*Names have been changed to protect privacy.*

Ten years out of active addiction, I still get introduced as "a recovering addict" in certain rooms. I understand why. The word carries information. It explains context. But I've been watching what it costs — in job interviews, on housing applications, in first conversations with people I'd like to trust — and I think we need to talk about language.

I am a person in long-term recovery. I have been for a decade. In that time, I have maintained steady employment, completed a bachelor's degree at night, raised two children with my partner, and stayed involved in peer support work in my community. None of that changes when someone uses the word "addict" — the facts remain the same — but something shifts in how I'm seen.

I was passed over for a promotion I'd earned. The manager, who knew my history, said it wasn't performance-related. I believe him. I think he was trying to protect the department from "liability." The word had done its work before I'd had a chance to do mine.

Housing is harder. Landlords with broad background policies still find reasons. I've learned to answer certain questions carefully — not because I'm hiding anything, but because the word "addict," spoken or implied, has a closing effect on doors that should stay open.

This isn't a complaint. I'm writing this because I want people earlier in recovery to know what they may encounter, and I want people who haven't lived this to understand that language isn't just about feelings. It's infrastructure. The way we talk about people who have lived with addiction determines what access they're allowed, what second chances are available, what futures are possible.

Person-first language — "person with a substance use disorder," "person in recovery" — isn't political correctness. It's accuracy. I existed before my addiction. I exist after it. I am not my history any more than someone with a chronic illness is their diagnosis.

Ten years out, I'm still reframing. Still having to explain, still having to hold the door open a little longer to make sure it doesn't close on me.

I'm writing this so that maybe, someday, the door opens a little easier for someone else.