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: 350

Thought: At first, I thought recovery meant getting my old life back. The one before the chaos, before the cravings, before everything changed. But when I tried, I realized that version of me no longer existed. I couldn’t go back, and maybe that was the point.

Healing isn’t about returning. It’s about rebuilding. Piece by piece, day by day, creating a life that doesn’t need escaping. The freedom isn’t in who you were — it’s in who you’re becoming.

You told yourself you could manage it. That it was just a spark, nothing dangerous. You kept it small, just enough to feel warm, just enough to take the edge off the cold. It made life seem brighter for a while. The glow gave you energy. The heat gave you purpose. You felt alive standing close to it.

But fire is patient. It doesn’t need to rush. It waits for the moment you stop paying attention. You add a little more fuel, and it grows. You tell yourself it is still under control. You convince yourself that as long as you are watching it, you are safe. But slowly, it begins to demand more.

Alan Carr says addiction tricks you into mistaking management for mastery. You believe you are in charge while it quietly takes the lead. It makes you think your balance is control, when in truth, it is dependence disguised as discipline.

You think you are feeding it to keep it alive, but it is feeding on you. Every piece of peace you give it burns away. Every promise you make to yourself turns to ash. You wake one morning and realize that the fire you started for warmth has grown into something that can consume you.

You try to back away, but the glow follows you. You tell yourself you need it to see, to function, to feel alive. You keep believing that you can find a safe distance, but there is no safe distance from something that survives on your attention.

That is the secret Carr exposes: you do not fight the fire by smothering it—you let it die by starving it. You take away its fuel, which is your belief that you need it. The moment you stop feeding it, it begins to fade. Not with drama, not with pain, but with quiet inevitability.

At first, you miss it. The nights feel colder. The dark feels endless. You keep reaching for the heat out of habit. But slowly, your eyes adjust. You begin to see that the world is not as dark as you thought. The moonlight touches things gently. The air smells cleaner. The quiet feels kind.

You realize then that you never needed the fire to see. You only needed to stop staring at it. Your own light was waiting beneath the smoke all along.

Carr says recovery is not about strength but about sight. When you see clearly, the illusion breaks. The craving loses its story. The fire loses its power.

You look back one last time, and all that remains is a faint glow. It no longer frightens you. It no longer tempts you. You let it burn out completely, knowing it has nothing left to offer.

And in the calm that follows, something remarkable happens. The warmth returns—not from the fire, but from within. Real warmth. The kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t take, doesn’t fade.

You sit in that quiet and understand, perhaps for the first time, that peace never needed to be lit. It only needed to be uncovered.

The noise once felt like proof that you were alive. The high, the rush, the distraction, it made the world feel sharp and bright. But it always left you emptier.

Recovery gives you a different kind of light. The kind that doesn’t fade. The quiet you once ran from becomes the quiet that heals you. And you realize peace was never boring, it was what you were searching for all along.

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

"I looked through old photos today. The ones that used to make me ache. I expected the same sadness, but it never came. I saw someone who was trying their best with what they knew. I didn’t judge them this time. I just felt compassion. It’s strange how healing makes you softer, not harder."

(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.

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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)