The Things We Use to Survive Can Become the Things That Slowly Destroy Us

Broken started as an attempt to understand addiction, but the deeper I went, the more I realized the song wasn’t only about substances. It was about the human tendency to cling to anything that numbs pain, protects wounds, or helps us avoid the parts of ourselves we do not want to face.

At first, I thought addiction was mostly about craving. But watching someone close to me struggle changed how I saw it. Whenever someone got too close to the truth, conflict would appear almost immediately. Not because the conflict itself mattered, but because it created escape. Addiction protects itself. It builds exits into relationships, rewrites narratives, shifts blame, and keeps mirrors from staying in front of us long enough to force honesty.

That realization unsettled me because eventually I saw something deeper:

​

I was not outside the addiction story.
I was inside it too.

Mine just looked different.

​

I wasn’t addicted to substances. I was addicted to validation, achievement, performance, and the feeling of being needed. From a young age, I learned to connect attention with worth. Baseball became identity. Success became safety. Accomplishment became proof that I mattered. And over time, I built an entire life around earning value instead of believing I already had it.

The problem with performance-based identity is that it never fully satisfies. The applause fades quickly. The goals move further away. The validation needs refilled constantly. And underneath all of it sits the same fear: If I stop performing, will anyone still stay?

That pattern shaped far more of my life than I realized at the time.

I worked constantly. Chased success relentlessly. Built businesses. Sacrificed presence for productivity while convincing myself I was doing it all out of love. And in many ways I was. But underneath the responsibility was also fear. Fear of failing. Fear of being unseen. Fear of not being enough without what I could produce.

Eventually, life applied enough pressure that the cracks became impossible to ignore.

The line in the song:

               “Thought the poison was a shelter, but it cut me to the bone…”

captures exactly what that season felt like. The very things I used to survive emotionally were slowly damaging the people around me and exhausting me internally. What felt like protection had quietly become bondage.

But Broken is not ultimately a song about addiction.

It is a song about what happens when God meets someone at the point where pretending finally stops working.

One of the most important realizations of my life came after I was baptized and attended a men’s retreat. I walked in assuming I was surrounded by men who had faith figured out. Instead, I found broken men. Men carrying shame, failure, addiction, grief, regret, and wounds they were still learning how to face honestly.

​

For the first time, brokenness stopped feeling like disqualification.
It started feeling like common ground.

That is where this song truly came from.

Not from suddenly becoming healed.
Not from having perfect faith.
But from realizing God was willing to meet me while I was still struggling.

Not after I fixed myself.
Not after I earned it.
Right there in the middle of the wreckage.

That is why Psalm 34:18 became so important to this song:

                          “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted…”

Not distant from them.
Close to them.

And 2 Corinthians 12:9 reframed weakness entirely for me. Most of my life I believed weakness made someone less valuable. But Scripture says God’s strength is often revealed most clearly in the places where human strength finally runs out.

That truth changed how I saw grace.

The song says:

                   “Jesus, I’m broken… but You’re breaking through.”

That line may be the most honest thing I have ever written.

Healing did not happen instantly. The anxiety did not disappear overnight. Old thoughts still surfaced. Shame still whispered. But slowly, truth started answering back louder than the lies. Scripture. Prayer. Community. Grace. The things I once resisted became the things helping rebuild me.

The older I get, the more I realize brokenness itself is not the enemy.
Pretending we are not broken is.

Because sometimes the first real step toward healing is finally admitting:
I cannot carry this alone anymore.

And maybe that is where God does some of His deepest work.