ADDICTIVE MINDSET

Words by Johan Lundblad
Photos by Markus Rössel

Some stories whisper. Others burn.

Johan Lundblad’s is one of those. An addictive mindset isn’t a confession - it’s a mirror.

One that reflects what many of us, especially men, carry quietly inside. Johan meets it with honesty and heart. It shows a man learning to face the ache behind the chase, the silence beneath the noise. Addiction here isn’t a villain, but a longing - to feel alive, to find peace.

When the bottle broke, Johan found running. Step by step, he learned that even healing can become an escape. This piece isn’t about victory, but truth.

Recovery isn’t a finish line. Sometimes strength isn’t in running - but in stopping.

Six years ago, I quit drinking.

I did hit that rock bottom, but more than anything, I was tired.

Tired of lying to myself. Tired of waking up foggy. Tired of needing something outside myself just to feel okay, just to keep going.

Alcohol used to be my comfort. My reward. My escape.

It filled every gap in my day, the silence after work, the loneliness in a crowd, the ache of being in my own head.

It was both my shield and my weapon.

I thought it made life easier, but really, it made everything harder.

When I stopped drinking, everything alcohol had numbed came rushing back; restlessness, anxiety, memories, emotions I’d buried under years of haze.

Suddenly, I had to face myself without the filter.

And that’s when I started running.

Close-up of a person's legs and feet running on a dirt trail during daytime, wearing white running shoes and dark socks.

At first, it was just a way to do something.

To burn off the energy I didn’t know what to do with.

But slowly, it became something deeper.

Running gave me what alcohol had promised but never delivered, peace, clarity, control.

Where drinking blurred my thoughts, running made them sharp.

Where alcohol pulled me down, running lifted me up.

But here’s the truth: I didn’t stop being addicted.
I just changed my addiction.

Because addiction isn’t just about substances, it’s about escape.

It’s about control.

It’s about chasing a feeling that makes the noise stop.

And I have to be careful with all kinds of addictions.

A person standing on a rocky beach near a body of water during sunset or sunrise.

This September, I trained 34 times and raced twice in one week. Only four rest days in the whole month.

I told myself I was being disciplined, but really, I was chasing the same thing I used to chase in a bottle — that brief moment when the pain goes quiet.

After that second race, my body finally pushed back.

I tried to do my usual intervals, but nothing worked.

I was exhausted before I even started. I ended up puking, sweating, completely empty.

That night I couldn’t sleep. The next day, I just lay in bed drained, frustrated, ashamed that I’d pushed too far again.

That’s the paradox of recovery: you can heal the symptom, but the pattern stays.

Running is my salvation but if I’m not careful, it can become the same trap, just wrapped in healthier packaging.

I’m learning that recovery isn’t about replacing one addiction with another.

It’s about learning to live in the space between.

The space where there’s no escape, no high, just presence.

Today, I rested.

Because maybe that’s what real strength looks like now. Not the miles I run, but the ones I don’t. 

A person running on a trail in a dense forest at dusk or dawn, with tall trees and a clear blue sky in the background.

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