40 Years Sedated: Long Term Codeine Use UK and the Truth About Recovery

40 Years Sedated: Long Term Codeine Use in the UK and the Truth About Recovery

If you’ve ever wondered what long term codeine use in the UK really looks like, here’s the truth, raw, unfiltered, and complete. This is a story of injury, medication, alcohol, and decades of survival in a system that medicated the symptoms but never treated the cause. It’s also a cautionary tale for anyone trapped in the same cycle right now.

I was chemically sedated for over four decades. It began in the army in the mid-80s after a serious back injury. Painkillers, repeat prescriptions, and a culture of pushing through no matter the pain became my reality. No one ever asked why the pain never stopped. They just kept handing me more pills. While the NHS numbed my body, I numbed my mind with alcohol, often to excess. I mixed strong prescription meds with booze regularly, chasing relief and escaping reality. How I’m still alive is a mystery I don’t take for granted.

The Army Painkiller Starter Pack: Brufen and Booze

If you served back then, you’ll remember Brufen 400mg handed out like sweets. Sprained ankle? Brufen. Wrecked back from a bad jump? Brufen. Head pounding after a weekend bender? Brufen again. It was nicknamed ‘bulletproof Brufen’, but really it was just a plaster over a bullet wound.

We didn’t get rehab plans or proper treatment. We got pills and an unspoken order to crack on. The message was clear: get through it, no questions asked. When Brufen wasn’t enough, I turned to alcohol. I wasn’t drinking to socialise; I was drinking to cope, to escape, to function. Every ache, frustration, and sleepless night got washed down with lager, spirits, or whatever was at hand. It was the soldier’s unspoken prescription: medicate the pain by any means necessary.

The culture around us normalised this. If you weren’t taking the meds, you were seen as soft. If you turned down a drink, you were seen as antisocial. It was a double hit of chemical coping, and I took it all in.

Coproxamol: The Silent Killer

Then came Coproxamol. It dulled my senses and gave me the illusion of control, a warm numbness that made life just about bearable. I took it for years. In 2005, it was quietly pulled from the market because it was killing people, even in small overdoses. The dangers had been known, but like so many, I was never warned.

By then, I was locked into the cycle: painkillers to get through the day, alcohol to get through the night. This went on for years without intervention. Outwardly, I seemed functional, but inside, I was falling apart. My health was deteriorating, my relationships strained, my mental resilience eroded.

From Coproxamol to Codeine, Tramadol and Benzos

When Coproxamol disappeared, the replacements arrived in quick succession:

• Co-codamol 30/500
• Dihydrocodeine
• Tramadol
• Diazepam

Different names, same sedation. The doses increased over time. My tolerance went up, my dependency deepened, and the drinking never stopped. I took meds to mask pain and drank to numb the rest, living in a haze where days blurred into weeks and years slipped away unnoticed. The side effects stacked up: brain fog, digestive issues, unpredictable moods, but the prescriptions kept coming.

The NHS Pain Pathway: A Holding Pattern, Not a Cure

I’ve had a prolapsed disc since my 20s. The NHS knew. My ‘treatment’ was three physio sessions, a box of pills, and the advice to “come back if it gets worse.” It got worse. They upped the pills. There was no plan to fix me, only to keep me quiet and functioning enough to stay off the urgent list.

This is the reality for thousands: not recovery, just a revolving door of prescriptions. People are managed, not healed. The long-term costs, physical, mental, and emotional, are ignored in favour of short-term symptom control.

From Sedated to Sober

In December, I quit alcohol for good. Soon after, I stopped taking codeine and benzos. The early days were rough, the pain was sharper, my emotions raw, and my body went through the hell of withdrawal. But I started moving again, eating real food, doing breathwork, and plunging into cold water. I rebuilt my mindset day by day, learning to sit with discomfort instead of medicating it.

The pain hasn’t vanished, but I’m awake for the first time in decades. That clarity, that control over my own choices, is worth more than any prescription ever gave me. I now live with purpose rather than sedation. I no longer fear feeling — even pain has its place when it’s real.

Why I’m Sharing This

This is bigger than my story. It’s about every UK veteran, every manual worker, every person stuck on long term codeine use without real support. We’ve been told to carry on, to accept sedation as the best we can hope for. We’ve been managed into silence, made to believe that dependency is inevitable.

You’re not weak. You’ve been kept still by a system that manages pain but doesn’t heal it. You can wake up too. The first step is deciding you deserve better, then taking action, however small, to get there.

FAQs on Long Term Codeine Use in the UK

Is long term codeine use dangerous?
Yes. It can cause dependency, withdrawal symptoms, constipation, drowsiness, mood changes, and in some cases, serious long term health damage.

What’s the alternative to being on codeine for decades?
A proper review, access to physical therapy, rehab if needed, lifestyle changes, and non-addictive pain management strategies like targeted exercise, nutrition, and mind-body techniques.

Why was Coproxamol withdrawn?
Because even small overdoses could be fatal. It was officially withdrawn in the UK in 2005.

How did you finally stop?
Cold turkey from alcohol and codeine, supported by daily breathwork, nutrient-dense eating, gentle movement, and mindset rewiring.

If You’re Stuck in It Now

Start small. Question every prescription. Demand reviews. Don’t wait for the system to fix you, it won’t. Seek out people who’ve been where you are and made it out. Educate yourself, look for alternative pain management approaches, and take back ownership of your health.

There’s another way. I’m living proof that you can come back from decades of sedation and live a life that’s yours again.

What Is Meditation? A No-Bollocks Guide That Actually Works

What is Meditation Really About? Right. Let’s kill the guru bollocks straight off the bat.

You don’t need a cushion shaped like a flower, you don’t need to chant in Sanskrit, and you don’t even need to “clear your mind.” And no, that’s not even the point. The goal isn’t silence, it’s awareness. Your mind isn’t broken because it’s busy; meditation is about learning to sit with that noise, not erase it.

Here’s the real deal:

Meditation is just sitting quietly and not reacting to every single thought that shows up in your head like a screaming toddler in a shopping trolley.

That’s it.
That’s all it is.

But don’t let the simplicity fool you.
This one tiny habit can literally change your life, and I don’t mean that in the influencer-y “omg self care 🧘‍♀️✨” kind of way. I mean it in the rewire your brain, deal with your emotions, stop being a walking stress grenade kind of way.

Why Meditation Actually Works (Even If You Think It’s Not for You)

Let’s talk science for a sec. Think of your brain like a field of mud or wet clay; every time you think or feel something, it leaves a track. Meditation lets you start carving out new paths instead of getting stuck in the same old ruts. You’re not deleting your past wiring, you’re just laying down new routes that serve you better. Like when you usually reach for a drink when stressed, but instead, you take a breath and sit with the feeling. That’s a new path. It’s not about erasing who you’ve been, it’s about creating space for who you’re becoming.

🧠 When you meditate, you’re rewiring the brain. Literally.
It’s called neuroplasticity, your brain’s ability to change, adapt, and build new pathways. When you stop reacting to every thought, stressor, or feeling, you teach your nervous system that it’s safe to just be still.

And when your nervous system calms the fuck down?

• Your cortisol drops
• Your blood pressure lowers
• Your gut starts functioning properly again
• You sleep better
• You stop doomscrolling
• You stop reaching for distractions or numbing habits just to escape your emotions, whether it’s food, booze, or binge-watching shit you don’t even like
• You stop drinking just to shut your mind up.

If you’re stuck in fight-or-flight, which most of us are, meditation is the off-switch.

“But I Can’t Meditate, My Brain’s Too Busy”

No shit.
That’s the point. Nobody’s brain is quiet.

If your mind races, if you can’t sit still for 30 seconds without thinking of something cringey you said in 1998?

Congratulations. You’re human. Welcome to the party.

Meditation isn’t about not thinking.
It’s about not chasing the thoughts. Letting them pass through like traffic. You don’t jump in front of every car on the motorway, do you? Same here.

The win isn’t the absence of thought. The win is the moment you notice you’re thinking, and come back to your breath.

That’s it. That’s the rep. That’s the training.

Why I Started Meditating

I didn’t come to this from some yoga retreat. I came to it from chaos.

45 years of drinking, mate. Booze to sleep, booze to cope, booze to numb.
And when I stopped? The noise in my head was deafening.

I needed something that didn’t cost anything, didn’t require a therapist, and wouldn’t make me feel like I was doing life wrong.

Meditation didn’t fix me. But it gave me space.
Space to breathe, space to pause before reacting, space to decide what kind of man I wanted to be next.

That space changed everything.

How to Start (No Guru Nonsense)

Let me break it down simply, because I’m a fan of “keep it simple, stupid.”

🔹 Step 1: Sit Your Arse Down

Chair, bed, floor, doesn’t matter.
Sit in a way that’s comfortable, not twisted up like a pretzel.

🔹 Step 2: Shut Your Eyes

Don’t have to, but it helps. No one needs to see your socks anyway.

🔹 Step 3: Breathe

• In through your nose
• Out through your mouth
  Slow. Steady. No drama.

🔹 Step 4: Focus on the Breath

That’s your anchor. The place you come back to when your brain legs it.

You’re not trying to get anywhere, you’re not trying to “do it right,” you’re just breathing and noticing.

What to Expect (Spoiler: It’s Not Bliss)

Here’s what usually happens:

• You start breathing
• You feel a bit calm
• Then your brain goes: “What’s for tea?” “Did I pay the council tax?” “You absolute tit, why did you say that to her in 2006?”

Perfect. You’re doing it right.

Catch the thought, don’t judge it, just gently come back to the breath.

That’s the workout. That’s the muscle you’re building.
Presence. Awareness. Discipline. Without the self-punishment.

My Go-To 2-Minute Meditation (In My Voice)

This is the one I started with. No apps. No music. Just me, my breath, and the decision to stay — to stay present, stay in my body, stay with whatever shows up instead of running or numbing.

Sit. Breathe. Here we go.

In through your nose…
Out through your mouth…

Feel your arse on the chair. That’s sensory grounding. The physical contact reminds your body it’s safe, here, now. That mind-body link is what pulls you out of your head and back into the present.
Feel your belly rise and fall.
No fixing. No changing. Just being here.

Thoughts come in.

“What’s the point?”
“You’re crap at this.”
“You should be doing something productive.”

Say hi to the thought. Don’t argue. Don’t wrestle. Just breathe.

In through your nose…
Out through your mouth…

Two minutes. That’s all. That’s your rep.

You can do this while sitting on the bog, standing in a queue, or during that 30 seconds between boiling the kettle and pouring the tea.

Tiny windows of peace. Use them. Before opening your emails. Before you get out of the car. While you wait for the kettle to boil. These little pockets of stillness are everywhere, you just have to claim them.

Real Benefits You’ll Notice (And Some You Won’t Expect)

✅ Less stress
✅ Clearer thinking
✅ You stop snapping at people you love
✅ Your sleep improves
✅ Your gut calms the fuck down
✅ You crave less sugar, less distraction, less chaos

But also…

✅ You realise how noisy your brain actually is
✅ You become less reactive
✅ You feel more you

You stop running. You start noticing. Noticing when you’re triggered. Noticing when you’re stressed and about to snap. Noticing when you’re not actually present in your own life, and pulling yourself back before the damage is done. That’s what helped me stop reacting like I used to when I was drinking. Short-fused, defensive, shut down. Now I catch it early. And that shift? That’s the difference between old me and the version of me I’m building now.

Like when I caught myself snapping at someone for no reason, and instead of spiralling into guilt or justifying it, I paused. I breathed. I felt the tightness in my chest and realised it wasn’t about them. It was old fear showing up again. Noticing gave me the choice to respond instead of react.

That’s the shift.
And when you notice, you can choose.

That’s where freedom lives.

What Meditation Isn’t

❌ It’s not about becoming a monk
❌ It’s not religious (unless you want it to be)
❌ It’s not about “clearing your mind”
❌ It’s not about doing it perfectly
❌ It’s not a one-time fix for a lifetime of stress

It’s just a habit. Like brushing your teeth.
You do it because not doing it makes life feel worse.

Sticking With It (Even When You Can’t Be Arsed)

Don’t aim for 30 minutes. Aim for 2.
Stack the win. That means start with something so small you can’t fail, a quick win your brain can bank. Like laying one brick a day. You’re not building the house today, you’re just proving you’ll show up. That’s how momentum starts. Not with perfection, but with proof.

Build the habit like this:

🔁 2 minutes in the morning
🔁 2 minutes before bed

Do that for a week. Then build from there. If you miss a day, who cares? Tomorrow’s still available.

You don’t get stronger by beating yourself up.
You get stronger by showing up, even when it’s scrappy.

Final Thoughts

Meditation is one of the few things in life that actually gives back more than it takes.

No side effects. No subscriptions. No bollocks. Just you, your breath, and a decision to sit still for a few minutes.

If you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, anxious, angry, addicted, or just plain exhausted from trying to keep up, meditation won’t solve everything. But it will give you the space to deal with everything better.

That’s the win.

Ready to Start?

You don’t need to sign up for anything.
You don’t need a guru.
You’ve already got everything you need.

Your breath.
Your attention.
Your decision to show up.

So go on. Sit down. Breathe.
And meet the version of you that’s not driven by chaos.

P.S. Want a free audio of the 2-minute version to use daily? I’m building a free meditation pack inside the Sober Beyond Limits group. Jump in and I’ll send it straight to your inbox.

P.P.S. If you’re sober or sober curious and looking to rewire your head from the inside out, you’ll find more like this in my free 7-Day Kickstart at soberbeyondlimits.co.uk

45 Years of Drink: Radical Recovery, 7 Profound Benefits

The Benefits of Quitting Alcohol. Let’s cut right to it, because if you’re reading this, you probably don’t need me to sugarcoat anything. For 45 years, alcohol was my shadow, my crutch, my “friend.” It was there for the good times, the bad times, and every mundane Tuesday in between. It wasn’t just a casual habit; it was a deeply ingrained part of my identity, a constant presence that shaped my days and dictated my decisions. I wasn’t just a drinker; I was an expert in the art of self-deception. I had a black belt in denial and a PhD in rationalisation, always finding a reason, an excuse, a justification for that next drink. The insidious whispers in my mind told me I was in control, that I could stop anytime, that it wasn’t that bad. But deep down, a different truth was screaming. And trust me, after nearly half a century of that lifestyle, my body and my mind were not just tired; they were screaming for an eviction notice, a complete overhaul, a desperate plea for liberation from the chemical grip that had defined me for so long.

The Unvarnished Truth: 45 Years of Booze Takes Its Toll

You hear the horror stories, right? The grim statistics, the cautionary tales of liver damage, heart problems, the whole shebang. Well, I’m here to tell you they’re not just abstract warnings; they’re blueprints. My blueprints. They were etched into my very being, a roadmap of destruction that alcohol had meticulously drawn over four and a half decades.

My liver? It felt like a worn-out sponge, permanently squeezed dry, constantly struggling under the relentless assault. The doctor’s reports became a lexicon of increasingly alarming medical terms that sounded like they belonged in a sci-fi movie – “elevated enzymes,” “fatty liver,” the ominous mention of “fibrosis.” Each word was a stark reminder of the internal war raging within, a war I was losing. Energy? Non-existent. I was perpetually exhausted, dragging myself through each day, running on fumes and the hollow, fleeting promise of the next drink. The chronic fatigue wasn’t just physical; it was a soul-deep weariness that made even the simplest tasks feel monumental. My skin was a roadmap of burst capillaries, particularly around my nose and cheeks, giving me a perpetually flushed, unhealthy look. My eyes were perpetually bloodshot, a constant tell-tale sign, and I had the pallor of a man who hadn’t seen natural light or genuine health in a decade. My digestive system was a constant battlefield, plagued by chronic indigestion, acid reflux, and a persistent gnawing discomfort. My body struggled to absorb essential nutrients, leaving me feeling constantly depleted, no matter what I ate. And my immune system? It was in tatters, making me susceptible to every sniffle and bug that went around. I was a walking, talking testament to the destructive power of prolonged alcohol abuse.

But it wasn’t just the physical degradation, though that was brutal enough. The real damage was insidious, creeping into every corner of my life, eroding the very foundations of who I was. My relationships were strained, held together by frayed threads of resentment, unspoken disappointments, and countless missed opportunities. Birthdays, anniversaries, simple family gatherings – they often ended in mumbled apologies or, worse, complete oblivion. My memory became Swiss cheese, riddled with holes, making it impossible to recall conversations from yesterday, let alone events from last week. This wasn’t just inconvenient; it was terrifying, a constant reminder of the cognitive decline. My temper, once relatively even, became a volatile live wire, prone to explosive outbursts over trivial matters, followed by crushing waves of regret. I was a professional at isolating myself, convincing myself that my “freedom” to drink outweighed any meaningful connection, pushing away the very people who cared about me most. The mental fog was so thick, I could barely see my hand in front of my face, let alone plan for a future that didn’t involve the next pint. Decision-making became an arduous task, and my ability to focus or concentrate dwindled to almost nothing.

And the shame, dear God, the shame. It was a constant companion, a heavy cloak I wore, whispering in my ear, telling me I was a failure, a burden, a lost cause. Every morning, I’d wake up with a pounding head and a heavy heart, the guilt a physical weight in my chest, vowing this would be the day I stopped, only to find myself back in the same old patterns by evening. It was a vicious, soul-crushing cycle of promises made and promises broken, a self-perpetuating prison of my own making.

The Spark: When Enough Finally Became Enough

There wasn’t a single, dramatic rock-bottom moment for me, no cinematic crash that jolted me into awareness. It was more like a slow, agonising descent into a pit so deep I could barely remember what the surface looked like. It was the accumulating weight of missed birthdays, mumbled apologies, forgotten promises, and the ever-present feeling of being utterly adrift, disconnected from myself and everyone around me. It was the quiet despair that settled in after another lost day, another wasted opportunity to be present.

The shift, when it finally came, was quiet but resolute. It was a Tuesday evening, much like any other. I was nursing a drink, staring blankly at the TV, the flickering images on the screen mirroring the dullness in my own life. And something just… clicked. It wasn’t a voice from above or a sudden epiphany; it was far more profound. It was a profound weariness, a deep-seated exhaustion with the endless charade, the constant effort of maintaining the illusion that everything was fine. I was tired of being tired. I was tired of the lies I told myself and others, tired of the relentless hangovers, tired of the crushing self-loathing that followed every drinking session. I was just plain done. The sheer, unadulterated fatigue of maintaining that lifestyle finally outweighed the perceived comfort it offered. The thought of another 45 years like that, or worse, terrified me more than the prospect of living without alcohol. A tiny flicker of hope, a vision of a life truly lived, started to emerge from the wreckage.

That night, with a trembling hand but a resolute heart, I poured out the rest of the bottle. It felt like a small, defiant act, a severance of ties with a toxic companion. And the next morning, instead of reaching for a drink, I reached for my phone. I didn’t call a friend or family member, though their support would come later. I called a professional who understood the intricate, often baffling, language of addiction. It was the hardest, most terrifying phone call I’d ever made, filled with a mixture of fear and fragile hope. And also the most important. This was the first, crucial step in my alcohol recovery journey, a conscious decision to step onto a new, unfamiliar path.

The Turnaround: 7 Months Clean and Counting the Benefits of Quitting Alcohol

Seven months. It sounds like a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of 45 years. But let me tell you, it’s been the longest, hardest, and most rewarding seven months of my life. It’s not some magic bullet, no quick fix, no miraculous overnight transformation. It’s gruelling, humbling, and at times, utterly terrifying work, confronting decades of ingrained habits and emotional baggage. But the benefits of quitting alcohol have been nothing short of remarkable, unfolding gradually, like a slow sunrise after a long night.

The first few weeks were a blur of intense cravings, a physical and psychological battle that felt relentless. My body screamed for the poison it had grown accustomed to, sending waves of anxiety and restlessness through me. Sleepless nights were common, my mind racing, replaying old regrets and battling new urges. The crushing weight of old habits tried to drag me back down, the familiar routines of drinking calling to me like a siren song. But I held on. I leaned on the support I’d found through structured group meetings, where I heard stories like mine and felt truly understood for the first time, and one-on-one therapy, which helped me unpack decades of underlying issues. I practised distraction techniques, like long walks or diving into a book, and I talked, really talked, about the demons I was facing, not just to professionals but to fellow travellers on this path.

And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, things started to shift.

My sleep improved dramatically. From restless, fragmented nights, I began to experience deep, restorative sleep. I began to remember my dreams again, something I hadn’t done in decades, a sign that my brain was finally entering proper REM cycles and beginning to heal. The constant tremor in my hands lessened, a visible sign of my nervous system calming down. The redness in my eyes began to fade, replaced by a clearer, brighter look. My skin started to regain a healthier hue, the puffiness diminishing, and the overall texture improving. It was like watching a wilted plant slowly come back to life with water and sunlight, a true physical healing that is one of the most immediate and tangible benefits of stopping drinking. My liver, while still requiring care, showed signs of remarkable regeneration, a testament to the body’s incredible capacity for recovery. My blood pressure began to normalise, and the strain on my heart eased.

But the real, transformative changes have been on the inside, in the quiet spaces of my mind and heart.

The mental clarity is astounding. It’s like someone finally wiped the grime off the windows of my mind, revealing a world I hadn’t truly seen in years. I can think, truly think, without the constant fog of alcohol clouding every thought. My memory is improving, slowly but surely; I can recall details, follow complex conversations, and even remember what I had for breakfast, which, believe it or not, is a huge win for me. This cognitive improvement, this newfound sharpness, is a profound benefit of alcohol recovery. I feel more present, more aware, more capable of engaging with the world around me.

My relationships are healing. It’s not a quick fix, and there’s a lot of repair work to be done, a lot of trust to rebuild. But for the first time in a very long time, I’m showing up as my authentic self, not the alcohol-fueled caricature I used to be. My family sees a different man, a present man, a reliable man, and that means the world to me. We’re having genuine conversations, creating new memories, and slowly, painstakingly, mending the fractured bonds. Reconnecting with loved ones on a deeper, more honest level is an invaluable benefit of sobriety.

The shame is lifting. It’s not completely gone, and some days it still rears its ugly head, a ghost from the past. But it’s no longer a constant companion, no longer the dominant voice in my head. It’s being replaced by a burgeoning sense of self-respect and pride in what I’m accomplishing, one sober day at a time. This emotional liberation, this growing sense of self-worth, is a powerful benefit of quitting alcohol. I’m learning to forgive myself, to embrace my imperfections, and to move forward with a quiet dignity.

And the energy! Oh, the energy. I’m not saying I’m running marathons, but I’m walking, I’m getting out, I’m engaging with the world in a way I haven’t in decades. I’ve started taking long walks, rediscovering hobbies I abandoned years ago, and simply enjoying the simple act of being active. There’s a lightness in my step, a quiet hum of vitality that was completely absent before. Increased vitality, both physical and mental, is yet another significant benefit of stopping drinking, allowing me to embrace life with renewed vigour.

The New Blueprint: Living Life Unfiltered

This isn’t a “happily ever after” story, not yet anyway. Recovery is a journey, not a destination. It’s an ongoing process of learning, growing, and adapting. There are still challenging days, moments when the old urges surface, moments of doubt and vulnerability. But now, I have the tools, the support network, and most importantly, the unwavering conviction that this path is the right one. I’ve learned coping mechanisms, how to identify triggers, and the importance of reaching out when I need help. The body’s incredible capacity for healing and the brain’s remarkable neuroplasticity mean that even after decades of abuse, reversing alcohol damage is possible to a significant degree, offering hope where there once seemed to be none.

If you’re reading this, and you recognise even a flicker of your own story in mine, know this: You are not alone. Millions have walked this path before, and millions are walking it now. And it is never, ever too late to turn the ship around. The damage of years, even decades, of drinking can be mitigated; your body has an incredible capacity for healing, and your mind can be retrained. Embrace the benefits of quitting alcohol and reclaim your life, one conscious choice at a time.

My message is simple, stripped bare of all complexity: Sobriety isn’t about giving something up; it’s about gaining everything back. It’s about reclaiming your life, your health, your relationships, your peace of mind, and your true, authentic self. It’s about finding freedom from the chains you didn’t even realise were holding you captive, and stepping into a future filled with possibility. Now, I wake up not with dread, but with genuine anticipation for the day. I can truly listen to my family, be present for their joys and struggles, and build connections that are real, not just fleeting. I’m rediscovering hobbies, finding joy in simple moments, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a profound sense of peace.

Seven months ago, I was a man defined by what alcohol had taken from me. Today, I’m a man defined by what I’m building, brick by sober brick, a new foundation for a life lived fully and authentically. And if I can do it, anyone can.

What’s one small step you can take today towards reclaiming your well-being? Whether it’s reaching out for help, exploring resources, or just acknowledging a need for change, your journey starts with a single step. Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below – you might inspire someone else.