Addictions Aftermath and the Mirror of Grace

Originally written in 2013. Revisited in 2025.

It’s been over a decade since I wrote this.

I still remember sitting in church on a Sunday morning in 2013, hearing a man stand before our congregation and give his testimony. His story wasn’t polished. It wasn’t tied up with a bow. But it was real. He poured his heart out, vulnerably confessing his lifelong battle with alcoholism.

And as he spoke… my ears began to ring.

“Wait… is he talking about alcohol addiction—or food addiction?”

Because every word that spilled from his mouth echoed the thoughts in my head. The struggle he described—of waking up every morning and deciding whether today would be a day of freedom or a day of defeat—was the same war I fought, just wearing a different face.

He spoke of the two versions of himself: one sober, the other under the influence. One wise, kind, deeply rooted in the Word. The other—a shell of himself: bitter, angry, lifeless, and full of shame. He described the sadness that came every time he chose to get sober again, knowing that the temporary high—the numbing effect of alcohol—would be absent.

He wasn’t naïve. He knew what Scripture said. And he knew the power of prayer. He knew what would happen if he took another drink.

And yet, his flesh won out—over and over again.

What wrecked me most was when he said he could see the version of himself that he wanted to be. He could picture it: confident, disciplined, respected, whole. He could imagine how that man would walk, talk, live. But he just couldn’t quite become him.

And as I sat there—still struggling with my own weight, still making promises to myself I couldn’t keep—I realized something profound:

His story was my story.

So I did something I rarely do in the moment: I wrote. Right there in the stillness of conviction, I captured what God was whispering to me.

And now, in 2025, I feel compelled to share it again—with the hard, heartbreaking update that the man who inspired it eventually lost his battle with addiction. He was kind, likeable, and full of deep wisdom when he was sober. But when he wasn’t—when the addiction took over—he became someone else entirely. Angry. Vile. Consumed.

He knew what freedom looked like. He longed for it. But addiction, unchecked, is a merciless thief.

His death shook me—and still does. Not in judgment, but in sobering awareness. Because the truth is, I’m still in my own battle. The weight I carry on my body has never just been about food. It’s been emotional. Spiritual. Deeply layered. And some days, I still feel like I’m losing more than I’m winning.

But here’s the difference now:
I don’t want to lose my life to an addiction I was never willing to confront.

Here’s what I wrote back in 2013:

“Now, go back through those paragraphs and replace ‘he’ with ‘she’. Replace ‘alcohol’ with ‘food’…”

Suddenly it wasn’t just his story anymore—it was mine.

We both knew what victory could look like. We both believed in redemption. We both read the same verses about how our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. And yet… we both kept falling.

And with every fall came the cycle:

Shame.
Guilt.
Despair.
The deep ache of knowing that we had disappointed not only ourselves, but those who loved us most.

We’d come to, look in the mirror, and wonder, How much damage did I do this time?

We’d stand before God—emotionally, spiritually exhausted—and beg for rescue from ourselves.

But somehow, even when we felt entirely unworthy, Jesus always took us back.

He wrapped us in grace. He reminded us that He had never left our side. That He’d been waiting—longing—for us to call on His name. Jesus… Messiah… Counselor… Name above all names.

He died for the broken, not the perfect.

He still loves the addict, the struggler, the repeat offender.
And He doesn’t just tolerate us—He desires us.

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” – Psalm 37:4

And if your desire—like mine—is to be free? He wants that too.
He wants us to honor Him with our bodies, our minds, and our lives—not out of shame, but out of love.

So we keep showing up.
We keep laying it down.
We fight to see the person He sees when He looks at us.

Not the version under the weight of addiction.
Not the one drowning in self-hatred.
But the one who was meant to be whole.
The one who radiates light.
The one who leads others to freedom.

To the man who unknowingly opened this door in me—thank you.
Even in your brokenness, you gave birth to healing in others.
You mattered. And you still do.

To anyone struggling—me included—don’t stop fighting.
Freedom isn’t reserved for the few.
It’s for you. It’s for us. It’s for now.