I never saw it coming — that the person I thought I was *saving* was the one who would teach me the hardest lessons.
**When Kindness Becomes the Cage**
My uncle was an alcoholic. And he carried other addictions I won’t detail here. For **two years**, I took it upon myself to manage his life: improving his living conditions, making choices in his stead, trying to be a hero in a situation spiralling out of control.
This all happened while my mother was fading into her final stages of brain disease, and while I was scrambling to find a new care home for my sister — whose epilepsy specialist residential placement was being shut down.
If it sounds like too much — it was. Running multiple business empires on top of that felt like balancing on a knife’s edge.
And when I look back now, I ask: What planet was I on when I volunteered to “save” him?
At the time, I think I believed strongly in my moral code — that caring was duty. That stepping in was the only honourable path.
But here’s the twist: I believed he was the addict. The one with the problem.
I was wrong.
**The Addiction I Didn’t See**
The more I “helped,” the more I realised something uncomfortable: I’m the addict.
Not to drink, but to struggle. To tension. To proving my worth through rescuing others.
Call it conditioning, unmet need, or something I inherited. But I’ll call it what it is: **I’m addicted to struggle**.
I had been raised in a system where struggling was equated with virtue. Praise came when I coped brilliantly, even under suffering. It taught me that the harder the battle, the more valid the success.
So I leaned in. I swallowed more pain. I accepted more roles.
My uncle never recovered. Two years in, he passed away from his addiction.
Me? My addiction won’t take me out physically (I hope). But it’s a slow drain. And I’m facing it head on now.
**From Resistance to Rewiring**
It’s not easy to reprogram a wiring that’s been reinforced for decades. The world gives you more of what you *tend to look for.*
If you expect struggle, your brain gravitates toward struggle. If you expect conflict, you’ll unconsciously attract it.
The harder I’ve worked at “earning rest,” the more foreign rest becomes.
But rest, ease, peace — these are not luxuries. They’re necessary. They’re the fertile soil from which creativity, clarity, joy, and growth sprout.
I’m done believing that pain is the only path. I’m choosing a different narrative for myself.
I’ll be transparent with you: this process will stretch me. It will unearth shame. It will demand self‑care I’ve neglected.
Yet in that space lies freedom. In that discomfort lies growth.
**Join Me in Letting Go (Together)**
As part of this **coaching franchise** community, I want to bring you along with me — not as spectators, but participants.
You may have your own addiction to struggle. Or you may know someone who does.
What if your greatest act of courage is:
To stop rescuing.
To stop sympathising with chronic stress.
To stop proving your value in suffering.
Because ease is not weakness.
Rest is not failure.
Healing is not passive.
I’m going to share with you my experiments, my days of collapse and resurgence, my micro‑victories.
Wish me luck.
Because I believe that by confronting this with honesty, I might free more of us than I ever thought possible.
by Gemma Bailey (with the help of Ai)
