Every time a photo of Daniella Westbrook circulates in the media, the response is depressingly predictable. Comment sections quickly fill with ridicule, mockery, and cheap jokes about her appearance. What’s often missing from these conversations is something basic, yet vital: perspective.
Addiction is not a punchline. It is not a personality flaw. And it is not a simple choice.
It is an illness.
Addiction is not about willpower
One of the most persistent myths about addiction is that people “choose” it — that if they really wanted to stop, they could. This belief ignores decades of research showing that addiction fundamentally alters the brain. Substances affect the areas responsible for impulse control, emotional regulation, reward, and decision-making. Over time, the brain becomes wired around survival through the substance.
This doesn’t mean people aren’t responsible for their recovery, but it does mean addiction cannot be reduced to laziness, weakness, or moral failure. If willpower alone cured addiction, we wouldn’t need treatment centres, therapists, support groups, or relapse prevention plans.
Recovery is often long, messy, often horrendously hard, and non-linear. Relapse is not evidence of failure — it is a recognised feature of the illness.
What we often miss: where addiction really begins
From everything that has been shared publicly over the years, Daniella Westbrook had a very difficult childhood. While none of us can ever fully know what another person experienced behind closed doors, one thing is consistently clear in both research and clinical work: addiction rarely appears out of nowhere.
Very often, it begins with trauma. In fact, Gabor Mate states you cannot have addiction without trauma.
Adverse childhood experiences — neglect, emotional insecurity, abuse, instability, or a lack of safe attachment — shape how the nervous system develops. When a child grows up without safety, regulation, or emotional containment, they often carry that dysregulation into adulthood. Substances can become a way to soothe, numb, or survive feelings that once felt unbearable.
From a nervous system perspective, childhood trauma teaches the body to stay in survival mode. When a child grows up without consistent safety, attunement, or protection, their nervous system adapts by remaining hyper-alert or emotionally shut down. Substances can later act as a form of self-regulation — temporarily calming an overactivated nervous system or numbing feelings that once felt overwhelming. What looks like “self-destruction” from the outside is often the body trying, imperfectly, to survive long-standing stress and threat.
This doesn’t mean every person with a tough childhood develops addiction, and it doesn’t mean everyone with addiction had the same experiences. But patterns exist. And understanding those patterns helps us respond with accuracy rather than cruelty.
None of us truly know what anyone else lived through — or what they had to do to survive it.
Public humiliation doesn’t heal anyone
When someone’s face, body, or past becomes a public spectacle, it strips them of their humanity. Mockery does not motivate change. Shame does not inspire recovery. In fact, shame is one of the strongest drivers of addictive behaviour.
For many people, substances are a coping strategy rooted in unresolved trauma, chronic emotional pain, or deep feelings of worthlessness. Public shaming reinforces the very conditions that addiction thrives in: isolation, hopelessness, and self-loathing.
We would never laugh at someone whose illness left visible scars. Yet when addiction leaves marks, suddenly cruelty feels socially acceptable.
Everyone knows someone — whether they realise it or not
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: most people commenting from a place of judgment are far closer to addiction than they think.
Almost everyone knows someone who struggles with alcohol, drugs, disordered eating, compulsive behaviours, or prescription medication misuse — a friend, a sibling, a parent, a colleague. Many people are that someone, even if they’ve never named it that way.
And addiction doesn’t exist in isolation.
Every single one of us carries something: anxiety, depression, trauma, shame, attachment wounds, burnout, grief, or coping strategies that once helped but now cause harm. Some struggles are visible. Others are carefully hidden behind productivity, humour, or success.
Addiction is simply one way pain shows up.
Compassion is not the same as approval
Acknowledging addiction as an illness does not mean excusing harmful behaviour. It means understanding it accurately.
We can hold boundaries and compassion at the same time. We can say, “This behaviour caused harm,” without adding, “and therefore you deserve humiliation.” Reducing someone to their worst moments doesn’t protect society — it hardens it.
When we dehumanise people with addiction, we send a message far beyond the individual being mocked. We tell anyone silently struggling that if they fall apart publicly, they too will be laughed at. That message keeps people sick.
Why this matters more than we think
The way we talk about addiction shapes whether people seek help or retreat into silence. It influences public policy, funding for services, and the willingness of families to talk openly rather than hide in shame.
More importantly, it reflects something about us.
Compassion doesn’t mean approval. It means recognising illness when we see it, even when it makes us uncomfortable. It means remembering that recovery is not about becoming perfect — it’s about becoming supported.
Because addiction is not entertainment.
It is human suffering.
And none of us know what another person had to endure to get here.
Even if you choose to dismiss the research, ignore the evidence, or hold onto the belief that addiction is simply a matter of choice, there is still a simpler question worth asking: why not be kind? Kindness costs nothing. It doesn’t require agreement, understanding, or approval. It simply asks us to pause before we dehumanise someone who is already carrying the visible consequences of their pain. None of us know what another person survived, what they lost, or what it took for them to still be here. And in a world where suffering is already loud, choosing kindness is the least harmful response we can offer.
If someone you love is struggling with addiction — or if you recognise yourself in this — support exists. Healing starts with understanding, not judgment.
Andrea, x