Recovery has given me more than I ever imagined possible: an abundant life, and better than all else: peace. I wouldn’t change my sobriety for anything in the world.
Still, there’s something I like to talk about, and I wish I would have talked about it more, especially in those early days. There’s a part of me from my addiction years that I grieved. It’s complicated.
Let me explain.
I knew I needed help. I knew that I was broken in a way I couldn’t fix alone. I imagined myself giving up substances, attending 12-step meetings, and doing the work. I pictured that the “me” who had been lost in the haze of addiction would return: maybe flagged, but intact in identity.
What I hadn’t seen coming was the grief for the self I once knew: who I thought I was, who I acted like, and the habits, defenses, and illusions that made up “me.”
In the early days, I woke up sober and felt relief, yes. But I also felt strange. A stranger to my own reflection. I looked in the mirror and didn’t immediately recognise the person staring back. The same physical features, the same name, but inside, I felt… so weird. I was relieved to have left the active addiction behind, but I also grieved the role I’d played, the identity I’d clung to.
What did I lose?
- I lost the part of me that numbed pain with alcohol or drugs. That coping strategy was messy and dangerous, but familiar.
- I lost the ritual of late-night hours, the secret texts, the lies I told myself. Those routines were part of who I was. Their disappearance left a gap.
- I lost the identity I had built around struggling: the wounded person, the rebel, the one who could still function despite chaos. In giving up that identity, I was forced to ask: Who am I now if those definitions fall away?
- I lost certain relationships, or rather, the way I was with them. Using and drinking had shaped friendships, behaviours, and expectations. Recovery asked for a new way of relating: sometimes that meant goodbye, and sometimes it meant transformation.
- I lost illusions: that I was invincible, that I could manage it alone, that I wasn’t broken. The grief often whispered: You were broken. Accept it.
And yes, I grieved. Wow, did I grieve. The person I grieved wasn’t even a great person. I didn’t really miss her, but yet, I did. I sat in rooms of recovery, hearing others speak of loss: the loved one, the job, the home, and realised I too had a loss that ran deep and internal. A self that deserved good-bye.
Why this part of recovery stays hidden
Because grief tends to manifest outwardly (think: funerals, break-ups, memorials, obvious endings), we don’t always recognize internal loss the same way. The idea of grieving “the self” sounds odd: How can you lose yourself when you’re still here? Yet recovery teaches that identity is changeable, and precisely that change requires grief.
I was not going crazy for feeling sad, disoriented, or missing parts of my old life. It made sense that when I surrendered the addiction, I was also surrendering the persona I’d wrapped around it.
It is hidden because we often equate recovery with immediate transformation: “Clean now, rebuild now, be happy now.” But between treatment and that shine is a space of grief. It’s messy, and it may creep around in loneliness and sleepless nights, in the question: Who am I now?
Grief in this context can also destabilize recovery. When you’re already building a new life, grieving the old self may feel like a threat: “If I grieve, am I letting relapse in?” But in fact, ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. Evidence suggests that people in recovery who do not address grief may resort to coping strategies like social withdrawal, wishful thinking, and self-criticism, which complicate the process (Caparrós & Masferrer, 2021).
What mourning the self feels like
In my case, the mourning took shape in subtle and not-so-subtle ways:
- I felt loss when the alcohol-initiated carefree part of me vanished. I did so much of my “being” that way. Sobriety showed me the shame and danger of how I had lived, but also erased the map of who I was.
- I noticed grief when I was restless. I had to rediscover ways to sit with silence and fill my time. The old rush was gone. I missed it.
- I saw grief in relationships. People who knew me only through my addiction or that outward self didn’t always know how to meet the new me. Some drifted away. Some I was glad drifted away, but others, I missed.
- I felt grief in mirror-moments: one morning I looked at my younger self’s photo and had a hard time figuring out who that was.
- I sensed grief when someone said, “You look good now.” Was that a compliment? Or a reminder of what I once looked like when I didn’t look “good” at all?
Grief showed up in small ways: a song on the radio, the liquor store I passed, a friend’s social media post, a memory of how easy the escape once seemed. And when it showed up, I had two choices: push it away (dangerous) or lean into it (brave).
How I leaned into it, and how you can too
Since I write to people on the path of recovery, I’m mindful that each story is unique. Still, here is what helped me grieve the self I lost so I could move forward.
1. I gave myself permission to mourn. I said out loud: “Yes, sometimes I miss that version of me.” I allowed the tears. I sat in the emptiness. Research emphasises that normalising grief in recovery is important. By recognizing my feelings, I respected them instead of burying them.
2. I named the losses. I wrote: “I lost the freedom of my using. I lost the chaotic friendships. I lost the identity of carefree and spontaneous.” Now, the paradox here is that these losses weren’t healthy, but they still helped me map what I was grieving. Then I could decide which losses I wanted to keep, which I needed to release, and which needed changing.
3. I learned new rituals. Because the old ones were gone, I built new ones: morning coffee before the sun comes up, writing for 20 minutes every day, and walks outside in the afternoons. Calling or texting someone else in recovery every day. These were simple, but they anchored me. The idea: build a life you’re not simply escaping, but living.
4. I trusted community and support. I didn’t grieve alone. I brought the feeling into meetings, group therapy, and one-on-ones with a sponsor. I said, “I’m grieving me.” I found others who nodded, because yes—they felt it too. And research is always showing that social connection is protective against relapse when grief shows up. I will always believe in the power of connection with others.
5. I gave myself time and patience. Grief doesn’t have a timeline. In fact, trying to rush it often does more harm. You may revisit stages multiple times. You may think that you finally accepted what you lost just to realize you haven’t. The process isn’t linear. I learned that some days I’d feel raw again, and that was okay.
6. I invited transformation instead of closure. I think this is key: I shifted from closing the book on my old self to changing the story. The self I lost had served me in bizarre, twisted ways. The self I’m discovering now is freer, genuinely alive. It honours and reshapes the past rather than just slamming the door on it.
Why this matters for recovery
Grieving the self you lost is central. Because if you skip it, you’re building a new life on shaky ground. That old identity, buried but un-mourned, will whisper in dark moments: “Remember me? I’m still here.” And those whispers can trigger cravings, relapse, or despair.
By embracing loss of self, you also forge authenticity. You learn who you are when numbing is no longer the default. You face the fear, the pain, the ambivalence, and guess what? You survive. That survival fuels strength deeper than any high ever gave.
For me, that meant I came to understand that recovery is not a return to who I was. Instead, it’s a rebirth into who I can be. And that rebirth always carries grief. But grief is not failure. It is a sign of honesty. It is acknowledging that the road has changed, and what served its purpose must step aside for what is coming.
A few final thoughts
If you’re reading this and you’re in recovery, whether early days or later, listen for the voice of that lost self. It may say: I’m gone. It may say: I’m still here. It may say nothing. But you’ll feel it.
Don’t ignore it. The call to ignore is strong, especially when you’re taught “Keep busy, don’t think about it, focus forward.” Yes, forward motion matters. But in between the steps is the human work: the grief, the processing, the work, and the release.
So find the space. Light a candle if that helps. Write a letter to the person you were. Sit in silence and feel what hurts. Feel it all the way through. Then rise again.
And remember: you are not the self you lost, but you are not entirely free of them either. They carry your scars, your laughter, your learning. This grief is yours. But you’re not alone in it. And as you grieve, you heal. As you heal, you live.
And that living… is worth everything.
If you’re grieving parts of yourself in recovery, you don’t have to face that alone. Camino Recovery is here for you. We offer compassionate, evidence-based treatment of every stage of healing. Reach out today to see how we can help.
References:
- Caparrós, B., & Masferrer, L. (2021). Coping Strategies and Complicated Grief in a Substance Use Disorder Sample. Frontiers in psychology, 11, 624065. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2020.624065
- Parisi, A., Sharma, A., Howard, M. O., & Blank Wilson, A. (2019). The relationship between substance misuse and complicated grief: A systematic review. Journal of substance abuse treatment, 103, 43–57. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jsat.2019.05.012
