A little less than a year ago, I made a decision that I had resisted for over a decade. I revealed publicly, on YouTube, that I’m in long-term recovery from addiction. And I wanted to take a moment to explain why I chose to break my anonymity in so public a forum—and why it took me so long to do so.

When I got clean over twelve years ago, one of the first things I learned was that nobody is the face of recovery. Nobody speaks for Narcotics Anonymous, or AA, or any other program—unless maybe you’re a solo therapist running your own operation. The traditions of these fellowships emphasize humility and anonymity, and for good reason. Anonymity protects the program and protects the people in it.

And there’s another practical reason: when people hear “twelve years clean,” they don’t always hear the twelve—they just hear the word “addict.” You have to be careful about who you share your past with. I wasn’t looking for a parade. I didn’t need an attaboy or a pat on the back. I got plenty of encouragement within the rooms of recovery. I wasn’t chasing it elsewhere.

But the biggest reason I kept silent for so long had to do with what’s known as the Eleventh Tradition in 12-step recovery. It says: “Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, and films.” This was written in the 1930s, long before Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube ever existed. But the spirit is clear. Don’t use mass media to make yourself the poster child for recovery.

So yes, I know—I’m technically breaking that tradition by posting this. But I also want to talk about why I finally chose to speak up.

It comes down to a simple observation: I saw a need.

When I looked around YouTube, and other platforms like Facebook, I started to notice five main types of recovery content:

First, you’ve got the celebrity stories. Famous people with enormous bankrolls, bouncing in and out of rehab, making headlines when they get clean, relapse, or clean up again. And hey, I give them credit for speaking up. That takes courage. But for the average person, their experiences aren’t always relatable. Inspiration only goes so far if you feel like you’re watching someone live on another planet.

Second, there are the polished, hyper-professional presentations. You know the type: TED Talk-style productions with headset mics and elaborate slides. These folks are often selling a recovery program—or some secret sauce they promise will transform your life—for a hefty price. Now look, I have no problem with someone making a living through recovery work. But there’s a fine line between service and salesmanship, and a lot of these presentations feel more like the latter.

Third, there are the religious voices. Sometimes deeply intertwined with recovery, these speakers often lean hard into scripture and moralizing. And they don’t so much speak to you as they preach at you. That may work for some people, and I respect that. But as an atheist, that approach doesn’t resonate with me—and I know I’m not alone.

Fourth, you have the minor-league gurus. They seem to have it all figured out. They speak with supreme confidence, offering quick-fix philosophies or “mindset shifts” that supposedly change everything. And hey, maybe it worked for them. But real recovery isn’t magic. It’s work. It’s showing up. It’s messy and unglamorous, and often these folks gloss over that part.

Fifth, there are the fresh voices—people just starting out in recovery. Maybe they’ve got two months clean, maybe two years. They’re documenting their journey, which is great. But they’re still in the early stages, still learning to navigate life without substances. It’s valuable, it’s honest, but it’s not seasoned.

And that’s when I realized what was missing.

What helped me most when I first came into recovery were the real people. The ones who didn’t speak from a stage or preach from a pulpit. Just regular folks with lived experience—ten, fifteen, twenty years clean—who’d been through life’s ups and downs and stayed clean through it all. They didn’t talk at me. They talked with me.

They told me what worked for them—and, just as importantly, what didn’t. They didn’t try to sell me a cure or claim to have all the answers. They just shared their truth. They had enough time and perspective to help guide others without judgment or ego. And their message was simple: “This is what I did. Take what you like, leave the rest.”

That voice was missing in the sea of content I saw online. So I decided to put mine into the mix.

Not because I think I’m the face of recovery. I’m not. Not because I think I’m better than anyone else. I’m definitely not. But because I think there’s room—and need—for the kind of honest, straightforward, lived experience that helped me. Just some street-level recovery talk from someone who’s been there, stayed there, and is still doing the work—today.

I don’t have a secret. I’m not here to give a presentation. I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m just here to share what I’ve gone through, what I’ve learned, and the hope I’ve found. Because if you’re struggling right now, I want you to know that there is a way out. It may not feel like it—but there is.

If you’re trying to get clean or stay clean, you don’t have to do it alone. And if I can be part of someone else’s spark of hope, even just a small part, then this video—and others like it—will have been worth it.

If you’re struggling, don’t give up on yourself.

There is hope.

You may not believe it, but I promise—it’s there.

—Ivan