Stigma of Addiction: Breaking Barriers and Fighting for Redemption

The stigma of addiction destroys lives long after the substance is gone—it’s time to face the truth, challenge the judgment, and redefine what recovery means.

The stigma of addiction is a beast. It’s ugly. It’s relentless. And in professional settings, it’s a different kind of monster—one that lurks in the shadows, waiting for you to let your guard down. I know this firsthand because I’ve lived it. I’ve carried that label, watched the sideways glances, heard the whispered conversations. And in a career like law enforcement and corrections, where control and authority are everything, admitting to a past of addiction feels like handing someone the ammunition to take you down.

But here’s the thing—they can’t take me down. Not anymore.

See, I didn’t step into law enforcement until after I had already fought my demons and won. By the time I put on the uniform, my addiction was in the rearview mirror. Not everyone gets that kind of clean break. A lot of people in recovery are still clawing their way out while trying to rebuild a career. Despite plenty of reckless decisions that could have put me in the back of a patrol car, I was fortunate never to have a criminal record. That’s just luck. Nothing more, nothing less. I could’ve just as easily been sitting in a cell, another statistic of a system that rarely offers second chances.

When I entered this world, I realized fast that addiction and law enforcement don’t mix. At least, not in the way people think. Cops, corrections officers, and people in the justice system see addiction from one angle—the crime, the arrests, the overdoses, the violence, the destruction. They see the worst of it, the rock bottom that spills out into the streets and fills up the jails. What they don’t see? The fight to get out. The war being waged inside someone’s head when they’re trying to break free from the grip of a substance that’s controlled them for years.

And here I was, standing in the middle of it all, facing the stigma of addiction—one foot in recovery, the other in the system that was built to punish people like the man I used to be.

At first, I kept my mouth shut. You don’t just waltz into a profession like this and announce, “Hey, I used to be an addict.” That’s career suicide in a lot of places. Because even in 2025, when we’ve had endless conversations about mental health and recovery, the stigma of addiction is alive and well. People don’t trust addicts. They don’t believe in redemption as much as they claim to. They want a clean break, a before-and-after story with no gray areas in between.

But recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s messy. It’s brutal. And for those of us who have lived it, it’s something we carry with us every damn day.

Eventually, I hit a point where staying silent felt like a betrayal—to myself, to the people I was supposed to be helping, to the ones sitting in jail cells who thought they were beyond saving. I started opening up. Slowly, at first. Testing the waters and seeing how people reacted. Some listened. Some avoided the conversation altogether. And some—well, some looked at me like I had just confessed to a crime myself.

That’s the reality of the stigma of addiction. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been clean. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve turned your life around. In the eyes of some, once an addict, always an addict. And in a job where strength and discipline are everything, admitting to a past where you lost control? That’s like painting a target on your back.

But I refused to let that stop me.

Because I wasn’t weak—I had survived. I had clawed my way out of a pit that swallows most people whole. And if my story could help someone else believe that they weren’t doomed to stay stuck, then I was going to tell it despite the stigma of addiction.

Now, working inside a jail, this is my battleground. Every day, I come face-to-face with people who have been chewed up and spit out by addiction. Some of them don’t even recognize themselves anymore. Some have lost everything—families, jobs, homes, their own sense of worth. They’ve been written off by society, labeled as criminals, junkies, and lost causes. And you know what? I know exactly how that feels.

So I talk to them. Not as a jail officer standing over them, not as someone who sees them as just another inmate, but as someone who gets it. Because when you’ve been in that darkness, you recognize the look in someone’s eyes when they think they’re beyond saving. I’ve seen it too many times.

The crazy part? A lot of them don’t believe I was ever in their shoes. Because to them, recovery isn’t real. It’s something they hear about, something they might even pretend to want just to get through a court hearing, but deep down? They think it’s a myth.

So, I prove them wrong. I am the proof.

And that’s the part that some people in my field don’t understand. They see the stigma of addiction as a black-and-white issue. Addict. Criminal. Locked up. Case closed. But they don’t see the long game. They don’t see the fight to get back up, the battle it takes to get clean and rebuild an entire life from scratch. They don’t understand the strength it takes to stay sober in a world that constantly pushes temptation in your face.

But I do.

And that’s why I refuse to stay silent about it. Silence is what keeps the stigma of addiction alive. Silence is what makes people feel like they have to hide their recovery like they have to be ashamed of the fact that they pulled themselves out of hell. And I won’t be part of that.

Sure, there are still people who judge. Some still think I don’t belong in this profession because of my past. And maybe I don’t fit the mold of what a law enforcement officer or a corrections officer is supposed to be.

Good.

Because that mold is broken. That mold is the reason people in addiction feel like they have no way out. That mold is the reason people relapse in silence, afraid to ask for help because they don’t want to be branded as weak.

I refuse to be part of that system and the stigma of addiction.

So, if my story makes someone uncomfortable? Good. Let them sit with that discomfort. Let them rethink what they thought they knew about addiction and recovery. Because at the end of the day, I don’t need their approval. I know who I am. I know what I’ve survived. And I know that my voice, my experience, my fight matters.

And if it helps even one person believe that they’re not beyond saving? Then it’s all worth it—every time.

Stay disciplined. Stay resilient. Live with PRIDE.

Jim Lunsford

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