I’m sitting at a treatment facility, waiting for someone special to finish what they need to do. While I’m here, I’m being my usual chatty self.

The man sitting next to me has a bag of take-home medication for the week. We started talking, and he told me how much he hates his treatment. He described painful side effects and told me he wishes there were a different way for him to get through recovery. We talked about relapse, medication dependency, and what long-term treatment can feel like from the perspective of the person actually living it.

His story made me think.

Places like the facility I’m sitting in provide medication-assisted treatment, including methadone. The people working here have guidelines and regulations they have to follow while also trying to help every person who walks through their doors.

But every person is different.

Addiction treatment should reflect that.

Every individual deserves a standard of care that recognizes their physical health, mental health, history, circumstances, goals, and pain. Recovery is already difficult enough. People shouldn’t have to navigate unnecessary hoops just to feel heard, stable, and capable of functioning.

I don’t believe there is one easy treatment for addiction, because there isn’t one kind of person struggling with addiction. Some people may benefit from medication for a very long time. Others may eventually want to taper off. The important thing is that those decisions are made carefully, safely, and with the individual involved in their own care.

Why do we sometimes treat people with addiction as though addiction is the final destination of their lives?

We don’t know what caused someone to take that first pill.

Maybe they had oral surgery and were prescribed pain medication, only to discover they were more susceptible to addiction than they ever realized.

Maybe they were carrying trauma nobody knew about.

Maybe they grew up feeling ignored, controlled, abused, abandoned, or unheard, and a pill or a drink became the first thing that made the pain quiet down.

Maybe it was something completely different.

The choices and circumstances that lead someone into addiction are not ours to judge.

I never found comfort in drugs or alcohol. Talking, writing, creating art, and trying to understand myself became my outlets. I have lived through tremendous pain, but numbing myself with substances was never the path I took.

That doesn’t make me better than someone whose path was different.

It just makes our coping mechanisms different.

I was diagnosed with the same condition as my brother. Our lives unfolded very differently. My own mental health completely unraveled around forty.

My brother died at forty.

I’ve lost friends and people I cared about to drugs, suicide, war, and other forms of pain and self-destruction. Those experiences have made me wonder why recovery sometimes has to feel like another punishment.

When someone finally decides they want something different for themselves, shouldn’t we be asking what will help them build that life?

How do we help with the physical pain?

How do we help when years of emotions and memories suddenly come rushing back?

How do we teach someone to tolerate feelings they may have spent years trying desperately not to feel?

I don’t know many people who began using drugs while thinking, Let me destroy my life and see where I end up five years from now.

People usually see what the substance gives them in that moment.

Bliss.

Relief.

Relaxation.

Escape.

Numbness.

For a little while, the pain becomes quieter.

Recovery asks them to give that up. If we’re going to ask someone to put down the thing they used to survive, then we should also help them build something healthier to replace it.

To me, recovery can include therapy, appropriate medication, nutrition, movement, spiritual practice, community, education, learning new coping skills, and developing the willingness and motivation to put all of those pieces together.

And the person recovering should have a voice in deciding what those pieces look like.

A lot of us simply don’t have the tools to advocate for ourselves. We don’t know what questions to ask. We don’t know who to talk to. Sometimes we don’t even know who is safe enough to trust.

I know I’m no one special. I share my experiences and opinions. I listen to other people’s stories, and I hope they find whatever combination of support helps them build the life they actually want.

Because underneath all of the diagnoses, medications, treatment plans, mistakes, trauma, and addiction is still a person.

And I genuinely believe every person deserves the opportunity to build a life containing as much love and joy as possible.