Surrender Is Not Defeat: The Spiritual Meaning of Letting Go

A reflection on addiction, achievement, surrender and the spiritual journey of coming home to who we really are.

There are many ways to leave ourselves.

Some are obvious. We reach for alcohol or drugs because we don’t know how to sit with what is happening inside us.

Others are celebrated.

We lose ourselves in work. We chase achievement, money, relationships, attention or approval. We convince ourselves that the next milestone will be the one that finally makes us feel successful, secure or worthy of love.

The behaviour may be different, but the longing beneath it can be remarkably similar:

I need something outside me to change the way I feel inside.

I have been reflecting on this since my conversation with Austin Rampt on the Soul Sync podcast.

Austin’s story is extraordinary. His addiction began with alcohol at thirteen and progressed to opiate painkillers and crack cocaine. It took him through overdoses, rehabilitation, relapse and eventually to Mexico, where he became drawn into the world of the cartel.

Yet the part of his story that stayed with me wasn’t the danger or destruction.

It was the image of a man sitting alone in a room, drunk and high, crying because he missed his children.

Behind everything that looked like money, excess and excitement was somebody in pain. Somebody who had spent much of his life searching for a feeling that nothing outside him could provide.

And I recognised something of myself in that search.

To listen to the full conversation between Jason and Austin on the Soul Sync, click below:

Addiction is not happening somewhere else

Addiction can still be spoken about as though it only belongs to certain people: people whose lives look visibly chaotic, who have lost everything or who exist somewhere beyond the boundaries of “normal” society.

The reality is far more human.

In England alone, 329,646 adults received help from drug and alcohol treatment services between April 2024 and March 2025—the highest number recorded since this reporting began. Almost 170,000 people entered treatment during that year. UK government treatment statistics

Globally, the United Nations estimates that 316 million people used drugs, excluding alcohol and tobacco, during 2023. UN World Drug Report 2025

These numbers are enormous, but every number represents an individual life: somebody’s child, partner, parent, sibling or friend.

In England and Wales, 5,565 deaths related to drug poisoning were registered in 2024—the highest number since records began in 1993. The mortality rate has risen every year since 2012. Office for National Statistics

These figures should disturb us. But they should also encourage us to look beyond judgment and ask better questions.

Not simply:

Why won’t they stop?

But:

What happened to this person—and what did the substance initially help them survive?

The thing that appears to save us

Austin described his first experience of alcohol as though it solved a problem he hadn’t known existed.

For the first time, he could take a deep breath.

That insight matters because addiction rarely begins with a conscious decision to destroy our lives. Often, something initially offers relief. It quietens an anxious mind, numbs an unbearable feeling, creates a temporary sense of confidence or gives us an experience that feels remarkably like connection.

For a moment, we escape ourselves.

The tragedy is that the thing which appears to free us can gradually become our prison.

I understand that progression.

My own experience with cocaine didn’t begin with the intention of becoming addicted. It began occasionally. Then it became part of every weekend. Eventually, it started consuming far more of my life, attention and money than I ever imagined I would surrender to it.

I told myself I was still in control. I promised myself that each time would be the last.

When I finally moved away from cocaine, I replaced it with cannabis and convinced myself this represented progress because it appeared less destructive. But changing the object of escape is not necessarily the same as healing the need to escape.

My journey ultimately took me into psychosis and a complete loss of connection with reality.

I don’t share this because I want to define myself through the worst periods of my life. I share it because shame survives in secrecy—and because addiction becomes even more dangerous when we believe it says something unforgivable about who we are.

When success becomes another form of escape

During the same period of my life, I was building a successful legal recruitment business with a multimillion-pound turnover.

From the outside, I appeared to be achieving.

Inside, I remained restless.

I kept moving the destination. Once the business reached the next level, I would be happy. Once I had more money, more support or another holiday, I would feel peaceful.

But the arrival point never came.

Austin recognised the same pattern in his own life. As a child, he had absorbed the idea that exceptional achievement made him worthy. The reverse belief followed closely behind it: if he wasn’t achieving, perhaps he had no value at all.

This is where addiction becomes a much wider conversation.

I am not suggesting that working hard, using social media or wanting a relationship is equivalent to substance dependence. But almost anything can become a way of abandoning ourselves when we use it compulsively to avoid what we feel.

Some escapes destroy us publicly.

Others earn us praise.

A person can be applauded for their productivity while being completely disconnected from themselves. They can build an impressive life around an unhealed belief that says:

If I achieve enough, perhaps I will finally deserve love.

The world may call that ambition.

The soul may experience it as exhaustion.

The Gifts That Take Us Away from What Saved Us

One of the most powerful things Austin said was that the gifts of sobriety eventually took him away from the things that had given him sobriety.

As his life improved, he became disconnected from the practices, principles and people that had helped him recover. Success encouraged him to believe that he no longer needed them.

I think this reaches far beyond addiction.

Perhaps meditation carried us through a crisis, but we stopped meditating when life became easier.

Perhaps we learned to speak honestly, then gradually returned to hiding what we felt.

Perhaps community helped us feel less alone, but achievement made us too busy to maintain it.

Perhaps we asked for help when everything fell apart, only to become convinced that we had done the healing alone.

We often abandon the medicine once the immediate pain has passed.

Yet the practices that reconnect us to ourselves are not punishments to endure until life improves. They are part of how we remain connected when it does.

Healing is rarely one dramatic moment after which we never struggle again. It is a relationship we continue to choose.

The love we believe we must earn

In treatment, Austin’s therapist showed the group a photograph of her eighteen-month-old daughter and asked what the child had to do to deserve love.

The answer was nothing.

A baby does not need to achieve, impress, perform or prove its usefulness before it becomes worthy of love.

His therapist suggested that the difference between Austin and that child was an idea: the belief he had acquired that his worth needed to be earned.

That stayed with me.

How much of our lives do we spend attempting to prove something that was never in question?

We perform versions of ourselves that we hope others will accept. We conceal what we fear might make us unlovable. We chase people who reinforce our wounds because rejection feels more familiar than genuine care.

I did this in relationships. I wanted so desperately to be loved that I sometimes presented the version of myself I believed another person would find lovable.

But when we believe love must be earned, we become vulnerable to relationships in which love is continually withheld.

Real intimacy asks for something far more frightening than performance.

It asks to see us.

Surrender is not defeat

The word surrender can sound passive. It can feel like giving up, admitting weakness or accepting that we have failed.

But spiritual surrender is not an abandonment of responsibility.

It is the moment we stop pretending that control is the same as safety.

For many people in Twelve Step recovery, surrender includes acknowledging a power greater than themselves. That does not have to mean subscribing to one religion or accepting somebody else’s description of God.

A higher power might be understood as spirit, consciousness, love, nature, community or the intelligence that moves through life beyond the limits of our individual will.

For much of my early life, I resisted religion. I saw the harm caused when religious authority was used against marginalised people, including the LGBTQ+ community. My rejection of organised religion became entangled with a rejection of anything spiritual.

Mediumship would eventually transform that understanding.

I began to experience spirituality not as obedience to an institution but as reconnection—with myself, with love and with something greater than the identity I had constructed.

Surrender did not ask me to stop thinking for myself.

It asked me to stop running from myself.

Sometimes surrender means saying:

I cannot continue in this way.

I do not have every answer.

I need help.

I am willing to begin again.

There is extraordinary courage in those words.

Healing is not becoming somebody new

At the end of our conversation, Austin offered a reflection that captures the heart of his journey:

“My journey of healing has not been to add anything to me. It’s been to unwind all the things that were essentially not me.”

We often imagine healing as a self-improvement project.

We think we must become stronger, more disciplined, more spiritual or more deserving. We add practices and identities in the hope of constructing a better person.

But what if healing is also a process of removal?

Removing the belief that our worth depends on achievement.

Removing the shame that tells us our worst behaviour is our deepest identity.

Removing the performances we created to avoid rejection.

Removing everything we learned to become because we didn’t feel safe being ourselves.

Perhaps coming home to ourselves does not mean finding somebody new.

Perhaps it means uncovering who was there before fear told us we needed to be different.

When our failures become our service

There was a time when neither Austin nor I would have wanted people to know the truth about our addictions.

Today, those experiences have become part of how we connect with others.

Austin wrote One Last Hit and now speaks openly about addiction, recovery, spirituality and fatherhood. The parts of his life that once carried the greatest shame have become part of his service.

I recognise that transformation in my own life.

My difficult experiences have given me a softness I may not otherwise possess. They have changed how I see people. They have made it much harder for me to divide the world neatly into good people and bad people, successes and failures, the worthy and the unworthy.

I know how different somebody’s internal reality can be from the life they appear to be living.

Our pain does not automatically make us wiser. Suffering is not something we need to romanticise, and nobody should be told that a traumatic experience happened simply to teach them a lesson.

But when we begin to heal, we can decide what our pain becomes.

What once isolated us can become a bridge.

What once silenced us can become a voice.

What once made us feel unworthy can become the place from which we help another person feel less alone.

Coming home

Austin’s story is dramatic, but its deepest truth is quiet.

Underneath the addiction, the achievement and the running was a human being longing for connection.

Perhaps that longing exists within all of us.

We reach outward because we have forgotten how to return inward. We look for something to complete us because we have mistaken our wounds for evidence that we are incomplete.

Awakening does not always arrive through light and peace.

Sometimes it arrives when the life we have constructed can no longer protect us from what we need to face.

Sometimes it begins with surrender.

Not surrender as defeat, but surrender as honesty.

The honesty to say that what we are doing is no longer working.

The honesty to let ourselves be seen.

The honesty to accept help.

And the honesty to consider that what we have been searching for may not be somewhere ahead of us.

It may have been within us all along.

A moment for reflection

You might like to sit with these questions:

  • What do I reach for when I don’t want to feel what I am feeling?

  • What does that behaviour appear to give me?

  • Have I confused achievement, attention or approval with worth?

  • Which practices or relationships once helped me reconnect with myself?

  • Have the gifts of healing taken me away from what helped me heal?

  • What am I afraid might happen if I allow myself to be fully seen?

  • Where in my life might surrender be an act of courage?

  • What if healing is less about becoming somebody new and more about remembering who I have always been?

Listen to my complete conversation with Austin Rampt on the Soul Sync podcast.

Austin is the author of One Last Hit: The Remarkable True Story of an Addict’s Journey to Find Himself. You can learn more about Austin and his book at OneLastHitBook.com.

A note about support

This article discusses addiction, overdose, relapse and psychosis. If you are struggling with drug use, you are entitled to support and treatment. You can speak to your GP or contact a local drug treatment service directly through the NHS addiction-support guidance.

If you are physically dependent on alcohol, seek medical advice before stopping suddenly, as withdrawal can be dangerous. NHS alcohol support.

To read the full conversation between Austin and Jason click below

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