Hey, it’s Matt with The Addiction Newsletter.

Here’s what’s inside today:

Let’s get started.

If you want some extra accountability from me, feel free to reply this newsletter with how many days it has been.

I read every single reply and do my best to reply to them. I am always here for you.

(Example: “Hey Matt, it’s been 33 days since I have used X”)

Days Since Last Use: 351

Thought: At first, I thought peace would come when the noise stopped. When my thoughts quieted, when the cravings faded, when everything finally felt easy. But when silence came, I still felt restless. That’s when I realized it was never about the noise around me, but the noise within me.

Recovery isn’t waiting for peace to arrive. It’s building it. Every time you choose calm over chaos. Every time you sit with yourself instead of running. Quiet isn’t emptiness, it’s freedom learning to breathe.

You thought it would carry you. It looked strong and simple, a way to move from pain to peace. The first time you stepped on it, it held. You felt lighter. You thought, Finally, something that helps me cross the distance.

For a while, it worked. You used it every time the world became too heavy. It was your escape, your shortcut, your bridge between who you were and who you wanted to be. You started to believe it was part of you, that you couldn’t live without it.

But bridges are meant for crossing, not living on. You didn’t notice when you stopped walking to the other side. You began to stay in the middle, where the ground felt unsteady but familiar. You told yourself you were moving, but you weren’t. You were only standing still, clinging to something that couldn’t hold forever.

Alan Carr says addiction pretends to connect you to life while cutting you off from it. It promises relief, but what it gives is repetition. It teaches you to depend on something that keeps breaking beneath your feet.

Over time, the cracks began to show. You patched them with excuses. You told yourself you could fix it, that you could rebuild, that you just needed one more try. But each repair made it weaker. The wood was splintered. The ropes were worn. You knew it couldn’t hold you, but you kept stepping on it anyway.

That is how the cycle traps you. The bridge keeps breaking, but it never disappears. It waits for you to return, whispering that this time it will hold. And every time you believe it, you fall again.

Then one day, something changes. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s honesty. You stand on the edge and realize you don’t have to cross it anymore. You can turn around. You can take another path one that leads across the same river, but through the quiet water instead of over it.

At first, the river looks frightening. It moves slowly but endlessly. It looks like too much to face. But you step in anyway. The water is cold, grounding, real. You feel it on your skin, heavy and alive. You realize that this is what you were trying to avoid all along: the weight of your own truth.

Carr says freedom begins when you stop trusting what keeps failing you. The bridge never betrayed you. It was never meant to hold you that long. Its purpose was to show you where you were trying not to swim.

You cross the river slowly, step by step. The water reaches your knees, your waist, your chest. You breathe through it. The current pulls, but you keep moving. And then, you reach the other side not by running from the river, but by walking through it.

When you look back, the bridge is still there, small and distant. You feel no anger toward it, no longing. You understand now. It was never a way forward. It was only a lesson in what you no longer need.

You turn away, the ground solid beneath your feet. You breathe deeply. The air feels clean. The path ahead is open.

You are no longer crossing. You are home.

There’s a loneliness that comes after you let go. Not the kind that hurts, but the kind that humbles you. You begin to see how much of your old life was noise, how many people only stayed for the version of you that was lost. It can feel empty at first.

Then something beautiful happens. The quiet starts to fill with truth. You meet yourself again, not the broken, not the pretending, just you. It’s strange and soft and new, and it feels like coming home.

Here is the win of the day for one of our readers. I will keep most of the information anonymous:

"I woke up late today and didn’t hate myself for it. I used to think recovery meant perfection, strict routines, constant improvement. Now I see it’s about balance. Some days you rest. Some days you rise. Either way, you’re still moving forward."

(Note: If you have a win, no matter how large or how small, reply to this email and I’ll include it in the future.)

I refer thousands of people every month to detox and treatment centers across the United States. Depending on if you have insurance and what type, a lot of the time you can get treatment completely free. If not, it does cost money unfortunately.

If you’d like to use this free service, click below.

(Click here)

Disclaimer

This newsletter is for educational and motivational purposes only. It is not medical advice or a substitute for professional treatment. If you’re in crisis or need immediate help, please contact your local emergency services or the SAMHSA helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357)