Now let’s be real about something: Addiction doesn’t really care how old you are. And if you think it’s an issue that only hits people in their 40s or 50s, just hold on a minute. For most people, it takes hold when they’re still teenagers, still in your youth, still trying to figure out how to adult and understand yourself. But when addiction comes knocking and wanting your attention, it doesn’t care about your age, your future, or your potential, or your life plans. It just wants control of you.

This is the reality of what happens when addiction sinks its teeth in. It doesn’t just sneak up on you, it devours you whole.

Take him, for example. He’s 23. Just a kid. You wouldn’t think someone that young could be staring down the barrel of addiction, but here he is, sitting alone in his room, looking at the empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. He didn’t sign up for this. When he was younger, addiction was something he saw in older people, like the ones who’d walk out of dive bars at 3 a.m. or that guy down the street who’d been “drinking his pain away” since the ‘90s. Not for him. He was supposed to be out here living his best life, trying to find a career, getting into university, figuring out who he was. But now? He’s just another casualty of this thing that doesn’t give a damn about age.

And the hardest part? Admitting it. Because society doesn’t want to hear about a 23-year-old addict. The world isn’t ready for that conversation. Addiction is reserved for the older crowd, the “has-beens,” the ones who’ve blown it all and are stuck in some perpetual regret loop. Society wants young people to be vibrant, to be full of potential. But here he is, sitting there, facing the cold reality that he’s been lost in a cycle he can’t escape.

The stigma is real. The judgment is brutal. It’s like being told your problems don’t count because you’re not “old enough” to really have problems. That’s the part that stings the most. The world doesn’t expect this kind of shit to happen to someone just getting started, and no one’s really prepared for it. Addiction doesn’t care if you’ve just learned how to get into a club or if you’ve only been drinking for a few years. It doesn’t care if you still think you have time to turn things around. It’s already there, whispering in your ear, keeping you chained to the same unhealthy habits.

But that’s not the worst part. The fear, the suffocating fear that if you quit, you’ll lose everything. Friends, “fun,” the social circle that’s become your lifeline. It’s easy when you’re all smashed together at 3 a.m., drunkenly trying to figure out who can handle the most shots, do the most lines. But the second you try to step away, to take a step toward a life that isn’t fueled by booze or pills, you’ll feel the switch flip. Those “friends”? Yeah, they’re not sticking around when the party ends. The second you try to sober up, they’ll turn their backs, because they want the version of you that’s part of the herd, the one who keeps the party alive. They want you drunk, high, numb, because that version makes them feel better about their own destructive behavior.

And then it hits: Those weren’t your friends. They were just distractions. Real friends, true friends, would be the ones pulling you up, not pushing you into a darker corner. But that’s not what the world tells us. The world tells us to keep going, keep partying, keep drinking, keep pushing until your body can’t handle it anymore. The world keeps saying, “Just one more drink. One more night. One more memory.” It’s a sick joke. It’s the same joke everyone’s been sold for years, and it’s only getting worse.

The ads. The neon lights. The flashy Instagram influencers all with a drink in their hand, pretending that they’ve unlocked the secret to eternal happiness. It’s all designed to make you feel like you need alcohol to be happy. To have fun. To fit in. It’s all a trap. It’s an addiction in itself, an addiction to the idea that you can’t live without that drink, that high, that buzz. You’re constantly bombarded by the “good vibes,” the “freedom” of getting drunk and staying out late, but all you’re really getting is a one-way ticket to the bottom. That “freedom” isn’t freedom. It’s a goddamn cage.

Russell Brand, for all his quirks, once said that admitting you have a problem feels like “grassing on yourself.” And it does. It feels like you’ve sold yourself out, like you’ve let down everyone you’ve been lying to, including yourself. No one wants to be the one who says, “I’m done.” No one wants to be the person at the party who calls it quits and admits that they’ve had enough. But here’s the truth: It’s better to be that person at 23 than at 33 or 53, when the damage is done and it’s too late to fix anything.

Quitting isn’t pretty. It’s ugly, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s brutally hard. But the alternative? Staying stuck in the cycle, lying to yourself and everyone around you, until you wake up one day and realize you’ve wasted your youth, your potential, and your future? That’s way worse.

You don’t have to wait until it’s too late. You don’t have to wait until your thirties are over to start living. Start now. Make the choice to quit before you lose everything, before you become another story that ends in regret. You have everything to gain by choosing recovery now, before the neon lights outside the bar become the neon lights you follow straight into oblivion.