85. Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes: A Reflection on Recovery & Renewal

There’s a phrase you hear often in recovery circles: “If nothing changes, nothing changes.”  At first, it sounds like one of those self-help mantras that’s easy to dismiss—just another slogan tacked to a wall.  The deeper I go into this recovery journey, the more I realize how much weight those five words carry.  They cut right to the heart of what it takes to reclaim a life lost to addiction.  It’s remarkably simple yet very profound.  If I do what I’ve always done, I’ll get the same heartbreaking results.  I'll stay destroyed if I cling to the patterns that have destroyed me time and time again.  Trust me on this one.  I’ve lived it.  I’ve been trapped in the cycle, and I’ve tasted the consequences of refusing to change.

When I first entered treatment in 2018, I was desperate for things to be different, but I didn’t fully understand what that would require.  I thought detoxing would be enough—that all I needed was to clear the drugs from my system, and the rest would fall into place.  I wasn’t ready to face the deeper truths about what had brought me to the edge.  I wasn’t ready to let go of the parts of me that were clinging to chaos and self-destruction.  Here’s the hard truth: detox is just the beginning.  You can’t stop there and expect miracles to start happening.  After the physical pain passes, you’re left staring at the wreckage of your life, at the wreckage you created, and that’s where the real work begins—the slow, painful process of change.  Real change.  I’m not talking about surface-level adjustments but soul-deep transformation.

In early recovery, I desperately feared change.  I told myself I didn’t, but I was lying.  Change meant letting go of everything familiar, even the things that hurt me.  Change meant stepping into the unknown, and there’s nothing more terrifying than the unknown when you’ve spent years numbing every uncomfortable feeling.  It felt safer to stay in the misery I knew than to risk something new, something uncertain.

But nothing changes if nothing changes.

I learned that lesson the hard way.  I thought I could coast after my first treatment.  I thought I had it figured out.  I thought I was “fixed.”  Then the relapse hit.  One slip became a slide in what felt like the blink of an eye; everything I’d worked for in treatment unraveled.  I found myself right back where I’d started—or maybe even further down.  The shame was suffocating.  The disappointment in myself cut deeper than anything anyone else could have said or done.  What broke me wasn’t just the relapse.  It was the realization that I’d fooled myself into thinking I could hold on to parts of my old life and still stay sober.  I hadn’t changed enough.  I hadn’t committed fully to the hard work.

When I walked into detox a few years later, I was stripped down to nothing.  I was physically sick, emotionally wrecked, and spiritually bankrupt.  I didn’t know if I could do it again.  I didn’t know if I had the strength to face the mountain of work ahead of me, but I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t go back.  If I went back, it would kill me.  Maybe not right away, but eventually.

This time, I listened more.  I humbled myself.  I stopped trying to control everything and accepted help.  I showed up to every group session even when my body ached and my mind begged me to stay in bed.  I was honest in my reflections, even when the truth made me feel raw and exposed.  I dug into the parts of myself I had tried to hide for so long—the deep wounds, the buried grief, the shame I carried from years of letting people down.  Most of all, I leaned into change.  I embraced it, even when it felt like walking into a storm without an umbrella.

I’ve learned that change doesn’t happen in a single, sweeping moment.  It’s a series of small, deliberate choices—showing up for myself every day, even when it’s hard.  It’s reaching out for help when I want to isolate.  It’s choosing honesty over denial, connection over escape, and hope over despair.  Change is uncomfortable.  It’s often messy, painful, and slow, but it’s also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced because on the other side of it is freedom.  I’m not the same person I was when I first walked into treatment.  I don’t say that to boast, because it’s not the result of my own brilliance or strength.  It’s the result of surrender—of trusting the process, trusting my counselors, and trusting that the pain of transformation is worth it.  And it is.

Recovery has given me a second chance at life.  It’s given me the chance to rebuild relationships I thought were lost forever.  It’s given me the chance to look in the mirror without shame.  Most of all, it’s given me hope—a fragile but powerful thing I never thought I’d have again.

“If nothing changes, nothing changes.”  It’s not just a slogan.  It’s a challenge.  It’s a call to action.  It’s a reminder that staying the same is a death sentence for someone like me.  If I want to live—not just survive, but truly live—I have to keep changing.  I have to keep growing.  I’m still on this journey.  I’m still learning, still stumbling, still finding my way.  But I know one thing for sure: I’m not going back.  Change is hard, but it’s worth it.  Every single day, it’s worth it.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.