Finding Freedom in Nature: My Path from Opioid Addiction to a Life Reclaimed by Nathan Scott

“Nature doesn’t care about your problems. It just is. And for the first time in years, I felt like I could just be, too. No expectations, no need to impress anyone—just me and the wild.”

-Nathan Scott

Hey, I’m Nathan. I’m 36 years old, and a little over four years ago, I quit opioids for good. Four years and three months, to be exact—not that I’m counting (okay, maybe I am). Sometimes, it feels like that part of my life was a bad dream, like the person I was back then was some distant cousin I barely remember. Other times, it’s right there, lurking in the background, reminding me of just how slippery life can get if you’re not paying attention. Addiction has this way of creeping into your life, quiet at first, then one day you’re standing there like, “Wait…how did I end up here?” But here I am—somehow on the other side, breathing fresh mountain air, finding peace in places I’d totally overlooked.

It hasn’t been easy; I’m a serious dude by nature, a “what’s-the-worst-that-can-happen?” kinda guy. I can take a good day and overthink it into an existential crisis. But, strangely enough, even with all the wreckage I left behind in my addiction, I still have this nagging optimism—like a part of me just refuses to believe life can’t be better. I try to see the good in people, in second chances, and yeah, even in myself. I’ve come to realize that that little spark of hope, as cheesy as it sounds, has been my lifeline.

Seattle Kid with a Big Imagination (And Anxiety to Match)

I grew up in Seattle, so if you know that vibe, you’ll get me right away. Seattle has this rainy, mysterious, almost brooding beauty. It’s the kind of place that lets you fade into the background a little, get lost in your own head. I was always kind of a sensitive kid, quiet, with big dreams and even bigger worries. While other kids were out riding bikes, I was sitting inside, journaling my random fears and overthinking the next twenty years of my life.

As much as I worried, I loved the outdoors. My family would drag me to Mount Rainier or take me camping in the Cascades, and those trips were the best. I’d stand at the base of these towering mountains and feel small in the best way, like all my little worries didn’t matter out there. I remember thinking, One day, I’m gonna do something that big too. But then life took a turn I didn’t see coming, and the last thing I did was go “big” in any good way.

How I Fell into the Trap: The Opioid Spiral

I wasn’t one of those people who grew up rebelling or pushing boundaries. In fact, if you’d told teenage me that one day I’d be hooked on opioids, I’d have laughed. I was always the rule-follower, the straight-and-narrow kid. But, funny enough, all that seriousness had a downside. By my early twenties, I was working a job I didn’t love, stressing myself out constantly, and feeling more lost than ever. I could never just chill out—every little thing felt like it was gonna make or break my future.

Then came this construction gig. I threw my back out pretty bad, and the doc prescribed me painkillers. Oxycontin. I didn’t think twice. I trusted they’d help the pain, get me back on my feet, end of story. What I didn’t realize was how quickly they’d become more than just pain relief. After a few days, it wasn’t just my back that felt better—my whole brain felt, I don’t know, quieter. The constant anxiety, the worry about what I was doing with my life—it all just faded. And I liked that way more than I’d admit at the time.

One pill turned into two, then five, then ten. It was this slow drift where I convinced myself I had it under control. I kept saying, “I’ll stop when I need to.” Spoiler: I didn’t. Pretty soon, the drugs had control over me, and my life became this blurry mess of chasing pills, dodging calls from my family, and lying to everyone about how “great” I was doing. I wasn’t just escaping the pain; I was escaping everything. By the time I hit my late twenties, I was just a shell, barely holding it together. I wasn’t living; I was surviving. “Who is Nathan,” I’d ask myself.

Rock Bottom: The Birthday Dinner Disaster

Rock bottom isn’t glamorous, I’ll tell you that. Mine was painfully ordinary—a family dinner I could barely get myself to, on what should’ve been a happy day. It was my birthday, and my family was all there, ready to celebrate. I hadn’t seen them in a while, mostly because I’d been avoiding them, but I figured I could pull it off. Wrong. I showed up a mess—pale, twitchy, struggling to stay present. My mom looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw the heartbreak in her eyes. It was like she could see right through all my BS.

I left that dinner knowing it was time. I couldn’t keep lying. I couldn’t keep hurting them, or myself. My family was there for me in ways I’ll never be able to repay. They didn’t judge or yell—they just said, “We’re here if you’re ready.” So I got help, scared out of my mind but also kinda relieved. It was like someone finally pulled the emergency brake on a runaway train.

Healing Outdoors: How Nature Brought Me Back to Life

Getting clean was rough. Detox was no walk in the park, and facing all those emotions I’d buried felt like ripping a Band-Aid off a wound that hadn’t even started healing. I had no idea how to deal with real life without the crutch of a pill. Every little thing felt huge, and the anxiety I’d tried to drown for years came flooding back. I started taking these aimless walks around Seattle, just trying to burn off some of the restlessness. And slowly, those walks turned into hikes.

I rediscovered nature in a way that was totally different from my childhood. Back then, the outdoors were just part of life, something my parents insisted on dragging me to. But now, they became my therapy. I’d drive out to the Cascades or find a quiet spot by a lake and just sit, breathing in that fresh, piney air, letting it clear my head. There’s something humbling about standing in front of a mountain or looking out over a valley. Nature doesn’t care about your problems. It just is. And for the first time in years, I felt like I could just be, too. No expectations, no need to impress anyone—just me and the wild.

The Big Move: Taking on Denver and the Rockies

After a few years clean in Seattle, I felt this urge for something new, a fresh start. Don’t get me wrong, Seattle will always be home, but I needed a change of scenery, something to shake me up and challenge me. So, I packed up and moved to Denver. Colorado had always fascinated me—the endless mountains, the bigger-than-life feel of the Rockies. I figured if I was going to start fresh, I might as well do it somewhere epic.

Denver’s been everything I needed. The people, the lifestyle, the fact that on any given day you can get lost in the mountains—it all feels like a gift. I’ve been hiking like it’s my full-time job, finding new trails, pushing myself in ways I never thought possible. It’s funny—back in my addiction, the idea of climbing a mountain seemed impossible. Now, it’s something I need to do. It’s become part of who I am.

Lessons from the Trail: Realizations I Carry Into Recovery

Nature has taught me so many things that I didn’t even know I needed to learn. Out on a trail, it doesn’t matter who you were, what you did, or how badly you messed up. Nature is neutral. It doesn’t judge or hold grudges; it just meets you where you are. And every time I’m out there, I feel like I’m getting a second chance, another opportunity to be better than I was yesterday.

There was one hike, a real beast of a trail in the Rockies, that stands out. I was halfway up, gasping for air, and I thought, What the hell am I doing? I wanted to turn around, to call it quits. But then I thought about everything I’d been through to get to that point, and I just put one foot in front of the other. When I finally reached the top, the view was surreal. It felt like I’d conquered not just a mountain, but a little piece of the fear that had been holding me back. The whole experience taught me that life—recovery, especially—is just about putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how much it hurts.

Another lesson? Setbacks aren’t failures. I’ve done a lot of hikes where I had to turn back, where I didn’t reach the summit, and yeah, it’s frustrating. But I always go back, each time a little stronger. In recovery, too, I’ve had days that felt like failures. Days where the anxiety or temptation crept back in. But the thing is, it’s all part of the journey. Each time I stumble, I learn something new, and I get a little stronger.

Living with Regrets—and Moving Forward Anyway

Addiction stole a lot from me. It took my time, my health, and some relationships I’ll never fully get back. But in a strange way, I’m grateful. It taught me things about myself that I couldn’t have learned any other way. I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I ever knew, that I can face hard things without running away. It’s also taught me to be grateful for the little things—like the sound of a stream, the feel of the sun on my face, the way a trail feels under my boots.

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sobriety isn’t a destination. It’s not like you hit “four years clean” and suddenly all your problems disappear. It’s more like this ongoing trek, where every step forward is hard but worth it. And every time I’m out there in nature, breathing that crisp mountain air, I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

So, here’s to anyone out there who’s on their own journey. Whether you’re on day one or year ten, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Life’s waiting for you out there, with all its mess and beauty, if you’re willing to take it on.

-Nathan S.