Most of you don’t know this, but I was in rehab for substance abuse. When I was a teenager, I started popping sleeping pills—any tranquiliser I could get my hands on. I didn’t want to feel anything, because the trauma and abuse I’d survived felt like too much to carry. Those pills? They were my escape hatch. My only way to breathe. But they were killing me—slowly, quietly, dangerously. I’d wake up not remembering how I’d get there. I’d black out for hours, days even, but still go back for more. Addiction doesn’t care about your survival instinct—it rewires you to chase the numbness. Then, one night, I got caught at an old friend’s house. Their parents called mine. And suddenly, I was facing a choice: keep dying, or try to live. I chose rehab—over Christmas and New Year’s of 2020‑2021. That place saved my life. One of the hardest assignments was writing a letter: Why do you “love” drugs? And what have they cost you? I poured out every memory—the overdoses, the near‑drownings, the blank spaces in my memory where I’d been too high to remember who I was. I turned that letter into a song. I sang “A Dream Is All We Are” in front of the group. The facilitator cried. The others told me it was raw, real, beautiful. They heard the pain behind the chorus. That’s when I knew: this song wasn’t just mine—it was for anyone who’s ever used something to hide from themselves. I wrote the demo in a single day, fueled by that raw honesty. I was 19. I’m 24 now, and every time I hear that track, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come—and how far we all have to go. This song isn’t a celebration of drugs. It’s a mirror. Drugs aren’t just pills or powders or vapes—they’re the bottle you drink to forget, the sugar you binge to feel okay, the relationship that numbs you, the job you grind to avoid your own thoughts. We all have something we “love” because it makes the pain quieter… until it doesn’t. So if you listen to this and think, “This doesn’t apply to me,” pause. Really listen to the words. Not everything is black and white. Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is admit you’re holding on to something that’s slowly killing you. And maybe, just maybe, let these lyrics sink in: > “Drugs just ain’t the answer.” It’s not a moral judgment. It’s a lifeline. I’m still here. And I’m still singing. — Aidan, 2025