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: 340

Thought: I used to think strength meant pretending I was fine. Smiling when I was falling apart. Hiding the shakes, the shame, the need. But recovery is teaching me that real strength looks softer. It’s admitting I’m tired. It’s asking for help when I need it. It’s choosing to stay when it feels easier to disappear. Every time I speak the truth, I heal a little more. Every time I let someone see me as I am, the weight lifts. Strength isn’t being untouched by pain it’s learning you can walk through it and still keep your heart open.

At first, it was just a corner. A small space that felt safe when the world felt too loud. You went there to catch your breath, to pause the noise in your head. It wasn’t dangerous then. It was comfort a way to make hard days softer.

You told yourself it was temporary. You’d step inside, reset, and come back stronger. For a while, that’s what happened. You felt lighter after every visit. You could face the world again. You thought, I’ve found what helps me.

But slowly, without noticing, the room began to change. The walls drew closer. The air grew still. When you stepped outside, the world didn’t feel softer anymore it felt harsher. So you stayed longer. You told yourself you needed it now, that it was helping you cope.

That’s how it happens. The thing that once offered comfort starts demanding commitment. The peace it gave turns into a price you pay. You start giving it more of your time, more of your energy, more of yourself. One day you realize you’ve built your life around something that’s quietly taking it from you.

Alan Carr says addiction doesn’t steal your strength it convinces you to give it away. It whispers that life is too hard without it. It promises calm while creating chaos. It tells you you’re in control, even as the walls close in. You start to believe that this small room is the only safe place left, when in truth it’s just a smaller version of the world you’re afraid to face.

The hardest part is how familiar it feels. You know every inch of it. You know how it smells, how it sounds, how it makes you feel. The idea of leaving feels almost cruel. But comfort isn’t the same as peace. What feels familiar isn’t always what’s good for you.

The truth is, you were never meant to live inside that room. It wasn’t built to hold you it was built to keep the addiction alive. Every time you thought you needed it, it was just reminding itself of its power. The door was never locked. It only looked that way because fear held your hand on the handle.

When you step outside, it’s uncomfortable. The air feels sharp. The light feels too bright. You’ll want to turn back. That pull isn’t weakness it’s memory. Your body remembers the false comfort. But if you stay out long enough, something shifts. The light stops stinging. The air starts to feel clean. You start to feel alive.

And then you see it clearly: the room never protected you. It protected the addiction from you. It made you small so it could survive. Once you see that, the illusion breaks. You don’t have to fight the craving or resist it with willpower. You only have to understand it. When you do, the craving loses its reason to exist.

Carr says freedom doesn’t come from force. It comes from clarity. You don’t need to battle the room you just need to walk out.

It will still whisper sometimes. You’ll still feel the urge to peek inside, to visit for just a moment. But you’ll remember how small it made you feel. You’ll remember how it took more than it ever gave.

And you’ll breathe. You’ll look at the open sky, the vastness of the world, and realize that what scared you most wasn’t leaving it was believing there was nothing beyond those walls.

Now you know better.

You were never trapped. You just forgot the door was open.

When the craving appears, it feels like a call for relief. But look closer it’s not the substance you miss. It’s the quiet you thought it brought you. For a moment, it dulled the noise, softened the edge, made life seem easier to bear. But calm borrowed from chaos always demands repayment.

It gave comfort only to steal it back twice as hard. Every urge is your body remembering a false peace. Let it pass. The real kind of calm isn’t chemical it’s the one that stays when the need is gone.

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

"Someone brought up my past today. Usually, that would have sent me spiraling into shame. But this time, I didn’t explain or apologize. I just listened, nodded, and moved on. I realized I no longer owe anyone a defense for who I used to be. I’ve changed quietly and completely. That felt powerful."

(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)