As I sit here reflecting on the days of my past, I find myself transported back to a time when my life was consumed by addiction. It was a time when heroin dictated my every decision, and I felt like a spectator in my own life—watching from a distance as I spiraled deeper into desperation.
I was homeless, living in a truck with my boyfriend at the time—the person who introduced me to heroin. Together, we navigated a world of lies, theft, and survival. I did things I never imagined I’d be capable of—like burglarizing the home of a dear friend. The weight of knowing how much I cared for that person, and yet still choosing to betray them, is something I will carry with me forever. But in the throes of addiction, I wasn’t myself. It was as if I were detached from my body, watching from above as I committed acts I knew were wrong. I felt powerless to stop the choices that fed my insatiable need for escape.
Looking back now, I can see those moments with clarity—not to justify them, but to understand the depths of despair that drove me. Addiction stripped me of everything: my dignity, my values, my connection to the people I loved. But it also gave me something I could never have found otherwise—a profound sense of empathy and compassion for others walking the same painful path.
Today, my life is unrecognizable from those desperate days. I live in recovery, guided by spiritual principles and a life rooted in health and accountability. I wake up every day grateful to be free from the bondage of addiction. The thought of doing the things I did back then—lying, stealing, betraying those I cared about most—feels like a distant nightmare, something I could never imagine doing today. The person I am now wouldn’t make those choices, but I carry deep gratitude for the lessons they’ve taught me.
One of the greatest gifts of my recovery is the ability to use my pain for a purpose. Today, I have the privilege of working with those struggling with addiction who are still suffering. I see the pain behind their eyes—the same hopelessness and shame that consumed me. When I look at a mother who has seemingly chosen her addiction over her child, I don’t judge her. I see her humanity, her brokenness, and her desperation. And I know, deep in my soul, that I could have made the same choice if I had been in her shoes.
This understanding has humbled me and softened my heart. It allows me to meet people where they are, without condemnation, and remind them of a simple but powerful truth: “As long as there’s a heartbeat, there’s hope.”
There is a strange beauty in being able to connect with others through shared pain. The girl who once seemed to watch herself from a drone-like perspective, powerless to stop the destruction she was causing, is now the woman who can look into someone else’s eyes and offer a lifeline of hope. My past, as painful and messy as it was, has given me the ability to sit with someone in their darkest moments and truly understand their struggle.
Recovery has taught me that even the most deplorable decisions can have a purpose if I’m willing to let them. The pain I caused—both to others and to myself—has become a bridge that connects my soul to that of another’s. It has shown me the importance of grace, humility, and second chances. And most importantly, it has shown me the resilience of the human spirit.
If I can find my way out of the darkness and into the light and freedom of long-term recovery, that miracle is possible for any soul. Today, I am living proof that a life of freedom, peace, and connection is not just possible, it’s worth fighting for.
-Jamie, in Recovery
