You Can’t Outrun Addiction

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to become an addict.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to ruin my life either.

It didn’t look dramatic at first.
It didn’t look reckless.
It didn’t even look dangerous.

It looked like relief.

The first time something quieted my brain, I remember thinking,
“Oh. So, this is what it feels like to not feel everything all at once.”

For someone who lived in constant overthinking, emotional intensity, and worst-case-scenario mode, that silence felt like peace.

And that’s how it got me.

Not because I wanted to self-destruct.
But because I wanted to feel normal.

Florida: Running It Into the Ground

I was ruining my life in Florida.

Not subtly. Not slowly.
I was running it straight into the ground.

I convinced myself a change of scenery would fix it. So, I moved to Nebraska with a quiet little thought in the back of my head:

“This won’t work. I’ll be back in two weeks.”

Except… it did work.

Or at least it worked well enough to convince me it was working.

For seven years.

Seven years of telling myself I was fine.
Seven years of thinking distance equals healing.
Seven years of running.

But here’s the thing no one tells you:

You can move states.
You can change jobs.
You can change relationships.
You can change your entire zip code.

But if you don’t change you, nothing actually changes.

I didn’t fix anything.

I didn’t process anything.
I didn’t heal anything.
I just relocated my chaos.

And addiction is patient.

It will let you pretend for a while.

But it always catches up.

Nebraska: The Slow Erosion

Nothing screams “I have this handled” like structuring your entire life around something you swear you don’t need.

The erosion was slow.

I still functioned.
I still showed up.
I still defended it.

I minimized it.
I compared myself to people “worse” than me.
I told myself I was different.

Eventually, it stopped feeling like relief and started feeling like survival.

And when Nebraska finally turned into a full-blown dumpster fire, I had nowhere left to go.

I was alone.

I had Pablo.

And whatever I could fit into my Jeep.

That was it.

Atlanta: Lost and So Sad

So, I came to Atlanta.

To be close to my mom.
To “get clean.”

Except I was so lost.
So sad.
So deeply, violently sad.

Every time I would stop using and the fog would lift, reality would hit me like a freight train.

I saw everything I had destroyed.
Everything I had lost.
Every relationship I damaged.
Every version of myself I abandoned.

And it was too much.

So, I did the only thing I knew how to do to not feel it.

I used again.

Because numbing was familiar.
Feeling was unbearable.

That cycle repeated more times than I want to admit.

Get clean.
Feel everything.
Panic.
Use.

Until one day, it wasn’t dramatic anymore.

It was deadly.

When I say I was about to die, I mean that literally.

My body was done.
My mind was done.
I was running out of chances.

The Rooms

That’s when I started going to meetings.

Not because I believed.
Not because I wanted spiritual growth.
Honestly?

To keep my mom happy.

I sat in those rooms convinced it wasn’t doing anything.

Arms crossed.
Detached.
Waiting for it to fail.

But something shifted.

Not overnight.
Not in a lightning bolt moment.

Just slowly.

I heard pieces of my story in other people’s mouths.

I realized maybe I wasn’t uniquely broken — just sick.

And for the first time in a long time, I stayed.

I didn’t run.
I didn’t move states.
I didn’t pack a Jeep.

I stayed uncomfortable.

And that changed everything.

Rebuilding Instead of Running

I didn’t get sober because I had some grand vision for my life.

I got sober because I ran out of ways to run.

But staying sober?

That became intentional.

Somewhere between sitting in meetings I didn’t believe in and waking up without wanting to die, I stopped trying to escape my life.

I started building one.

Not flashy.
Not perfect.
Real.

Making bracelets started as something to do with my hands.

Something to keep my mind from spiraling.

Something harmless.

But it turned into something bigger.

Addiction destroyed.
Creation builds.

Sorting beads instead of excuses.
Stringing words that anchored me.
Building something steady with hands that once shook for very different reasons.

Hope & Hustle wasn’t born from a business plan.

It was born from rebuilding.

Every bracelet is a reminder that I can create instead of destroy.

Where I Stand Now

Today I’m in school.

Me — the girl who once couldn’t sit still with her own thoughts.

I run a business.

Me — the girl who once couldn’t manage her own life.

Recovery didn’t make life easy.

It made life real.

Optimism didn’t magically appear.

It was built. Slowly. Intentionally.

Because I know exactly how quickly my mind can turn on me if I let it.

I protect my peace now.

I guard my perspective.

Not because life is perfect.

But because I’ve seen what happens when I don’t.

I used to pack up and change states when things got hard.

Now I sit still.

And that might be the biggest miracle of all.

If you’re reading this and you’re still running — geographically or emotionally — I understand.

I really do.

But moving doesn’t fix you.

Doing the work does.

Staying does.
Feeling does.

I didn’t end up here by accident.

I ended up here because I stopped running.

Sober.
In school.
Building something meaningful.
Still imperfect.
But finally grounded.

And that changed everything.

— Lauren

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