I am currently staring at a loading wheel on an insurance portal that has been spinning for exactly 3 minutes, which is just long enough for the existential dread to set in but not long enough to justify getting up for more coffee. My left hand is cramping from holding a phone that has been playing a distorted, synthesized version of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons for the last 13 minutes. Somewhere in the middle of this bureaucratic purgatory, a notification popped up on my laptop. It was a brightly colored graphic-mint green and soft peach-telling me that ‘healing is not a destination, it’s a journey.’ I nearly threw my mouse at the radiator.

It’s a nice sentiment, isn’t it? It’s the kind of thing you print on a heavy-stock postcard and mail to someone who is having a vaguely bad day. But when you are waist-deep in the actual, physical, soul-grinding labor of trying to stay alive and sober, that word-journey-tastes like ash. It’s too clean. It suggests a backpack and a map and perhaps a scenic overlook where the lighting is just right for a photo. It doesn’t suggest the 23 forms I’ve had to fill out this week, or the way the fluorescent lights in the pharmacy waiting room make everyone look like they’ve been underwater for several days.

The Violence of Necessary Change

There is a specific kind of linguistic fraud that happens in the wellness and recovery space. We have developed this lexicon of soft edges. We talk about ‘growth’ as if it’s a sunflower reaching for the light, ignoring the fact that growth in nature often involves things rotting in the dark first. We talk about ‘thriving’ when what we really mean is that we managed to brush our teeth and pay the electric bill on the same day.

Tasting the Dirt

Carter M.-C. understands this better than most. Carter is a quality control taster for a high-end botanical beverage company, and I met him during a brief, strange period where I thought I might want to become an expert on bitters. His entire job is based on the recognition of ‘off-notes.’ He doesn’t look for what’s perfect; he looks for the metallic tang, the hint of mildew, the chemical aftertaste that suggests something has gone wrong in the fermentation.

“

If a flavor is too smooth, it’s usually because it’s artificial. Nature is jagged. If you don’t taste the dirt, you aren’t tasting the plant.

I’ve been thinking about that jaggedness a lot. Recovery, in its truest form, is full of off-notes. It is metallic and bitter and sometimes it smells like a hospital hallway. When we sanitize the language of healing, we remove the ‘dirt,’ and in doing so, we remove the authenticity. We create a version of recovery that is palatable for people who aren’t actually in it. We make it look like a lifestyle choice rather than a desperate, heroic struggle for air.

The Hierarchy of Suffering

There’s a danger in this aesthetic of ‘thriving.’ It creates a hierarchy of suffering where the only valid pain is the kind that can be cured by a yoga retreat and a gratitude journal. But what about the pain that is structural? What about the fear that is rooted in the reality of $253 medication copays and the exhaustion of being a human being in a system that views you as a data point?

When we use ‘healing language,’ we often accidentally gaslight people by suggesting that their struggle is merely a matter of perspective. If you just ‘reframe’ your struggle, the paperwork will magically become a ‘learning opportunity.’ It won’t. It will still be paperwork.

Hope as Digging Tool

I’m not saying we should abandon hope. Far from it. Hope is the only thing that gets us through the 13th hour of a 12-step meeting or the 3rd week of a grueling treatment program. But hope should be a tool, not a decoration. It should be something we use to dig ourselves out of the mud, not something we use to paint over it.

True hope is found in the places that acknowledge the difficulty. It’s found in organizations like

Discovery Point Retreat where the focus isn’t on a superficial ‘fix’ but on the actual, messy, complicated human beings who are trying to find their way back to themselves. It’s about meeting people where they are, which is usually in the middle of a very difficult week, not on top of a mountain.

Signal-to-Noise Ratio: The Clean Voice

The Beautiful Stink

Maybe we should start talking about the ‘recovery grind’ instead of the ‘recovery journey.’ Maybe we should acknowledge that growth often feels like a 153-page manual written in a language you only half-understand. I want to live in a world where we can say ‘I am doing the work, and the work is exhausting’ without someone telling us to ‘just breathe.’

“

Valerian root smells like old socks. Civet musk is overpowering and foul. But when you blend them correctly, they provide the depth that makes a fragrance or a flavor legendary.