Dopamine Shots

These days, my dopamine comes in quieter doses.

Driving toward the beach before the world wakes up, watching the sky soften as the sun rises and if I’m lucky, catching the full moon lingering in my rearview mirror. Shopping for myself without guilt. Long walks alone with my favorite music filling the silence. Going to the gym and feeling my watch buzz to remind me I completed my exercise goal for the day. Traveling back home to see my best friend and eating all of our favorite foods for comfort wrapped in laughter and familiarity.

At this stage of my life, these are my dopamine shots.

They’re intentional. Sustainable. And they don’t leave me empty afterward.

During my marriage, dopamine looked very different. A popular hit for me was smoking that heavenly plant morning, noon, and night. At first, it felt like medicine. It slowed my overactive brain, softened a body that never knew how to rest. Sex felt more intense because I could finally be present, creating this euphoria and not constantly running mental checklists about survival, responsibility, and holding everything together.

Being the alpha was intoxicating in the beginning. Control felt like safety. But over time, it became draining.

What started as a choice quietly turned into a need.

By three o’clock on a workday, I’d already be anticipating the ritual sitting on the patio beside him, inhaling relief, letting myself drift just enough to reset, only to wake up and do it all again the next day. Every now and then, reality would tap me on the shoulder: how much money we spent, how dependent we’d become, how something external had begun to hold power over me.

That realization hurt.

Allowing something to own me was never in my nature. And yet, I allowed it. That’s the subtle cruelty of addiction it convinces you it’s helping while quietly shrinking your autonomy.

In the final years of my marriage, when I knew the ending was inevitable, something shifted. I didn’t stop completely but it no longer owned me. What had once been a ritual became occasional. Leisure instead of dependence. Choice instead of need.

That shift opened the door to something else.

I turned inward and toward my body. I ate better. I juiced. I committed to weekly yoga, which eventually led me back to the gym. I became intentional about how I got my dopamine seeking it in ways that strengthened me instead of numbing me.

Growth, I learned, can be incredibly lonely.

I had to distance myself from certain friendships to evolve into this version of myself, and I made peace with that. Some days were painfully quiet. But I wrote. I listened to podcasts and audiobooks. I reassured that inner addict the part of me that once chased excess and escape that I didn’t need that environment to feel good or whole.

And then came love.

Love for a man who couldn’t meet me in the way I needed, not fully. I went in and out of that relationship more times than I care to admit. A pattern I’ve carried in love has been removing the bandage slowly, prolonging the pain instead of allowing the wound to heal.

Until this time.

This time, I chose me.

Still, the world doesn’t make it easy. The current state of the country feels chaotic, heavy, and uncertain. It magnifies the loneliness the ache of not having arms to fall into at night when everything outside feels dark and unsafe.

But I’m learning something new.

Dopamine doesn’t have to come from escape. It doesn’t have to come from excess. It doesn’t have to cost me my peace.

It can come from presence.

From discipline.

From self-trust.

From choosing myself even when it’s quiet.

These days, my dopamine doesn’t steal from tomorrow. It supports it.

And that feels like freedom.

Every Glass Hits Different #shotsofdopamine