“I was the least successful in my family,” said Hilary Phelps, a Division I collegiate swimmer with a full scholarship. “Which is kind of fun. I mean, it’s like a joke, and I laugh about it, and like, that’s pretty good. But then, you know, my brother and sister were the greatest.” Hilary Phelps is a writer, wellness coach, and sobriety advocate who founded the women’s support platform, The Right Room. Once a nationally ranked swimmer, she privately battled a 15-year alcohol addiction. She has been in long-term recovery since 2007 and now uses her story to help others navigate burnout, recovery, and personal reinvention.
Phelps joined Recoverycast for a conversation with host Brittani Baynard, opening up about what it’s like to live with an addiction that’s hiding in plain sight, the daily work required for long-term sobriety, and finding the courage to finally share her story.
Phelps’s journey into addiction began at age 14, a time when her life looked perfect on the outside. She was a top-ranked swimmer and a high-achieving student. Yet, she felt a profound emptiness inside. “I never felt good enough,” she said. “There was something inside that said, I’m not good enough. And so it didn’t matter.” This internal struggle, a feeling of inadequacy despite external validation, drove her toward a dangerous pursuit of perfection.
“And that’s the idea of like being perfect. Right? This perfectionism that drives me, like once I’m perfect, once I, once I figure all this out, then it will feel better.” This relentless drive for perfectionism created an unattainable standard and a constant sense of failure. When she couldn’t achieve perfection, she sought an escape.
“And it just, you know, for me, when I put alcohol or drugs and my body it, quieted everything. And it just made me feel okay in that moment. And then I just chased that for 15 years,” she explained.
As a young athlete, Phelps was used to receiving praise for her accomplishments. Swimming became more than a sport; it was her source of self-worth and validation. She believed that if she just worked harder and achieved more, she would finally feel loved and validated. However, this external validation was a temporary fix that never addressed the underlying issues.
“For me, athlete athletics, it was achievement,” Phelps said. “And so I’m like, well, if I just do better, then I will feel better, then I will be loved, then I will have validation.” The cycle was relentless: a brief high after winning, followed by the need to achieve more. This constant chase for the next high became a pattern she would later replicate with alcohol and drugs.
Phelps’s struggles with depression and self-harm at a young age were an attempt to communicate a pain she couldn’t express. She cut herself “because I thought, I think I, I wanted attention, and I didn’t know how else to get it, and I didn’t know how to say like, I’m struggling and I need help.”
Mental health was not a widely discussed topic at the time, and her parents, navigating their own struggles with a divorce, dismissed her pleas for help as a “phase.” This lack of understanding left her feeling isolated, with her internal turmoil manifesting in external behaviors. The pain she was trying to articulate went unnoticed and was simply attributed to her parents’ divorce.
“Because no matter what is going through or where you sit, like socioeconomic status and stuff, like a 14-year-old can be going through things outside of like their parents’ experience,” said Baynard. This highlights a crucial point: a child’s pain is their own, regardless of their family’s circumstances.
As Phelps’s addiction progressed, she developed a new persona. The competitive, driven athlete was replaced by someone who didn’t seem to care about anything. This shift was a coping mechanism to avoid facing the reality of her addiction.
“I became somebody I wasn’t, I became someone that wasn’t innate to who I am,” she explained. “And what I mean by that is I became that like, I don’t care. You win today. Like, I don’t care. And I did though. And I feel like that starts to tip away at my soul, at my identity, at who I am. And that feels really bad too. I’m trying to fit into a narrative or being somebody that I’m not in order to keep this addiction.”
This performative indifference was a defense mechanism, a way to protect her addiction by feigning a lack of interest in the things she once loved. It was easier to pretend she didn’t care than to admit she was losing control.
Phelps’s story is a powerful example of how addiction can hide in plain sight. Despite her substance use, she maintained a college scholarship, continued to swim, and even held a job after graduation. This “high-functioning” facade made it difficult for her and others to see the severity of her problem.
High-functioning addiction is a term used to describe individuals who can maintain their professional and social responsibilities while struggling with substance use disorder. Because these individuals don’t fit the stereotypical image of a person with addiction, their struggles often go unaddressed. They are often well-educated, employed, and have stable families, making their addiction less visible.
For Phelps, this stereotypical image was a barrier to seeking help. She felt she didn’t fit the mold of an alcoholic and could therefore rationalize her behavior. “I’m not drinking before work,” she thought. “I don’t have kids. I’m not that bad.”
A significant part of Phelps’s addiction was blackout drinking, a frightening experience where an individual can seem coherent and functional but has no memory of the events.
“Every time I put alcohol in my body, I’d forget what happened the night before,” she recalled. “I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know what could have happened. And I don’t, and I wake up places, and I didn’t remember how I got there. Physically, that feels really scary. Emotionally, that feels really scary. Knowing I put myself and other people in danger feels really scary.”
Blackouts are not the same as passing out. During a blackout, the brain’s ability to create new memories is temporarily impaired, even though the person is conscious. This phenomenon is a serious indicator of an alcohol use disorder and can lead to dangerous situations, as Phelps’s experience of falling down an escalator attests.
An unofficial intervention by her college roommates marked a turning point. They confronted her, saying, “You’re acting really bad. We don’t like this version of you.”
“I would be mean to girls that I felt threatened by,” she admitted. “I would get in people’s faces. I would fight girls in bathrooms.” The person they were seeing was not the person they knew. At the time, Phelps’s response was to reject them: “I’ll get new friends.” But their words planted a seed.
An intervention, when done with love and concern, can be a wake-up call. It forces the person with addiction to face the impact of their behavior on the people they love. While Phelps wasn’t ready to change at that moment, the confrontation was a powerful catalyst for her eventual recovery.
Shame was a central theme in Phelps’s story, both in her active addiction and early recovery. She used alcohol to numb the shame she felt about her behavior. In turn, her actions while drinking created even more shame.
“Shame’s a bitch,” Baynard said. “It’s having to address why I feel so much shame and am I allowed to move past that shame? Am I okay now? Am I better now? Can I release that shame?”
The shame she carried was so heavy that she held onto things from her childhood, like a dog attacking a cat she was holding, for decades. She also worried about people finding out about her past actions. “I hope they get to know me and love me so much that if they do find out all the stupid things I did in my past that they can look past it somehow,” she said.
“I remember talking to someone that’s non-recovery and we were, and I was like, oh, and I just started sharing my story and I was like, and this and this and this,” Phelps recalled. “And he was like, oh, oh yeah. Oh. And I’m like, noted, keep these stories for people in recovery or like the rooms or somewhere because some people it’s still not fully understood.”
Phelps found that sharing her story with others in recovery was a crucial part of her healing process. The vulnerability required to speak about her past was met with empathy, not judgment, and it helped her release the shame she had carried for so long.
“I would never speak to somebody, a stranger, the way I speak to myself,” Phelps said. The journey to long-term recovery is not just about abstaining from substances; it’s about healing the underlying emotional wounds. For Phelps, this meant learning to be kind to herself.
It took years of dedicated work for her to find the same acceptance for herself that she so easily gave to others. She now makes a conscious effort to challenge her negative self-talk. “I have to cognitively say out loud now, good things to try and like outweigh those moments,” she explained.
Hilary Phelps’s journey is a powerful reminder that addiction is a complex disease that can affect anyone. Her story challenges the stereotypes of addiction and highlights the importance of addressing the internal struggles that often fuel substance use. By sharing her experiences, she offers a beacon of hope for others who may be struggling in silence, proving that recovery is not just possible but can lead to a life of authenticity, purpose, and self-compassion.
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