Addiction Isn’t the Root—It’s the Result

I started to learn this when I was around 23 years old, sitting in therapy during my second or third attempt at getting clean. As I began to unpack the baggage I was carrying—trauma, pain, family patterns—I realized those things all played into my choices to get loaded. But it wasn’t until just a few years ago that I truly understood the role that trauma, loss, grief, and shame played in shaping addiction.

This blog is about compassion, deeper truth, and hope. It's a reflection of my own personal experience, insights, and the spiritual and emotional awareness I’ve gained throughout my journey. Because the truth is—we all experience trauma, grief, and shame in different ways. Addiction becomes an outlet, a way to escape the deep-seated dysregulations that live inside the nervous system.

For a long time, I didn’t believe I was using drugs or alcohol to escape anything. I thought I was just having fun, just getting by, just surviving. But with time, distance, and deeper healing, I began to see clearly. Once I was finally separated from active addiction, and I began learning about coping mechanisms and how to live differently, I saw the role everything had played. Drugs, alcohol, and other substances often become a way to survive not just unbearable realities—but even bearable ones. Because sometimes, the pain is invisible. Sometimes, people turn to addiction without any obvious trauma. But that doesn’t mean the pain isn’t real. Addiction is the result of something deeper that hasn’t been healed.

As Dr. Gabor Maté says, “The question is not why the addiction, but why the pain?” Behind every addiction is a wound in need of compassion, not judgment.

And when I began to look at it all from a spiritual perspective, I realized something bigger:

Addiction didn’t begin with me—and it doesn’t end with me either.

Through sacred ceremony, plant medicine, and deep introspection, I came to see addiction not just as a personal battle—but as the manifestation of ancestral pain. Unspoken grief, generational trauma, and survival patterns passed down through bloodlines. These imprints don’t just live in the mind; they live in the body. In the nervous system. Shaping how we respond to stress, love, fear, and loss. When the body is constantly dysregulated—always scanning for danger or numb to the world—substances become a refuge. A false peace in the middle of chaos.

But what’s been inherited can also be healed.

Through breath, movement, spiritual practice, nervous system regulation, and conscious presence, we begin to interrupt the patterns that have run through our lineage. We bring softness to the places that only knew survival. And in doing so, we don’t just heal ourselves—we heal those who came before us, and those who will come after.

Still, many of us stay stuck—because of the stigma that surrounds addiction. I know I did. I spent nearly 20 years in and out of the cycle. And every time I returned to old patterns, it felt harder and harder to pull myself back out. But I want to emphasize: healing begins the moment we stop identifying with the addiction and start uncovering the root.

While I have deep love for 12-step programs, I’ve never resonated with introducing myself as an “addict” every time I speak. Words hold power—and what we identify with, we reinforce. Choosing not to attach myself to that identity was the beginning of something greater. It’s why the steps exist—to go deeper, to uncover, to release. And I believe we must go beyond the label, because labeling someone as an addict limits their identity and path to healing.

Healing is not about punishment—it’s about remembering your wholeness.

It’s not about fixing what’s broken, because at your core, you were never broken to begin with. It’s about peeling back the layers of pain, shame, and survival that were never yours to carry. For me, true healing began the moment I stopped asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and started asking, “What happened to me—and what needs love here?”

Plant medicine cracked me wide open. It revealed grief I didn’t have language for. Trauma I had normalized. Wounds I had inherited and never acknowledged. But ceremony alone isn’t the whole story—healing happens in the integration. In the quiet. In the moments after the visions fade, when you're alone with yourself. It’s in therapy. In journaling. In prayer. In community. In being brave enough to feel what you once ran from.

And the truth? Healing isn’t linear. Some days you’re standing in your power. Other days you’re crawling through the dark. But every step is sacred.

This path is a return.
A return to your Self.
A return to truth.
A return to wholeness.

I want to remind you: addiction does not define your worth, your destiny, or your spirit.
There is so much power in reclamation. Look at how many people in recovery become healers, leaders, light workers, innovators. The fire of rock bottom forges something sacred. There is always a seed of rising in the ashes.

There is hope—hope that never runs out.

We were not sent here to suffer. It is our birthright to live through peace, abundance, wholeness, and love. Every trial is a teacher. Every scar is a doorway. And every moment offers a chance to come home to yourself.

So, I encourage you:
Look deeper into the pain. Whether or not your story includes addiction, the truth is—we are all recovering from something. And whatever that something is, it’s asking to be healed.

If you’re struggling, advocate for yourself. Stand up. Speak out. Reach for support. Or begin with just one small act of self-love today.

Addiction is pain—not a failure of character.
You are not alone. You are not too far gone.

You are the medicine.
You are the miracle.

If anything in this spoke to you—please reach out, share, or connect with me.
I believe in you.