Navigating the stigma of addiction in professional settings is something I’ve had to face head-on, especially in the unique field of law enforcement and corrections. It’s not something I ever anticipated would be a part of my journey, but life has a funny way of setting you on paths you never planned for. In my case, that path led from addiction to recovery and, ultimately, to a career where I now spend my days not just enforcing the rules and law but helping people who have found themselves on the wrong side of it.
I didn’t get into law enforcement or corrections until I was well into my recovery. That’s important to note because, unlike many who might be judged or written off due to past mistakes with the law, I was fortunate enough never to end up on that side of things during my addiction. It wasn’t for a lack of risk, let me tell you. My lifestyle could have easily landed me in the back of a police car more times than I care to count, but somehow, I skated by. Not everyone is that lucky.
When I entered the world of law enforcement, I quickly realized how foreign my story was to most of my colleagues. For the most part, the people I worked with had never personally struggled with addiction. Their exposure to it was limited to the offenders they arrested or incarcerated, the ones they saw in court or at the scene of a crime. These were people who had already made some bad decisions, and in many cases, those decisions had been influenced by addiction. My co-workers were used to seeing addiction from the outside — as a problem that led to crime, not as a personal struggle that someone could overcome and turn into a strength.
So, you can imagine how awkward it was for me at first. I’d gotten clean, rebuilt my life, and was now working alongside people who were often skeptical of addicts or, worse, saw them as lost causes. At first, I wasn’t quite sure how much to share about my own history. It’s not exactly casual conversation to bring up, “Oh yeah, by the way, I was in active addiction for years.” The reality is that recovery is still something that a lot of people, even in 2024, don’t fully understand or feel comfortable talking about. In a profession like law enforcement, where there’s a strong emphasis on control, discipline, and the law, admitting to any kind of past that involves losing control can feel like you’re exposing a weakness.
But recovery isn’t about weakness — it’s about strength. It’s about surviving and coming out on the other side, sometimes through sheer force of will, sometimes because someone gave you a hand when you were drowning. And for me, staying quiet about it started to feel like I was doing a disservice to the very people I was supposed to be helping — the ones who were sitting in the back of a patrol car or on the other side of the jail bars because their addiction had finally caught up with them. I knew what they were going through, even if their experiences weren’t identical to mine. I knew how powerful addiction could be, how it could twist your life up into something unrecognizable. And I also knew that there was a way out.
When I started opening up about my recovery, I’ll admit it wasn’t always smooth. Not everyone knows how to respond when you tell them something like that. Some people just flat-out don’t know what to say. Others are curious, maybe because they’ve never known someone who’s been through addiction and come out the other side. And then there are the ones who see addiction in black-and-white terms — addict equals criminal, criminal equals bad. Changing those kinds of minds isn’t something you can do overnight, but it’s something I take on as part of my mission now.
Over time, though, I found my place in this world. The thing is, recovery is a part of who I am. It’s not something I can separate from my identity or my career. And honestly, I don’t want to. Being open about my recovery, especially in an environment where addiction is often seen only in the context of crime and punishment, has given me a unique platform. It’s given me the opportunity to share my story with people who, like me at one point, didn’t see any way out. And that’s powerful.
Now that I work exclusively in the jail, it’s all I do. I spend my days talking to people who are in the thick of it, people whose lives have been torn apart by addiction. Many of them have burned every bridge, lost every connection that mattered, and ended up on the wrong side of the law because they couldn’t break free from the grip of drugs or alcohol. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s also a chance for me to show them that it doesn’t have to be the end of the story.
Sharing my own story with these individuals isn’t about me; it’s about giving them a glimpse of what’s possible. It’s about letting them know that the person standing in front of them, wearing the uniform, isn’t just there to lock them up and throw away the key. I’ve been where they are — maybe not exactly, but close enough to understand what it feels like to think there’s no way out. I’ve experienced the shame, the self-loathing, the isolation. But I also know the feeling of hope, of rebuilding, of finding strength in places you didn’t know existed.
For many of the people I interact with, I might be the first person who’s ever told them that recovery is possible. Some of them haven’t had anyone believe in them for a long time, if ever. And that’s where the power of being open about my past comes in. When I talk to these men and women, it’s not from a place of judgment or superiority. It’s from a place of understanding and shared experience. I’m not just some guy in a uniform telling them to get their act together. I’m living proof that change is possible.
The stigma surrounding addiction, particularly in professional settings, is real, and it can be incredibly isolating. But I’ve found that being open about my journey — not just with the people I work with, but with the people I’m trying to help — breaks down those barriers. It allows for honest conversations, the kind that can lead to real change. And while not everyone will understand or accept it, that’s okay. I’m not here to change everyone’s mind. I’m here to help those who are ready for change and looking for a way out of the darkness.
In the end, navigating the stigma of addiction in professional settings is about owning your story. It’s about being proud of how far you’ve come and using that experience to lift others up. Yes, there are still people who don’t get it, who will never see addiction as anything other than a moral failing. But for every one of those people, there’s someone who needs to hear your story, someone who’s waiting for the hope that only someone who’s been there can provide. And if sharing my story can make even a small difference in someone’s life, then it’s worth it—every time.
Stay disciplined. Stay resilient.
Jim Lunsford
Disclaimers:
Use of Artificial Intelligence: Jim Lunsford is committed to sharing authentic and meaningful content. To enhance the clarity and effectiveness of his writing, Jim utilizes Artificial Intelligence (AI) as a tool in the content creation process. While AI assists in organizing and refining his ideas, every thought, insight, and story shared on this website is genuinely his own. The use of AI does not alter the authenticity of his work; rather, it helps Jim communicate more effectively with you, his audience. Jim's goal remains to inspire, motivate, and connect, and AI is simply a tool that supports that mission.
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