Setbacks, Cigarettes, and Starting Over: What Progress Really Looks Like

The Morning After

The first thing I noticed when I woke up Wednesday morning was how quiet my chest felt. Not empty, not full—just quiet, like the static had finally cleared. Sunlight started to push through the tie-dyed cotton drape my mom made for my wedding. Purple, yellow, pink, white—those colors are wild at sunrise, like hope poured out on the wall. For a minute, I just let myself stare at it, let the color settle into my bones.

The house was cold. Winter air nipped at my skin when I finally left the covers. I sat up, wrung my hands together, ran them through my hair and down my face—feeling the ache in my jaw, the leftover stress in my shoulders, the weird, half-electric hum that comes after a week like this. My body was looser than yesterday but still tight in all the places I keep my worry.

Wednesday meant freedom, but not the easy kind. I didn’t have to get up and “perform.” No clinic, no fluorescent lights, no silent hallway judgments. But I also didn’t have a script for this kind of day—no roadmap for what comes after you walk away from what’s been breaking you.

The Anatomy of a Setback

After a Monday that left me raw and a Tuesday spent pushing through the stress, you’d think I’d be out of tears. But Wednesday morning, after everything, I found myself asking my husband, “Can you pick me up a pack of cigarettes at the gas station?” He did.

There I was, sitting in my home office, staring at that pack. It felt heavier than it should—like a symbol, not just a habit. The first drag was pure relief, pleasure, almost safety. And then came the shame, sharper than any craving. My youngest son had been so proud of me for quitting. I thought of his face, his trust, and the guilt just about knocked me over.

That’s the thing about setbacks—they’re rarely just about the thing itself. For me, slips have always carried echoes of my old life: criminal behavior, theft, codependent lies, doing whatever I had to do to feel validated—even if it meant betraying myself or someone else. Even now, years into recovery, that voice in my head tries to convince me that a slip means I’m the same person I used to be. But I’m not.

The progress this time was in the pause. I didn’t spiral. I didn’t decide I’d lost everything. I let the shame and comfort coexist. I let myself be human. I watched the smoke drift in the sunlight and realized I was still here, still moving, even if it wasn’t pretty.

Fear and Freedom

Walking away from my job wasn’t just about leaving a paycheck. It was about letting go of a piece of my identity—a part of me that told myself I had to keep grinding, even when it was killing me, because that’s what strong people do. But I wasn’t strong. I was exhausted, scared, and—under all that—just a little bit free.

That first morning I didn’t have to get up and go, I felt every shade of fear: What if I can’t pay the bills? What will people say? Am I screwing up my life? And then, tucked under all that noise, I found excitement. My muscles weren’t as stiff; my shoulders dropped a little; my chest felt lighter. I started to trust myself again, in the smallest way—maybe for the first time in a long time.

Freedom isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it feels like standing outside in the cold, no coat, no plan. But it’s real. And under all the fear, I knew: I’ve survived worse. I can survive this.

The Myth of Perfection

If you’re anywhere near recovery, you know the myth: One mistake, and it’s all gone. One slip, and you’re back to zero. But that’s not how this works. Recovery, healing, change—none of it is linear. You don’t lose your progress just because you slip. You don’t get erased.

When I work with clients, I tell them: progress is progress, even if it’s by an alarm millimeter. You don’t have to leap. Sometimes all you can do is scoot forward an inch—or even just decide you’ll try again tomorrow. And that’s enough.

But let’s be real: I have to remind myself, too. The voice in my head still tries to claim I’m only worth something if I’m perfect. That’s a lie I learned young, and it’s a hard one to kill. But every time I get back up, every time I choose honesty over hiding, I chip away at it.

The truth is, none of us are perfect. We learn and grow, learn and grow, from the day we’re born to the day we die.

Progress is Progress—Even When It’s Ugly

This is the part that still blows me away. I expected judgment. Silence. What I got instead was support—so much of it that it felt like the universe was conspiring to remind me I’m not alone. Messages from people I worked with, old colleagues, friends, family, even folks I hadn’t heard from in years. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Every single message chipped away at the shame. Each text, each call, was a reminder that support isn’t something you earn by being perfect. It’s something you get when you let people see you—mess and all.

The physical feeling of reading those messages was almost medicinal. My chest loosened. My hands stopped shaking. The tightness in my shoulders eased. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.

If you’re in the thick of it, please know: Needing help isn’t weakness. Letting people see you isn’t failure. The messier it is, the more you need connection, not isolation.

What’s Next?

So here’s what I’m doing now. I’m not pretending to be okay all the time. I’m still getting up early, like I would if I had to go to work. I’m keeping my routines: vitamins, breakfast, a shower, doing my hair and makeup—especially on days when I’m on video, but honestly, even when I’m not. I could sit in pajamas all day, but I don’t. Getting dressed is my way of reminding myself that I’m still moving forward, even if it’s just by an alarm millimeter.

I’m leaning hard on my support network. I’m forgiving myself for not being perfect. I’m reaching out instead of hiding. I’m taking care of my health, even when my head tells me it doesn’t matter. These are the tiniest, slowest forms of progress, but they’re real. They add up. They’re what keep me going.

Everything changes, ready or not. Sometimes it blows up in your face. Sometimes you walk away before it does. Either way, you get to decide what happens next.

For the Clinicians, the Families, the Strugglers, and the Dreamers

If you’re a clinician: You’re allowed to be a person, too. There’s no trophy for suffering in silence. Take the mask off and reach out. You can’t pour from an empty cup.

If you’re in recovery: Progress isn’t a straight line. You are not your worst moment. You are every comeback, every act of self-compassion, every time you reach out instead of isolate.

If you love someone who’s struggling: Your support matters more than you know. Reach out, check in, don’t wait for perfection.

If you’re just thinking about trying to get better: You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to keep going. Progress is progress—even when it’s ugly, especially then.

Call to Action

Let yourself be supported. Share your mess. Start again, as many times as you need. Progress is progress.

If you’ve had a setback, a week that blew up your plans, or you’ve found yourself right back at the beginning—tell your story in the comments. Let’s make this a place where the real stuff gets talked about. Not the highlight reel, but the real reel.

We’re all in this together. And I promise you: the universe just might have your back, too.

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Progress is progress. Even when it comes with shaky hands, tie-dye sunlight, and a cigarette you swore you’d never touch again.

You’re still here. You’re still moving. And that counts.

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P.S.
If you’re new here, I’m Belle—a person in long-term recovery, a clinician, a mom, and someone who screws up and keeps going. I write this because I know how lonely it feels when you think you’re the only one. You’re not.

If this hit home, hit subscribe, share this with someone who needs it, and tell your story below or by replying to this email. I read every comment and every reply. Next week: I’ll be writing about how to rebuild trust with yourself after a setback—what that actually looks like, day by day.

“Progress is progress—even if it’s just by millimeter.”

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