I used to think addiction was just about weakness, pain, or genetics. But as the Lord began to open my eyes, I realized it went far deeper. Addiction—my addiction—was ultimately about worship.

I had built my life around what comforted me, not what sanctified me. I gave my devotion to whatever numbed the ache, rather than to the God who could heal it. Taking my soul to task wasn’t about beating myself up—it was about facing the truth of who or what I had been worshiping.

I didn’t just drink to numb pain—I drank to feel like someone. Alcohol didn’t just loosen my inhibitions… it propped up a false sense of worth. It became the voice that told me, “You’re fun now. You’re strong now. You’re lovable now.” But when it wore off, I was still hollow. Still hurting. Still unsure of who I really was.

It took time, but I began to realize: My worth was never in my ability to escape pain—it was in the One who entered pain to rescue me. My value didn’t come from how well I could perform or how much I could avoid—it came from a Cross, a Savior, and a Father who never let me go.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had been listening to the voice of Folly. She was loud—persistent. She promised sweetness in secrecy. Comfort in the dark. Like Proverbs says:

“Stolen water is sweet; food eaten in secret is delicious!”
“But little do they know that the dead are there…”
—Proverbs 9:17–18

That was my reality. I feasted on what numbed me. I drank the “sweet” that cost me peace. But when the silence settled in—when the bottle was empty and my soul was still starving—I knew: I had answered the wrong call.

But grace found me.

It didn’t sound like Folly. It wasn’t loud or flattering. It didn’t promise escape. It called me to return. Not to the version of myself I tried to build—but to the One who made me.

“Keep a close watch on yourself and on the teaching. Persist in this, for by so doing you will save both yourself and your hearers.”
—1 Timothy 4:16

Taking my soul to task didn’t mean tearing myself apart. It meant letting the Spirit shine light on what I had kept hidden. It meant laying down the broken altars I had built to myself. It meant turning my worship from what destroyed me back to the God who loved me enough to confront me.

I don’t share this to shame the past. I share it because truth sets free. If you’re still listening to the voice of Folly—if “sweetness in secret” has become your daily bread—know this:

There is a better feast.
There is a better voice.
And there is a better way.

I’m not who I used to be. Not because I’m stronger now, but because the One I worship is worthy now.

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