2025 was an incredible year for my running and sobriety—and that still matters to say, even now. I raced less. I slowed down. I focused on the marathon as my goal race: the Rock CF Thumb Coast Marathon. I PR’d by over two minutes. I crossed the finish line knowing I wasn’t done yet—that there was more in me.

What made that possible wasn’t just training. It was sobriety.

Last year, making sobriety my top priority quietly improved everything. My running, yes—but also my mind, my confidence, my ability to be present in my own life. Easy runs actually felt easy. My breathing felt controlled during workouts. I felt healthy in a way I honestly haven’t ever before. For the first time, I could clearly see an era that was fast, grounded, happy—and weed-free.

And that’s the cruel part of addiction.
Knowing something is bad for you.
Knowing how good life can be without it.
And still feeling obsessed. Still reaching for it.

I want to be brutally honest here. In fact, Step One of a 12-step program says that honesty begins by admitting that life has become unmanageable and that we are powerless over our addiction. That sentence still makes my chest tighten—but it’s true.

I also want to preface that I’m not sharing this for sympathy or pity. I’m sharing it for accountability. And because I know someone else could  read this and feel less alone. I also don’t think I owe anyone an explanation. This is my safe corner of the internet where I feel comfortable talking about this stuff.

A loved one recently said to me that I am lying to all my followers on here by smoking. Ugh, the exact opposite. I am coming on here talking about it and being accountable. And, I can do that when I am ready to, which is why I am right now. If I relapse, I don’t automatically have to update everyone. That is not why I write here. I write for myself and hope that this can help someone some day.

If someone happens to ask about my addiction in person, I will kindly respond by telling them I am not comfortable talking about that right now. Writing a blog versus having discussion in person about my addiction are very different. I am not ready to comfortably talk about this in person.

Anyways…

Michigan winters impact my mental health more than I like to admit. The frigid air that sinks into my bones, hurts. The stress of the holiday season surely didn’t help things either. Depression makes everything heavier—and sobriety harder. Add to that the current state of America, where detaining and killing citizens feels normalized, and hope can feel… thin. I’m not trying to come up with excuses. This is just the way it’s been for me lately.

I relapsed for several weeks. Zoned out. Disassociated. Marijuana addiction at its finest.

That’s hard to write. It’s harder to sit with. It felt easier, in those moments, to numb out than to stay present with the fear, the anger, the sadness. One of my doctors once said we live in a “take something” society—and they’re right. When everything feels overwhelming, the urge to take something—to smoke about it—can feel almost automatic.

I’m disappointed in myself. But I’m not tearing myself apart this time. I’m not self-sabotaging or pretending my relapse didn’t happen. 

Last year showed me something important: sobriety isn’t just possible for me—it’s how I want to live. When I’m sober, I feel happy and confident, two things that have always felt far out of my reach.

This relapse taught me some uncomfortable truths. I don’t always have the power to say no… I still like to thing that I do, but, I don’t. The truth is: I am addicted to marijuana. I am powerless over it. My life becomes unmanageable when I smoke and try to do this alone.

So I need help. I need my support system. I need Marijuana Anonymous meetings. I need radical honesty—with myself and with my higher power.

I also know this about myself: when I start avoiding friends or M.A. fellows, that’s when I’m sliding toward rock bottom. Isolation is a warning sign, not a personality trait.

I know I can recover, and I know I deserve it. I know sobriety feels better than trying to get sober.

I’m choosing—again—to try. One Day at a Time.