Dr. Gabor Maté poses a question that refuses to be ignored: Not why the addiction, but why the pain? It’s deceptively simple, yet it dismantles the way society so often frames addiction. Instead of asking what’s wrong with us, it asks what happened to us. Instead of focusing on the behavior at the surface, it draws our gaze to the fault lines beneath.
I was seven the first time my lips touched the sweet taste of Manischewitz at my aunt’s house. It was a special occasion. My cousin and I felt grown-up, but what stayed with me most was how it felt—like being wrapped in a warm, comforting hug. Feeling calm was rare in the chaotic environment, I grew up in. So that night when everyone went to sleep, I snuck into the fridge and chugged another big gulp of this liquid tranquility before going back to bed. From the very first time I tried alcohol, it was almost as if a switch had been turned on in my head, and the destiny of my relationship with the substance would be doomed to one of dependency.
Eventually, in my darkest place after the shunning, it would be the alcohol that would come to my aid to quiet the ache. It would be the alcohol that would help me grieve my losses and help me create new dreams that would never be realized because alcohol is cunning in that manner. It freed me from my pain and provided a safe space for me to want for myself, but it came at a cost; it cost me my freedom. For over two decades, I was caught in this cycle of relief now, payment later. Every night, I would escape into that sea of tranquility, and I could finally breathe, I could stop reliving the trauma, I could dare to dream. But every morning when the payment was due, I suffered even more. Day in and day out, the cycle continued until my body just couldn’t take any more, and one evening, it had completely locked up on me, to the point of pain. Through no control of my own, my fingers began to curl and twist to the point that I believed they would break. As hard as I tried to straighten my body, I had no control over the way my muscles pulled me in or the way my skeleton contorted to put me in a fetal position. It was a physical, literal sign from Source to look within for the answers, not in the alcohol or any other outer distractions, but that the answers I sought were within all along.
That was the last day I touched alcohol and I don’t look back.
I know what that suffering feels like—crying myself to sleep for the ones I lost, waking from nightmares with my whole body aching. My soul was in pain then; now I understand why. And once I understood why, I could choose differently. I’m focusing this episode on addiction because I know so many of you can relate. I never thought I’d get sober. I’d accepted that I might die from this the way my cousin did. The fact that I’m here, speaking to you sober, is a miracle. Miracles are happening every day. I want you to be the next one so let’s figure this out.
Addiction rarely begins with the first drink, pill, or bet. Its roots stretch into childhood, into moments when our needs for safety, love, and belonging met silence, chaos, or rejection. Trauma leaves an imprint—not just in memory, but in the wiring of the nervous system. The body learns to brace for impact, the mind scans for danger, and the spirit prepares for disappointment.
Dr. Anna Lembke reminds us that addiction has a neurobiological signature. Our brains are designed for balance—a rhythm between pleasure and pain. When we flood reward pathways again and again, whether with substances, compulsive behaviors, or constant distraction, that balance falters. What once brought relief becomes a necessity—not to feel joy, but to feel normal. The relief shrinks and the cost grows.
Dr. Joe Dispenza describes how repetition carves deep grooves in neural pathways until habit starts to look like identity. Each repetition strengthens the circuitry, pulling us back to the familiar—even when the familiar is destroying us. Layered through all of this is dissociation: the body’s quiet retreat from the present. At first it’s merciful, shielding us from unbearable sensation. Over time it becomes exile, cutting us off not only from pain but from joy, presence, and truth.
I call addiction a sacred wound not because it’s beautiful, but because it is exacting. It refuses to be ignored. It insists that we turn inward toward the parts of ourselves we abandoned to survive. In its own way, it is a summons to come home.
Maté teaches that the opposite of addiction is not simply sobriety, but connection—connection to others, yes, and also to the soul within us that remembers who we are. Healing becomes possible when we stop trying to erase the wound and instead tend to it, listen to it, and let it teach us what must be reclaimed.
If you are still in the spiral, hear me: you are not beyond healing. You are not your worst moment. You are carrying a wound that was never your fault—and it is worthy of care. There is a way home, and it begins the moment you stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and start asking, “What happened to me?”
From there, the work is not about perfection, but about presence—one moment, one breath, one act of reconnection at a time. With each return, the need to numb loosens, replaced not by emptiness but by something that has been waiting for you all along: the steady truth that you belong here.
When we talk about healing, we can’t fixate on the surface behavior. The substance or habit was never the real problem; it was the way you learned to soothe an ache you couldn’t name. Recovery begins with honesty—writing in a journal, speaking with a trauma-informed therapist, or having an unfiltered conversation with someone safe. Tell the truth first to yourself about where the pain came from and how it shaped you. Let self-compassion be your anchor. Your coping wasn’t weakness; it was survival.
As your brain’s reward system begins to rebalance, trade quick, artificial highs for slower, deeper joys: walking outside, making something with your hands, letting music move you, sitting with people who don’t need you to be anything but yourself. Learn to soothe your nervous system—through breath-work, meditation, prayer, or gentle movement—so your body can feel without being overwhelmed. Connection matters. Purpose matters. Addiction thrives in isolation and withers in the presence of belonging and meaning.
Each time a trigger appears, you have a chance to choose differently—to practice being the version of you who no longer needs the addiction. Purpose can be small and still be sacred: tending a plant, learning a new skill, helping someone in quiet ways. These choices root you in a truth bigger than survival: you are here for a life.
Your addiction does not define you; it never has. Beneath the coping and the chaos is a soul that has always been intact, waiting for you to return. You are not beyond hope. You were wounded, and you endured. Now you can reclaim your life—one clear, compassionate choice at a time.
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