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: 337

Thought: I was walking home last night and realized I wasn’t waiting for the next distraction. For years, every quiet moment felt unbearable. I needed something to fill it, to make me feel different. But last night, I just walked. The air was cool, the streetlights soft, and for once, I didn’t need anything to change. My mind wasn’t racing, my body wasn’t tense. It was simple, still, enough. I used to think peace meant excitement or happiness. Now I see it’s the calm that comes when you stop running. Recovery gave me that. The ability to be here, as I am, and feel okay.

No one tells you this at the start. The thing you reach for when you’re hurting doesn’t protect you. It burns you, then convinces you the heat is comfort.

You tell yourself you need it to calm down, to focus, to feel alive. But before it ever entered your life, you could do all those things. You laughed. You handled stress. You found joy. You didn’t need anything outside yourself to feel whole.

Then it showed up, pretending to help. It gave you brief moments of relief, enough to make you believe it was the answer. But every time it soothed you, it took something with it. A little strength. A little peace. A little trust in yourself.

It’s like standing in front of a fire on a freezing night. At first, the warmth feels like rescue. But stay too long and it starts to hurt. You don’t notice the burns until they’re deep. And by then, you’ve convinced yourself that stepping away would make you colder.

That’s the trick. It teaches you dependence, then calls it love. It makes you forget what life felt like before the flames.

But you can remember. You can step back. The cold you fear is not emptiness. It’s healing. It’s the air your lungs have been waiting for.

You’re not giving anything up. You’re letting go of what’s been burning you. What feels like loss is actually freedom.No one tells you this at the start. The thing you reach for when you’re hurting doesn’t protect you. It burns you, then convinces you the heat is comfort.

You tell yourself you need it to calm down, to focus, to feel alive. But before it ever entered your life, you could do all those things. You laughed. You handled stress. You found joy. You didn’t need anything outside yourself to feel whole.

Then it showed up, pretending to help. It gave you moments of relief, just enough to make you believe it was the solution. But every time it soothed you, it took something with it. A little strength. A little confidence. A little peace. Soon, what once felt optional became essential. You stopped trusting yourself to face the world without it.

It’s like standing in front of a fire on a freezing night. At first, the warmth feels like safety. But stay too long and it starts to burn. You don’t notice the damage until it’s already done. And by then, you’ve convinced yourself that stepping away would only make you colder.

That’s how it traps you. It hurts you and then calls the pain comfort. It takes from you and then calls the loss love.

But here’s the truth. You were never broken. You were only misled into thinking you needed something to survive what you were always capable of handling.

The cold you fear isn’t emptiness. It’s clarity. It’s the first breath of real air after living too long in smoke.

You’re not giving anything up by walking away. You’re returning to yourself. You’re leaving the fire that burned you to stand in the quiet where warmth is real, not borrowed.

And when you do, you’ll see it clearly at last. The thing you thought you needed to live was the very thing keeping you from living.

That’s not loss. That’s freedom.

If you find yourself missing the person who hurt you, pause before you believe that feeling. You’re not missing them. You’re missing the comfort you imagined, the safety you hoped for, the story you wanted to be true.

Your mind remembers the warmth but forgets the cold. It replays the good moments and hides the cost that came with them. That isn’t love—it’s nostalgia for something that never really existed.

You’re not losing love. You’re releasing an illusion. The peace you feel now is real, and the version of them you’re reaching for was never there.

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

"Today, I felt the familiar pull to escape my feelings, to look for comfort in old patterns. Instead, I stayed where I was. I made a cup of tea, sat with the quiet, and reminded myself that loneliness isn’t danger—it’s space. The urge faded, and what was left was calm. I didn’t reach for a quick fix. I chose peace over panic. That felt like progress."

(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)