Nora In Recovery

Dear Medical Students

March 3, 2026

I had the pleasure of meeting with university students in a doctoring course yesterday. My task was to share some of my experience strength and hope with them while also focusing on harm reduction and my experiences with medical professionals. In true perimenopause, adhd, fibro fog fashion I got bogged down in the details, struggled to make concise relatable points, and frankly failed to deliver the message I wanted to. I may have touched some hearts, but I wish I had a do over. So, after reflecting (aka having overwhelming intrusive thoughts on repeat after presentations and in professional situations about what I said, did, and should have done) here is a letter I wish I could send…

Dear Medical Students,

Thank you for the opportunity to share my lived experience as part of your harm‑reduction training. After presenting my story, I found myself reflecting on what I wished I had communicated more clearly to you as students who will become tomorrow’s clinicians and to the faculty who shape your training. I hope this letter provides a fuller picture of what I intended to convey: what my experiences in the medical system have been, the harm caused by diagnostic overshadowing and stigma, and what would have made a meaningful difference. Most importantly, I hope it highlights what true harm‑reduction looks like in everyday clinical practice.

Yesterday, I wanted you to understand that I am not defined by my substance use disorder. I am a mother, a student, a professional, and a whole human being with complex, intersecting identities. Substance use is something I lived with, but it is not the sum of who I am, nor is it the lens through which I should be viewed. Yet in nearly every medical setting I’ve entered, my SUD and the stigma attached to it have overshadowed every other diagnosis, need, or part of my identity.

Because of the stigma and biases attached to the conditions listed in my chart, SUD, PTSD, other mental health diagnoses, and chronic illnesses such as chronic fatigue syndrome and polyarthritis, I have been repeatedly dismissed, misdiagnosed, and spoken to in ways that caused real and lasting harm. I have heard comments such as, “If you’re looking for pain meds, I can’t give you narcotics,” or “I won’t give you ADHD medication because you’re an addict.” I have been told that my pain was “because of depression” or “because of trauma,” as if my physical suffering existed only in my mind. I have even been instructed to “look up fibromyalgia and do what it suggests,” as though living inside my own body every day provides no credibility or expertise of my own experience.

In mental health inpatient settings, I was told simply, “Just don’t drink,” or asked, “Why can’t you just stick to a program?” These statements were not isolated incidents; they were reflections of systemic patterns, diagnostic overshadowing, stigma, and the tendency to interpret patients solely through the most stigmatized element of their chart. For years, no clinician recognized that my substance use was a symptom of much deeper issues: undiagnosed severe mental illness, significant trauma history, chronic pain, poverty, and systems that never set me up for success. Because I masked well and presented well, the depth of my illness and distress was overlooked. No provider spent enough time with me to see what was truly happening beneath the surface.

It was not until I finally entered a program that understood substance use in context, rather than as a moral failing or lack of willpower, that I began to heal. This is why harm reduction matters. And this is why curriculum and clinical training must go far beyond the pathophysiology of addiction and address the human experience of stigma, trauma, and inequity.

I have been dismissed and continue to be dismissed not only because of my diagnoses but because of who I am in the eyes of the medical system: a woman, a poor person, a single mother, a person with a history of SUD, someone labeled “an addict.” Clinicians often see me only through the narrow lens of the presenting problem, rather than as someone whose experiences of trauma, poverty, caregiving responsibilities, chronic illness, and mental health challenges intersect in ways that deeply influence my health and access to care. Intersectionality is not an abstract academic concept; it is the lived reality of patients like me.

I want to express clearly what I believe to be one of the most important truths in healthcare: everything is harm reduction. Harm reduction is trauma-informed care. It is not a specialty, nor is it a set of isolated interventions. I.e. needle exchange and safe injection sites though important and necessary are not where harm reduction begins and ends. It is a way of practicing medicine that recognizes and honors the humanity of the person in front of you. Practicing harm reduction means being genuinely curious about your patient and forming a connection by asking rather than telling. It means knowing the services available in your community, understanding who can help connect a patient to those supports, and making warm, intentional handoffs rather than simply providing phone numbers. It includes looking patients in the eye and asking what brought them in, while listening past the injury, the infection, the withdrawal, or the immediate medical need.

Harm reduction also means reading your notes beforehand and following up on something personal from a previous visit, showing that your patient is seen as a whole person rather than a problem to solve. It means charting with compassion, recognizing that your words will follow patients across systems and can either open doors or close them. It involves acknowledging that every patient is shaped by nuanced, complex, intersectional experiences, and being aware of your own biases and prejudices so that you can move past them to deliver culturally aware, trauma-informed care. These are not extra steps or aspirational practices; they are essential components of ethical, effective clinical care.

If even one clinician along the way had practiced true harm reduction and true trauma-informed care, my story might have unfolded differently. The smallest spark of a connection formed by deploying any of the aforementioned strategies can leave the door open for future conversations that may lead to progress. The journey is always about the progress big or small it is never about perfection. Take the time to celebrate the progress. Every small step is a win and deserves recognition. I want medical students to understand that their words, assumptions, and clinical posture can profoundly affect a patient’s trajectory. I would love to see educators and program directors to embed these principles into the core curriculum, not as electives or one-time modules, but as competencies as essential as anatomy or pharmacology.

I hope you will remember that when someone with SUD is in your care, they are still a parent, a student, a worker, a community member, someone living with pain, trauma, hopes, fears, and resilience. Compassion is not an optional skill. It is the intervention.

I hope that sharing my story, and now this letter, helps illuminate both the harm patients experience and the extraordinary potential clinicians have to do good. Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring. And thank you for working toward a medical system that sees people fully, treats them with dignity, and meets them where they are.

Sincerely,
Nora Gilleo

Thank you for reading…

Let me know your thoughts. What would you say to a new medical professional in training? What do you wish your doctor would have learned in medical school? Do you have any questions for a person in Recovery from Substance Use Disorder and mental health challenges?

Love Always,

Nora
The Many Faces of Courage

December 5, 2025

Merrium-Webster defines courage as…

noun

: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.

In life many of us do not think of ourselves as brave or courageous because when we imagine bravery or courageousness, we picture people who survive something catastrophic, conquer mountains, or win seemingly insurmountable battles against all odds. I mean they are, but I am here to offer another image of what bravery and courage look like.

When I think about courage, I do not see capes or spotlights. I see small rooms and tired faces. I see mornings that start too early and nights that feel too long. I see the silent ways people keep going when it would be easier to give up. When I think about courage, I never used start with myself. However, nowadays after many years of reflection in recovery, I do.

I see the face of someone courageous in the mirror before the day has even started. I live with ADHD, dyslexia, chronic pain, and a history of addiction and trauma. Most mornings my thoughts are already racing and my body aches before I stand up. On those days, courage is putting my feet on the floor. It is packing a lunch, checking my planner twice, getting my kiddo out the door, and showing up to work and class anyway. It is doing ordinary things with a nervous system that does not feel ordinary. No one applauds that. But that is courage.

More faces of courage belong to my kids. They are neurodivergent, thoughtful, and more honest than most adults I know. They move through schools and spaces that often misunderstand them, yet they keep asking questions and telling the truth about how they feel. When my child looks at me and says, I am overwhelmed, and trusts that I will listen, that is courage. When they walk back into a classroom after a hard day, that is courage. When they let themselves be fully who they are in a world that keeps trying to shrink them, that is courage.

My family has taught me that courage is not always loud. Sometimes it is a conversation at the kitchen table where someone finally says, I am not okay, and we choose to sit in that truth instead of smoothing it over. Sometimes it is my kid trying a new coping skill in real time instead of shutting down. Sometimes it is me admitting I need help with something simple because my brain is tired and my eyes are done.

In recovery spaces, there are whole rooms made up of courageous faces. My face and those of many others arriving at a recovery shelter with one bag and a history that would break most hearts and still checking in and finding our bed and taking a breath. It is the faces of those of us who chose to share our story for the first time, our voices shaking but our words clear. Courage is on the faces of all of us who have had to walk back through the door after a relapse, carrying shame and hope in the same body, and still choosing to sit down. Every time we come back, that is courage.

Courage in my community looks like people who keep showing up even when they are not sure it matters. The fellowship members who make coffee before a meeting, so others have a warm cup waiting. Those who ride three buses to therapy and still text a friend afterward to see how they are holding up. A staff member who takes a few extra minutes with a person who is struggling, even though the day has already been long. Neighbors in recovery houses share food, rides, and information in small acts that help keep others afloat. These are quiet forms of courage that most people never see, but they are there.

The many faces of courage are not limited to people in recovery. Courage lives in people who have never used that word for themselves. It can be the teacher who keeps adjusting the way they reach a student instead of giving up. It can be the nurse who walks into one more room with a soft voice after a hard shift. It can be the cashier who holds their patience through a long line and then goes home to care for family with what is left of their energy.

Courage can be someone who decides to go to therapy for the first time and sits in the parking lot breathing through the urge to drive away. Courage can be someone who leaves a relationship that is eroding their spirit, or someone who stays but insists on safety and respect and real change. Courage can be learning to say no after a lifetime of saying yes, or learning to say yes when fear has always made the decisions.

People who do not think of themselves as brave are practicing courage in meaningful ways. The parent who gets up for another early shift so there is food on the table. The student who keeps returning to class after failing more times than they want to admit. The older adult who chooses to learn new skills or a new language even when it feels intimidating and unfamiliar. These are not footnote moments. They are courage woven into daily life.

For me, courage is not a feeling of power. It is a decision to stay honest. It is choosing to live my recovery out loud so silence cannot drag me back into the dark. It is letting my kids see me as a full human being who is still learning, not a perfect parent who never struggles. It is standing beside women in recovery and saying, you are worthy and believing it because I have seen what is possible.

The many faces of courage remind me that bravery is not reserved for a select few. It grows in anyone who keeps reaching for something better, even when their hands are shaking. It grows in anyone who keeps telling the truth, even when their voice is unsteady. It grows in anyone who chooses to stay, to feel, to try again.

If you are still here, still trying, still holding on for yourself or for someone you love, you are already wearing one of the many faces of courage. Whether you see it or not, it is there. Give yourself the credit for your courage that you so deserve and go put on that cape and be proud of your badass courageous self!

Love Always,

Nora
My First Post! Living Recovery Out Loud

November 14, 2025

My name is Nora, and I have spent a lifetime trying to find myself. My story is not polished. It is not tidy. It is a collection of choices, losses, lessons, and the steady work of coming back from places I never thought I would survive. I live my recovery out loud because silence was the thing that almost took me out. Hiding made me sick. Telling the truth saved my life.

I have walked through addiction, trauma, and carried shame that was never mine to carry. I have also walked through joy that felt too big to hold, and moments of grace that arrived when I had nothing left. I live with chronic pain, mental health challenges, and learning barriers, none of which have made my path easier, but each of them has taught me something about patience, resilience, and the importance of listening to my own body and mind. Recovery taught me that healing is not a single moment. It is a long conversation with yourself. It is learning to stay when your instinct is to run. It is choosing honesty over the stories you once used to protect yourself. It is waking up and deciding again and again that your life is worth the effort, and you are worthy of it.

I did not come to this place alone. I learned from people who sat with me when I was raw and scared. I learned from people in meetings who spoke a sentence that cracked something open inside me. I learned from my kids, who showed me what it means to love without conditions. I learned from the people I serve in recovery spaces who remind me every day that healing is not linear and that courage takes many forms.

I write this blog because I am still becoming. I am a student of psychology and a student of my own life. I study behavior, healing, community, and the ways people make wondrous, incandescent art out of the pieces of unimaginable moments. I study the mind in classrooms and in the quiet moments of my own home when I realize I am no longer the person I once was. I study recovery by living it.

This space is for people who are tired of pretending. People who want honesty more than perfection. People who know what it feels like to start over at an age when the world says you should already have it together. People who know what it means to build a life starting from the foundation up, because there was not one to begin with.

I am not here to offer quick fixes or pretend that healing is soft and easy. Some days it feels like lifting your whole body out of the dark using only your breath. Some days it feels like peace. Some days it feels like grief. Some days it feels like being brave enough to ask for help. All of it belongs.

If you are here, I am grateful. I hope my words feel like someone pulling up a chair beside you. Someone who understands what it means to be finding yourself for the first time. Someone who is still doing the work. Someone who is genuine and believes in second, third, and fourth chances, because she needed them too.

This is how I live my life now. Out loud. Unhidden. Whole.
And I am glad you are here for the beginning of this chapter with me.

Love Always,

Nora