagine hypothetical squirrels running for office. This is all objectively ridiculous, and yet—it’s happening.

So I’ll treat consciousness as sacred, because it’s the only tool I have to make sense of any of this.

3. Morality Isn’t Cosmic, But It Still Matters

There may not be divine justice, but I can choose to do right anyway.

Not because someone’s watching—but because I am.

Empathy, fairness, kindness—these are the things that tether us to meaning. I will try to live by them, even when no one’s grading me.

4. Love Is Real Enough

Maybe love is just brain chemistry.

Maybe it’s evolutionary trickery.

But when I feel it, it feels like truth.

So I’ll honor it. I’ll show it. I’ll build relationships like they’re the only thing that matters—because maybe they are.

5. Awe Is Fuel

I will let myself be floored by a sunrise, a child’s laugh, a black hole diagram, a random act of kindness.

I will make room for beauty, absurdity, and wonder.

If God doesn’t speak, the universe still sings—and I will listen, even if it’s just my own heartbeat echoing in the void.

6. Death Sucks, So Life Must Matter

I don’t know what happens when I die. Probably nothing.

That makes this moment, this life, this body and breath—the whole damn thing—urgent and precious.

I will not wait for a heaven. I will try to build something good here.

7. I Am Small. And That’s Beautiful

I am a blip. A dot. A carbon-based accident riding a rock around a fireball.

But I’m aware of it. And that makes me big.

I won’t waste that.

Practices (aka Stuff to Keep You Grounded)

• Quiet time without screens. Not prayer. Just… being.

• Acts of kindness. Not for reward. Just because you can.

• Journaling. To make sense of what the hell your brain’s doing.

• Reading things that challenge you. Avoid echo chambers.

• Laughing often. Absurdity is therapy.

• Creating something. Music, writing, soup. It’s sacred.

To: Younger Me

To the Younger Me,

I know you’re hurting.

I know your body’s failing you in a way you never imagined it could.

The game you gave everything to—your identity, your pride, your future—is slipping away, and no one really sees it but you. Not the pain. Not the fear. Not the silence.

You’re trying so hard to hold it all together.

Smiling when you’re dying inside.

Numbing what hurts because you think there’s no other choice.

Carrying everyone else’s weight because you don’t want to add to their burden.

And somewhere in all of it, you started believing you’re weak.

That you’re a disappointment.

That you’ve ruined everything.

But listen to me now—from the other side:

You didn’t ruin a damn thing.

You survived the worst moment of your life completely alone.

You faced darkness that could’ve buried you, and somehow—you didn’t let it.

You kept waking up.

You kept fighting.

And you didn’t become bitter. You didn’t become selfish.

You became strong. Quietly. Slowly. Without applause.

You wouldn’t believe what your life looks like now.

You’re married to someone who sees your heart fully.

You own a company that’s built on integrity and grit.

You work hard—not because you’re chasing validation, but because you believe in building something real.

You found joy again. You found purpose. You found you.

No painkiller. No lie. No label anyone tried to stick on you ever defined you.

What defines you is this: You never gave up.

So if you’re still sitting there, wondering what the hell happened—

I’ll tell you.

Life broke you wide open. And you built something better from the pieces.

I’m proud of you.

—You

Your Feelings Are Valid—But They’re Not Always Right

When you’ve been through trauma or addiction, your relationship with emotions changes. They go from something you experience to something that defines you—and that’s where the danger lies.

See, trauma forces you to go deep. You start asking “why” a lot. You peel back layers. You get emotional, introspective, heavy. And that’s good. You have to do that work to heal. But here’s the trap:

You start letting your feelings become your compass.

Shame. Guilt. Anxiety. Depression. These are real, and they deserve your attention. But they’re also master manipulators. They feel like truth—but they’re not always truth. If you treat them like facts, they’ll run your life into the ground.

And then there are the wants:

• “I don’t want to go to therapy.”

• “I don’t feel like getting out of bed.”

• “I just want to be alone.”

• “I just want to feel better before I try.”

Sound familiar? Those wants start stacking up. They feel small in the moment, but they add up to years of lost time, unrealized potential, and pain you didn’t have to keep carrying.

So here’s the truth:

When you don’t want to do the thing—that’s when you have to do it.

When you don’t feel like showing up? That’s when you need to show up.

Because this recovery thing? This rebuilding thing? It’s not about waiting until you feel like it. It’s about choosing the thing that future-you is begging you to do right now.

You’re not a machine. Emotions matter. But you have to know which ones are there to teach you, and which ones are trying to trap you.

So check in with yourself—daily.

Not just when something’s obviously wrong.

Not just when the breakdown hits.

Check in when things feel “fine.”

Check in when you don’t think it matters.

Because those tiny emotional ripples? Left unchecked, they become waves that pull you under.

This isn’t about ignoring feelings. It’s about understanding them.

It’s about separating fact from emotion.

It’s about owning your story, not letting your story own you.

You’ve already survived the storm. Now it’s time to learn how to sail

Beware the Lure of Selfishness in Recovery

When you’re healing from trauma, addiction, or whatever shattered you — yeah, you have to focus on yourself.

You have to.

You’re broken and bleeding. You need triage before you can do anything else.

But you better be careful, because there’s a trap waiting for you —

and it’s called selfishness.

You need time. You need space. You need to heal.

But if you’re not careful, that healing process will twist itself into an excuse —

an excuse to stay small, to stay broken, to demand from the world what you haven’t earned back yet.

Recovery demands a brutal kind of honesty:

You have to look yourself in the mirror and ask,

“Am I still doing the work? Or am I hiding behind the work?”

There’s a point in recovery where focusing on yourself turns into worshiping yourself.

And that’s not healing — that’s just another kind of rot.

You’re gonna feel like the world owes you patience, owes you understanding, owes you a break —

But let me tell you something, the world doesn’t owe you shit.

And deep down, you don’t even want it that way.

Because real strength isn’t people tiptoeing around your pain.

Real strength is when you show up and do what’s hard anyway.

It’s when you walk into the world and say:

“Yeah, I went through hell. But I didn’t stay there. And I’m damn sure not gonna drag everyone else into it with me.”

When I started clawing my way back, I learned fast:

If you sit too long in self-focus, you start to rot from the inside out.

You start demanding more than you give.

You start excusing yourself from being decent, showing up, doing the work.

And if you stay there?

You turn into the very thing you fought so hard not to be:

another victim. Another excuse.

DON’T.

One of the greatest tools I found was serving others.

You want to heal faster?

Volunteer somewhere.

Give a damn about somebody else’s pain.

Get out of your own head and into your own heart.

It’s one of the fastest ways to keep your recovery from turning into a pity party no one wants to attend.

You’ve already survived hell.

You already know pain better than most people ever will.

Now it’s time to flip it.

Turn it into fuel.

Turn it into compassion.

Turn it into service.

That’s leadership.

That’s strength.

That’s the kind of human the world actually needs.

You’re not here to stay broken.

You’re not here to make excuses.

You’re here to get strong — stronger than you ever thought you could be — and use that strength to lift the next person up.

Not just for them —

but for yourself.

Because healing isn’t just getting better.

Healing is becoming someone worth being.

You got this.

I’m rooting for you like hell.

From Weakness to Strength

Unpopular opinion — but here it is:

The reason overcoming addiction is so hard isn’t just because you’re hooked.

It’s because it makes you weak in every part of your being.

Addiction infects everything:

• Your ability to deal with pain

• Your ability to deal with boredom

• Your ability to deal with joy

• Your ability to deal with normal life

• Your ability to believe you’re still worth something

Every time you run back to it, it makes you a little weaker.

And when you finally stop? Everything feels hard.

Getting out of bed. Brushing your teeth. Holding a conversation. Paying a bill.

Even existing.

Here’s the thing though:

You’re not a lost cause.

You’re not “broken forever.”

You’re temporarily weak — and you can rebuild.

You’re going to feel slower. You’re going to feel behind.

But every time you show up for yourself — even if you barely make it through the day — you’re getting a little bit stronger.

Daily life will stop feeling like treading water.

It just takes time.

You’re not a coward.

You’re not a screw-up.

You’re a survivor who hasn’t even scratched the surface of how strong you can become.

The most dangerous people on this planet are people like you and me:

People who have been broken — and stood back up anyway.

Most people live their whole lives comfortably numb.

You didn’t.

You lived through hell.

You felt everything.

You fought yourself every single day just to stay alive.

You don’t owe anyone perfection.

You don’t owe anyone your guilt.

You owe yourself a chance to rebuild.

Forget what anyone else thinks about you.

Forget the voices in your head telling you you’re behind.

Forget the timeline.

Forget feeling sorry for yourself.

You have nothing to lose — and everything to gain.

Your trauma?

Your addiction?

Your mistakes?

They don’t define you.

They’re just chapters — not the whole damn book.

You can turn your weakness into your weapon.

You can become a version of yourself so strong that the old you wouldn’t even recognize it.

And you’re not doing it to impress anyone.

You’re doing it because you were made to fight for your own damn life.

You’re already dangerous — you just need to realize it.

Get up.

Get moving.

Get free.

You’re not too far gone.

You’re just getting started.

No one that has an opinion of you will be around in 100 years. They’ll be gone and forgotten.

So it doesn’t matter. You have nothing to lose. When you realize that, you become dangerous.

It’s gonna scare people. You shouldn’t be able to come back from the dead. But guess what? Life’s not fair, use it to you fucking advantage.

We’re all in on this game we call life. You’re playing with house money.

Bet on yourself, go through the fire, you’ll be amazed what’s waiting on the other side.

Addiction Isn’t a Disease. It’s an Infection

I never understood calling addiction a disease.

Seeing it as an infection makes way more sense to me.

You expose yourself to something dangerous.

You keep playing with fire.

And it infiltrates you.

Addiction lives in the space between voluntary and involuntary.

It hijacks the default systems underneath your awareness—like background programs running on a computer you don’t even realize are there.

You know it’s happening.

You’re aware.

But it’s slippery. It’s everywhere.

And it’s so hard to pin down.

The infection lies just above your body’s involuntary functions—things like:

• Blood pressure

• Breathing

• Body temperature

• Digestion

These things happen automatically…

But if you want to, you can control them—for a little while.

Hold your breath, slow your heart rate, tense your muscles.

Addiction works like that too.

You can control it—for a little while.

Until it breaks through.

It’s like holding your breath.

Eventually, your entire being screams at you to breathe.

You have to.

This is what addicts go through every single day.

Not because they want to relapse.

Not because they don’t care.

Because their own system has been infected.

The Nature of the Infection

Addiction isn’t just about the drug or the drink or the behavior.

It infects how you experience:

• Happiness

• Sadness

• Boredom

• Pain

• Daily life

It retrains your subconscious to believe:

“I need this to survive.”

You spend enough time there, and you can’t even recognize yourself anymore.

You don’t know how to exist without it.

You learn to:

• Numb happiness.

• Escape sadness.

• Use something to survive ordinary days.

It becomes survival instinct.

It becomes your default setting.

How You Cure the Infection

You fight it the only way you can:

One step at a time.

You start retraining your mind, body, and soul.

You show yourself—again and again—that you can survive hard things without the thing.

• One sober morning.

• One hard conversation.

• One lonely night.

• One good day where you feel joy without the crutch.

Each time you survive a life moment without reaching for the infection?

You reclaim a piece of yourself.

It’s not just about quitting.

It’s about relearning how to live:

• How to be happy without it.

• How to be sad without it.

• How to be bored without it.

• How to survive stress without it.

Everything has to be reprogrammed, one step at a time.

And yes—it’s painful.

But it’s a different kind of pain.

It’s healing pain.

It’s the pain of setting yourself free.

What It Takes

You’ll need help.

You’ll need support.

You’ll need therapy, groups, medicine, mindfulness—whatever it takes for you.

Your brain will scream.

Your body will rebel.

You’ll feel like giving up.

But if you push through, day after day, situation after situation—you will heal.

The infection will loosen.

Your real self will come back.

It’s not “once an addict, always an addict.”

It’s “once infected, but healed.”

There are new treatments out there—things like:

• Ibogaine

• Ayahuasca

• MDMA therapy

• Psilocybin therapy

If traditional paths don’t work for you, be relentless.

There are so many ways to heal today.

You can do this.

You will do this.

And when you do—you’ll carry something unbreakable inside you:

A wisdom that can save others too.

Tell your story when you’re ready.

It will matter more than you know.

What Stays With You

I look back all the time and think:

How did I let myself get to that point?

The point where I threw caution to the wind.

The point where one choice led to an addiction.

On one hand, it feels like I didn’t have a choice.

I was in pain.

I had to work.

I had to pay bills.

I had to push forward every single day.

On the other hand, I see no excuse.

I knew the dangers—despite what the doctors were saying.

“As long as you take everything how it’s prescribed, you’ll be fine,” they said.

And I believed it.

That’s something that still sticks with me.

I know what I was trying to outrun:

• My parents’ divorce.

• A ruined hip.

• Crushed dreams.

• Childhood abuse.

But I also know I wasn’t the only one going through it.

I remember how stressed I was—so stressed my heart literally started skipping beats.

I went to a cardiologist.

He basically laughed at me.

Said I was young and healthy, just nervous.

Feeling like there’s no cure for what’s wrong with you…

It makes you feel like you have to figure it out alone.

And when I look back, I still ask myself:

• Why didn’t you tell someone sooner?

• Why did you stay in it for so long?

• How could you let it get that bad?

It scares me to think about.

Because it was my fault.

I could’ve done things differently.

I should have.

But when you’re in it, it’s like being lost at sea—treading water, no clue which way to swim for shore.

When I think back now, these are the things I still wrestle with.

I kept quiet for so long because I kept thinking:

What if I tell the world I conquered this—and then I fall again?

I never thought I could become an addict in the first place.

So what if it happens again?

I put a lot of work into making sure it wouldn’t.

I planned on staying quiet my whole life.

But the thought that my story could help someone else…

That’s the thought I couldn’t shake.

If you’re anything like me, I’m here to tell you:

There is hope.

You can leave that old life behind.

You can walk forward without dragging your past with you.

Some people might not let you forget it.

Some people will always want to hold on to the version of you that made them feel better about themselves.

That’s their problem—not yours.

You can learn to resolve things internally over time.

You can build peace, even when the world around you stays messy.

I still wrestle with it sometimes.

My story isn’t the one I wanted.

But it’s mine.

And I’m learning to carry it without shame.

It still hurts—not every day, but sometimes.

And that’s okay.

If this is you too, just know:

You’re not alone.

You can’t change the past.

But you can change your present.

And that’s enough

For the Loved Ones of Addicts and the Abused

When something awful happens—especially early in life—and you never deal with it in a healthy way, it doesn’t go away. It festers. It finds cracks. And eventually, it breaks through.

I was 12 when my life split.

I experienced abuse. I got bullied. I had no friends. I was terrified I was going to lose my mom.

So I shut down. Stayed silent. Distracted myself with homework and grades—anything I could control.

I didn’t know how to cope.

I couldn’t sleep. I’d lie in bed for hours, too scared of school, of people, of everything.

And I’d pray—not in a way I’d call healthy. I wasn’t talking to God as much as I was begging Him. Pleading with Him:

“Please send me back in time. Let me undo it. Let me change it. Let me fix it before it breaks.”

I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. That I’d handle it. That I’d stay quiet if I could just… go back.

I thought that was my only hope.

A miracle.

But what I couldn’t see then—and what so many people in pain can’t see—is that maybe the miracle wasn’t erasing the past.

Maybe the miracle was the opportunity to become strong enough to survive it.

The way I handled trauma at 12 shaped how I handled trauma for years.

I shut down. I escaped. I numbed out.

And that’s what most victims do.

Because the inside of our minds feel like a tornado.

Fight or flight, on a loop.

Always on edge.

Always assuming the worst is about to happen.

So when something finally shows up that numbs the chaos?

We latch onto it.

That’s how vices take root.

Not because people want to self-destruct.

But because they’re trying to stop the mental bleeding.

Sometimes it’s a surgery. Sometimes a bad moment. Sometimes just one impulsive escape.

But once you feel the edge soften—you chase that relief.

Even if it hurts everyone around you.

I saw a post on Reddit the other day. Someone was ready to give up on their sibling.

They asked: “Does he even care about what he’s doing to us?”

I can’t speak for everyone.

But I know this:

Many addicts care so much—it’s unbearable.

They know they’re hurting people.

They know they’re not who they used to be.

They know they’re lost.

But they don’t know how to say it.

So every time you try to confront them, it feels like war.

Because your words echo everything they already scream at themselves in silence.

They’re not arguing with you. They’re arguing with the shame.

They’ve made their life—and their mind—so small, it revolves around one thing:

How do I stop this pain?

That’s the only lens they’re living through.

It doesn’t mean they don’t love you.

It means they don’t love themselves enough to believe they can change.

But I’m here to say they can.

They can be rehabilitated.

They can rewire their brain.

They can develop the coping skills that trauma stole from them.

They can learn to live again.

But they need help. They need grace. And they need a clear path forward.

If you’re someone who loves an addict, please hear this:

The person you love is still in there.

Their full potential is still inside them.

And while they may not see it now—

They’re not too far gone.

They just need to be shown the way.

And they need someone—just one person—who refuses to believe that this is where their story ends.

If that person is you, then thank you.

You’re doing sacred work.

But you most likely can’t do it alone either. You’ll need help, guidance, and support.

Because choosing to try and help someone causes you an immense amount of pain too. And this is why a lot of people give up. I get it. You can’t try and help someone forever.

And if you’re the one in the storm, you need to know:

There’s a way out.

There’s a path back.

There’s a life waiting that’s better than anything you can imagine right now.

You just have to believe it exists—and start walking.

If You Need Help, Here’s What You Do

TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY

Forget the judgment.

Forget doing it yourself.

Forget the money.

Forget school, your job, your debt, your mortgage, your rent, your bills.

Forget all of it.

If you’re struggling with addiction or mental health, none of those things matter until you are stable.

If you have kids—make arrangements.

If you have a job—tell them you need time.

If you’re scared of losing something—just know this:

You’ve already lost enough.

You’re no good to any obligation if you’re crumbling underneath it.

The first step to saving your life is letting go of the life that’s killing you.

Start searching for a mental health clinic. Right now. Wherever you are. However far you have to go. Get there.

Trust me. I’ve been there.

I was scared too. I had an apartment I loved. I was working. I had credit cards and bills. I was worried about my dog. I didn’t want to admit anything to my friends or family.

But I had one thing going for me: my dad.

He helped me get honest.

And with his help—I checked into a clinic.

Here’s what happened next:

• My credit tanked to a number I didn’t know was possible.

• I got evicted.

• Everything went to collections.

• Debt collectors hunted me down for years.

• I lost relationships.

• Some people talked shit.

And you know what?

It was worth it.

Because here’s what else happened:

• I started working again.

• I became a better employee.

• I rebuilt my credit from the 400s to the 800s.

• My dad co-signed for my first apartment post-recovery.

• Seven years later—I bought a house.

• I found a relationship I felt good enough to be in.

• I got married.

• I’m now expecting my first child.

• I own my own business.

• And I’m free.

This is what you’re giving yourself when you take that first step.

Yes—it will be messy.

Yes—it will cost you.

Yes—it might hurt.

But that pain? That fear? That fallout?

It pales in comparison to the freedom you’ll find on the other side.

You don’t have to do it alone.

You can’t do it alone.

GO GET HELP. There are people out there who have dedicated their lives to helping people just like you. They’ll care, they won’t judge.

Break the silence.

Bet everything on yourself.

Because you can win.

You will win.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear…”

So burn the old life down if you have to.

Foreclosure, eviction, heartbreak—none of it compares to what you’re about to build.

I’m here if you need help.

Let’s go.

Rebuilding From Scratch

First off, it can be done, and anyone can do it.

After the trauma. After the split family. After football was gone.

After the surgery left me with a hip barely hanging on, and a mind that felt the same way.

After the addiction ended—but the shame stayed.

This was the lowest part. And this is where the real work started.

Because when you’re truly depressed, everything is hard.

Getting out of bed. Brushing your teeth. Showing up on time. Paying bills. Holding a conversation.

Even just pretending to be okay is exhausting.

Every small task feels like lifting a truck with your pinky. Like your tank is already empty, but life keeps asking for more.

And when I started working again, I felt like I was constantly drowning just beneath the surface.

Smiling on the outside. Dying on the inside.

I didn’t know how long I could keep it up.

I wasn’t using. I was completely sober.

And I was still in a fog.

Still haunted by my past.

Still ashamed of what I’d done.

Still carrying the wreckage of what I’d destroyed.

I thought about Mr. B.

About the abuse.

About the relationships I’d lost.

The ones I still had but couldn’t fix.

And I started to believe what the shame was telling me:

You don’t deserve good things.

So I took a different approach.

I started with what I could control.

My body.

If I could look in the mirror and feel strong again—maybe my mind would follow.

At the time, I was 290 pounds.

A long way from the 220 lbs at 10% body fat I was in college.

But I started. Slowly.

I walked.

Then I lifted.

Then I added in cardio.

Eventually, I worked up the courage to try CrossFit—at 34 years old.

The competitiveness sparked something in me I thought I’d lost forever.

I did local competitions. I trained hard.

I built a routine.

In about a year, I was back to 220.

But more than that—I was back to life.

I had something to direct the chaos toward.

I had something to win at again.

And it worked.

I couldn’t figure out my mind, so I started with my body.

And eventually, my mind started to catch up.

I felt proud of myself again.

I meal prepped.

I hit PRs at 37.

I ran a marathon—by myself.

Trained alone. Ran alone. But I’d never felt more connected.

And then other things lit up:

I got obsessed with quantum physics.

The cosmos.

Marketing.

I took classes.

I wanted to master everything I touched.

I hiked.

I volunteered with special needs groups.

I started becoming someone new.

Not a man who forgot his past—but one who owned it.

Who built from it.

Who took the ashes and made a foundation.

My advice?

• Go to therapy.

• Take meds if you need them—just have a plan.

• Move your body. Every damn day.

Be relentless.

The first year or two will feel like losing more than winning. But keep going.

In six months, you’ll be shocked.

In a year, you’ll be unrecognizable.

In two years, you’ll look in the mirror and think: I did this.

Everyone else may lose hope in you.

Just don’t lose hope in yourself.

You may think you’re too far gone.

That you don’t deserve a relationship. A career. Respect.

That others deserve success more than you do.

Maybe they do.

But life’s not fair.

So use that to your f***ing advantage.

You’re not done yet.

And you’re not broken beyond repair.

Start with the one thing you can do today.

And tomorrow, do it again.

That’s how you rebuild.

That’s how you rise

Why I Think Most Addicts Struggle To Find Their Way Back

Because life feels like it’s passed them by.

At one point, you had hope. A direction. Dreams and goals that didn’t feel impossible.

You had an identity. People liked you. Family cared. They saw you in a certain light—and maybe, you saw yourself that way too.

But now?

You think that version of you is gone.

People see you differently.

You see yourself differently.

You look back at the path you thought you were on… and the one you’re on now. And all you want to do is turn back the clock. Undo that one decision. Rewrite your story the way it should’ve gone. The way it was supposed to go.

But that door’s shut.

You’re left with something you never imagined. And it feels too broken to repair.

That’s why so many addicts dive deeper.

Not because they don’t care.

But because those thoughts—of what could’ve been—are unbearable.

The only thing that numbs it is the thing that’s killing them.

But hear me when I say this:

Even though life won’t ever be the same…

You can carve a new path.

You can become the version of yourself you were always meant to be.

You can have a life that’s worth loving.

Some relationships will be restored. Others won’t.

And that’s okay.

There are strangers out there who will accept the new you.

People who don’t care about your past.

The problem is: you care about your past.

And until you heal, little by little, you won’t be able to let it go.

But I promise you—it can be done.

You can become someone you never thought possible.

Not just the person you were “supposed” to be.

Better.

Someone who understands humanity in a way most people never will.

Someone who’s learned compassion. Humility.

Someone who had the relentless f*ing strength to overcome something that should’ve buried them.

That should give you all the confidence in the world.

One day you might be in a room full of professionals—and sure, maybe they didn’t wreck their lives like you did.

But they also didn’t crawl out of that wreckage like you did.

And that matters.

You can still build a life bigger and better than anything you ever imagined—if you tap into that courage inside you and do whatever it takes to get better.

That’s real strength.

That’s real courage.

You are not too far gone.

It’s never too late.

And yes—you can change so completely that you barely recognize the old you.

One day, you’ll look back at that version of yourself and understand the pain they were carrying. The shame. The guilt.

And instead of judgment, you’ll feel love. Understanding. Pride.

If you’re in it right now, just hear this:

There are beautiful sunrises ahead.

There are songs you haven’t heard yet that you’ll fall in love with.

There are strangers out there who will be kind—and who will accept you fully.

This world is full of evil. But you don’t have to carry it anymore.

It’s also full of beauty. And love.

It may not feel like it now. But I promise you—it’s there.

And it’s waiting for you.

Learning to Live With the Abuse

This was arguably harder to overcome than the addiction.

Addiction was a war I fought in public. But the abuse—that was private. Quiet. Lifelong.

For years, I tried to outrun it. When sports were going well, I thought maybe I had. Everything looked like it was lining up: performance, praise, possibility.

But when things got bad—there it was again.

The memories.

The nightmares.

The guilt.

The shame.

Random moments would hit me in the middle of the day. Vivid flashbacks. Vivid recreations of things that didn’t even happen, but still featured the same person—Mr. B. My mind was trying to process what I hadn’t been able to name.

Even after years of rebuilding myself, there was still this one thing I couldn’t shake.

Not fully.

It wasn’t just what happened—it was what I believed it meant about me.

I thought I should’ve known better.

I thought I should’ve said no sooner.

I thought I should’ve spoken up, fought back, told someone.

And when you carry that kind of shame, it doesn’t stay in the past. It haunts the present.

Up until just a few years ago, I still believed I would “get over it” one day.

Now I know better.

This doesn’t go away.

You just learn how to live with it.

That was the real turning point. When I stopped running from the memories—and started sitting with them.

I stopped trying to shove them down.

I let them in.

I practiced mindfulness when the memories hit.

I let myself observe them.

Not fight. Not deny. Not numb. Just notice.

And over time, they lost their power.

They didn’t disappear.

But they didn’t control me anymore.

I forgave myself.

For being naive. For believing I was on my way to something big.

For going back when I should’ve run.

For not knowing what to do.

I started reminding myself that I’m not that scared kid anymore.

I talked to him in my mind.

Sometimes I just told him he did the best he could.

Sometimes I imagined telling him how to get out.

And sometimes, I told him it was okay that he didn’t.

That he still deserved peace.

This is how I started healing.

By facing the memories with compassion instead of fear.

By finding new ways to think and feel about what happened.

By exploring other angles. Third-party perspectives. Alternative narratives.

Not to rewrite history.

But to stop letting one version of it destroy me.

But here’s what really helped me move forward:

Therapy changed everything.

I was 37 years old when I finally went to a mental health clinic—for the abuse. I had done therapy for addiction before, but this was different. I needed it.

I thought I was too old to break down. Too far gone to need help. But I was a nervous wreck.

I thought I was going to get fired from my job. I thought I wasn’t going to be good enough for my soon-to-be wife.

That’s how long I held my story in—25 years.

And then I sat across from a therapist, and they asked me something simple:

“Have you ever been the victim of abuse?”

I paused. I wanted to say no. So badly.

But I couldn’t. Look where pretending had gotten me.

And for the first time, I said it out loud:

“Yes.”

That word cracked something open.

I remember my therapist telling me that after I said it, my entire body language changed. Like the weight of 25 years finally shifted. That was the beginning of real healing.

He told me something I’ll never forget:

“If you don’t start working through this, your mental health will get worse. Not better.”

I believed him. I saw it firsthand. I saw what abuse did to others in that clinic. I heard their stories. I saw the wreckage.

That night, I went home and told my wife everything.

And she met it with love.

That opened the door.

I started therapy consistently.

I started healing.

I started to see myself as strong—for the first time.

I started to see the courage forming inside me.

And little by little, the shame started to lift.

This didn’t happen overnight. It’s not over. It probably never will be. But practicing meditation, mindfulness, and cognitive therapy changed my life. I started to face it, and truly overcome it. As a survivor.

The cold, dark cloud doesn’t follow me like it used to.

It’s still there.

But now I walk through it.

And it doesn’t stop me anymore.

Starting Your Life Again

When I first got clean, I had to completely relearn how to integrate with society—and it wasn’t easy.

Starting work again felt like stepping into the spotlight with all my scars visible. I was convinced everyone could see right through me. That they knew something was up. That eventually, they’d figure me out, and I’d get fired, and I’d be right back where I started: homeless, broke, buried in debt.

Even though I was clean, I didn’t feel new. I felt like the same person, just without the habit. I figured I had simply removed the crutch but left everything else untouched. And with that mindset, I was waiting for the moment it would all fall apart.

I kept thinking about the time I had lost. Two years spent chasing pills, going to pain clinics, spiraling. I saw my friends getting married, buying homes, starting careers—and I had nothing. I wasn’t just behind in life. I felt behind mentally, emotionally. Like I had skipped the chapters everyone else had read and now I was trying to fake my way through the rest of the book.

And when I got back into the workplace, I brought this naive idea with me: that everyone was working toward the same goal. That, like football, we were all part of the same team. I thought it was going to feel like alignment, cooperation, shared success.

What I got was Game of Thrones.

It was office politics, undermining, side-eyes, silent sabotage. People tried to cut you down—not because you were doing poorly, but because you were doing well. Or maybe just because they could. I didn’t know how to process that. I was already mentally fragile. I didn’t need to constantly look over my shoulder.

But that’s what life required at the time. So I learned.

It took me a long time to understand that not everyone was ahead of me. And even if they were, it didn’t mean I couldn’t catch up.

But the hopelessness was real. I thought everything would end the way it had before. I had to fight through that, every day.

Eventually, hopelessness gave way to a flicker of something else: belief.

Belief that I could learn the skills. That I could make money. That I could hold onto stability. That I could build something real.

And that’s what I want anyone reading this to hear:

You can pull yourself out.

It takes time. It takes pain. It takes a stupid amount of patience.

But it’s possible.

I spent 5 to 7 years trying to find the right meds. Depression, anxiety, PTSD—I ran the gamut. I’d try one for a few months. Then switch. Try again. Rebalance. Repeat.

And the truth? That process was darker than addiction itself.

Because at least during addiction, I didn’t expect anything better.

Recovery comes with the hope of healing—and that makes the waiting hurt more.

I even got accused of being on drugs again during that time. I was off them, trying to level out, and still looked like I wasn’t okay. That kind of gaslighting from the world can eat you alive.

But I stuck with it.

Eventually, I found something that helped. And over time, my mind stopped feeling like a broken trap.

Here’s my advice:

Don’t do what I did and try every single drug on the shelf.

Pick one or two. Give them a real shot. Stay consistent. Let your system adjust.

Balance doesn’t show up like magic—it builds like strength.

Be relentless.

Weather the storm.

It’s hell. But it ends.

And when the clouds start to break, you’ll realize—you’re still here.

And that’s everything.

The Dreams I Can’t Shake

Some nights, healing doesn’t look like peace.

It looks like panic.

Like cold air and a shadow you can’t outrun.

This is one of those nights.

The first dream came years ago, but it still hasn’t left me.

I was running. Panicked. Chased.

The world around me looked like something out of the Upside Down—dark, cold, twisted.

I stumbled into a warehouse, searching for a place to hide. Found a bathroom with no lights. Locked myself inside a stall.

Then—boom.

The door ripped off its hinges.

And standing there… was something darker than the dark around it.

I couldn’t see its face, but I could feel it watching me. Breathing.

There was no way out. I was frozen.

I woke up drenched in sweat. My heart racing. My body locked in the panic of a past I thought I had escaped.

The second dream came months later. Softer. But it cut even deeper.

I was walking through a beautiful field—green pastures, soft skies. Peaceful.

Then a boy approached me.

Young.

Terrified.

He looked familiar.

Because he was me.

He stared up at me and asked, “Am I going to be okay?”

And I couldn’t answer.

I just looked at him, holding back tears.

Because I didn’t know.

He was asking me the same thing I had been asking myself for years.

And I didn’t have the words.

I’ve had a lot of therapy.

Read a lot of books.

Talked through a lot of pain.

But nothing has ever captured my inner world quite like those dreams.

The beast that reminds me of what I’ve run from.

And the boy who reminds me of what I still haven’t fully healed.

Trauma doesn’t just live in memory. It lives in muscle. In sleep. In silence.

But here’s the thing—

I’m still here.

Still building. Still healing. Still answering that question every day:

“Am I going to be okay?”

And maybe now, I’m starting to believe:

Yes.

One day at a time.

One piece at a time.

And if you’ve had dreams you can’t shake?

You’re not alone.

I get it.

I’m with you.

And I’m not running anymore.