Addiction.
What a heavy word.
It’s not one I use casually. It shaped my life long before I had language for it. I grew up in a home full of addiction. I know what it costs families. I know what it takes from bodies, relationships, and futures. I know how devastating it can be.
At its core, addiction is always a chase. Toward a feeling or away from one. And while I am not addicted to the most obvious and publicly judged substances, alcohol, drugs, or porn, I have been addicted. In my own way.
My addictions were to control, achieving, and overdoing. These are less visible. Less judged. And in many environments, they’re rewarded. They look responsible. Impressive. Even admirable.
But addiction wears many faces.
And every form of addiction leaves the user hollow.
Addicted to work, you’re applauded as a workaholic.
Addicted to doing, you’re celebrated as a high achiever.
Addicted to praise, you become indispensable.
Addicted to dopamine, you chase the next rush.
Addicted to numbing out, you say you’re exhausted.
Addicted to control, you manage outcomes, people, and uncertainty.
Addicted to food, exercise, or your body, you chase regulation and relief.
Addicted to image management, you curate how you’re perceived.
Addicted to the victim story, you protect your pain.
Addicted to excess, you call it passion.
Here’s what my addiction to control looked like.
My husband and I were newly married. At the time, my self-esteem was painfully low, even though most people would never have guessed it. I hid by looking good, staying busy, and keeping a bit of distance. I didn’t want anyone to see how less than I felt.
So I tried to control everything I could. What I wore. How long we stayed places. Who we spent time with. And the list of people was short, because being around others made me deeply uncomfortable.
Even with the people I did see, I didn’t share much. Control was my safety mechanism. If I could anticipate what was coming, problem-solve in advance, and keep things contained, I could feel okay.
The problem is, control doesn’t work in relationships. Life happens. People act, decide, move, and respond without consulting us first. One Sunday, my husband and I were at church. I had a broken foot and couldn’t climb the stairs where everyone gathered afterward. He could…and he did. He left me standing alone in the lobby. In that moment, everything I was managing collapsed. I felt exposed, not good enough, not chosen, not in control. Without my person beside me, my system went into a full trauma response. When he came back downstairs, I didn’t pause or regulate. I erupted. I yelled at him. I hit his leg with my crutch.
None of that was okay. And it wasn’t really about him going upstairs. It was about my addiction to control, needing the world to stay within a very narrow range so I could feel safe and valuable. The rules were invisible, they didn’t make sense, and they changed constantly.
Many of the high achievers I coach are addicted to money, success, dopamine, image management, overdoing, and being needed. They’ve been rewarded for it. Promoted because of it. Admired and praised.
From the outside, they look nothing like someone struggling.
And yet, when I sit across from them in coaching, the ache underneath is familiar. The disconnection and anxiety beneath the drive. The exhaustion, it’s something I recognize in the people I coach and in myself.
The substance being reached for is different. The need to feel something, or to not feel something, is not.
This is why I teach the ACT Method.
Awareness is seeing the addiction without minimizing it.
Choice is recognizing the system you built once kept you safe, but may no longer fit who you’re becoming.
Transformation is practicing something new, tolerating uncertainty, choosing presence over control, and connection over protection.
I had to take an honest look at what my addiction to control was covering up. My vulnerability, my fears, my low self-esteem and the risk that things might not work out the way I hoped.
I had to understand the system it came from, how it was built, and why it no longer worked.
The system you have today is perfect for the results you’re getting right now. But it can’t get you any farther than you already are.
Like a computer, we all need a system upgrade to reach the next level, whether that’s the big dream, the deeper peace, or the addiction we’re ready to put down. Those coping mechanisms served us. They kept us safe. Some of them even made us look good.
But what worked then eventually stops working for who you’re becoming.
When I controlled less, when I made a conscious choice to let go and to be uncomfortable, that’s where transformation happened. That’s where the old operating system was upgraded. That’s where the internal peeling of the onion was witnessed, looked at, and wept over.
There was a decision point for me: if I wanted the life I hoped for, I couldn’t meet it with the tools I had.
So I learned new ways. And if I can do it, I promise, you can too.
And if the word addiction doesn’t resonate with you, here’s my invitation:
Swap it for the word need.
A need for control.
A need to be needed.
A need to achieve.
A need to manage how you’re seen.
The work doesn’t change. Only the doorway does.
Here’s a simple exercise to start:
- What addiction, or need, do you have that looks good and has helped you achieve what you’ve achieved?
- What’s the scary story about what would happen if you didn’t use that tool?
- What else might be true, even if you don’t fully believe it yet and you have no certainty it will work?
This is how we start to peel the onion. Slowly. Carefully. Because peeling stings.
But once you sauté it, it’s delicious. And that’s what your life can be.We have to go from raw to cooked. And just like the onion, becoming transparent takes time.
Much Love,
Gretchen
