There’s a persistent narrative that follows people who have gone through addiction or mental illness and made it out the other side—a story arc the public loves. It’s the redemption tale, the dramatic comeback, the kind of story that ends with standing ovations, speaking engagements, and a feel-good headline: “They beat the odds.” And while that narrative might uplift some, it can weigh heavily on those who never asked to be made into anyone’s symbol of hope. The idea that every person in recovery should be a motivational figure isn’t just misguided—it’s exhausting.
For many, the path out of addiction or mental health crisis is deeply personal, often painful, and rarely tidy. The work is slow, sometimes thankless. There are no applause breaks for resisting the urge to use. No audience when someone shows up to therapy. No coverage when a person simply gets out of bed and faces another day while fighting the internal storms of depression or anxiety. Yet, the world tends to latch onto survivors only once they emerge as polished, articulate, and inspiring. Even then, the support is often conditional. Relapse or struggle can quickly shift the tone from admiration to judgment.
The unspoken message is clear: if you’re going to make it, you’d better make it worth watching. You’d better package it well. And for some, especially those who’ve been publicly open about their battles, that pressure is suffocating. Advocates like Thomas Cothren New York have long highlighted the need for nuance in how we frame recovery—not every person who survives trauma wants to become a story. Sometimes, they just want to reclaim an ordinary life.
You Don’t Owe the World a Narrative
Storytelling can be healing. For some, opening up about addiction, PTSD, bipolar disorder, or surviving overdose becomes a way to connect with others and give back. But the operative word here is choice. No one should feel obligated to turn their life into a lesson. And yet, that’s often what happens. Survivors of addiction and mental illness are frequently pushed—sometimes by well-meaning loved ones, sometimes by media platforms or service providers—to share, speak out, and lead others. This pressure often disguises itself as empowerment. “Your voice could help others.” “You’ve come so far—you should tell people.” While the intent might be supportive, the result can feel exploitative.
Recovery is not a performance. It’s not a PR campaign. The expectation to constantly share, especially in polished, hopeful terms, can force people into an emotional labor they didn’t sign up for. It also reinforces the idea that the only “valuable” survivors are the ones who fit a neat mold: articulate, sober, grateful, and public.
But what about the people who don’t want to talk about it? What about those who are still figuring it out? What about those who don’t have tidy resolutions, those who are managing schizophrenia or opioid dependence or generalized anxiety disorder quietly, without a desire to lead anyone else through it? Their silence doesn’t make them less brave. Their choice not to go public doesn’t make them less valid. Recovery happens in private just as much as it does on stages—and sometimes more authentically so.
The Risks of Public Recovery
Public storytelling can also carry real risk. Once someone’s recovery is on display, it’s subject to scrutiny. The same people who once clapped for your courage may later ask intrusive questions, make assumptions, or disappear when you’re no longer “doing well.” Relapse, emotional struggles, or even setting personal boundaries can all be interpreted as signs of failure if they don’t fit the image the public has embraced.
For individuals navigating recovery from substance use, this can be especially harsh. Many face legal surveillance, mandated check-ins, drug screenings, and housing or employment instability. Adding the burden of being publicly “inspirational” only compounds the stress. It turns recovery into something monitored not only by professionals and institutions—but by society at large.
Worse still, when someone does relapse, the fall from “role model” can be brutal. It can cost them jobs, relationships, and credibility. That’s not support—that’s conditional admiration. It creates a scenario where people feel they must hide any ongoing struggle, reinforcing stigma rather than reducing it.
Why Private Recovery Is Just as Powerful
There’s a common misconception that if you’re not speaking out, you must be hiding. But choosing privacy isn’t about shame—it’s about agency. The right to set boundaries around what is shared, with whom, and when, is a core part of healing. And for many people, recovery is not about sharing with the world. It’s about learning to live a full life again: one that’s not constantly tied to the past, or defined by a label.
Private recovery looks like attending meetings without announcing it. It looks like making a therapy appointment, taking medication consistently, getting back into a routine, mending relationships—or choosing not to. These aren’t “lesser” victories just because they aren’t broadcast. They’re deliberate, necessary acts that require strength in their own right.
This approach is especially important for people in marginalized communities—people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, people with disabilities—who already face disproportionate stigma and structural barriers. For them, privacy may also be a form of protection, a way to preserve dignity in a world that already asks them to explain too much.
When recovery is allowed to be private, it becomes safer. There’s room to fail, to experiment, to start again. There’s space for the person—not the diagnosis or the performance—to take the lead.
The Difference Between Being Seen and Being Watched
Being seen means being understood for who you are—not what you’ve overcome, not what others expect from you, and certainly not what kind of inspiration they’re hoping you’ll become. Being watched, on the other hand, can feel like surveillance—like every move is being evaluated against a narrative you didn’t agree to.
Many in recovery are tired of being watched. Watched for signs of relapse. Watched to see if they’ll “make it.” Watched by courts, employers, families, and even support networks. That vigilance can sometimes help prevent harm—but it can also erode trust. It can make someone feel like they’re never allowed to be just a person again.
What most people want is to be accepted where they are—not where someone else thinks they should be. That means letting go of the need to be inspired and learning to simply witness someone’s life without commentary. No projection. No applause. Just presence.
We Need Broader Definitions of Recovery
Recovery is not a single path. It’s not defined by sobriety milestones, perfect mental health, or compelling testimonials. It’s defined by progress that may be hard to see from the outside: setting boundaries, unlearning shame, asking for help, making different choices, tolerating uncomfortable feelings without shutting down. Sometimes it means falling apart and starting over. Sometimes it means doing nothing for a while—and still being okay.
We need to stop grading recovery by how inspiring it looks to others. It’s time to let people decide for themselves what recovery means—and what, if anything, they want to say about it.
Some may choose to speak up, to mentor others, to write books or lead workshops. That’s valid. Others may want to work quietly, live peacefully, and never mention what they’ve been through again. That’s just as valid.
Let People Be Ordinary Again
The goal of recovery, for many, isn’t to become extraordinary. It’s to return to something stable and real. To find rhythm in life again. To wake up without dread, to eat a meal and actually taste it, to laugh without guilt, to walk down the street without looking over their shoulder.
Being inspirational shouldn’t be the price of survival. We need to get better at making space for people to be ordinary—to have a bad day, to make a mistake, to grow at their own pace without it needing to mean something.
There is courage in the quiet. There is strength in staying. And for those who choose not to share their stories, who keep their healing close, who move forward with no audience and no spotlight—they are seen too.