I’m Not Addicted—Just Learning to Listen

I used to think addiction was a failure of will. Now I know it’s often a signal: your nervous system is trying to speak, but no one’s listening.

Last night, on the subway home from my late-night meditation circle, I read a message from someone who said: “I play Rooster Battle every night not to win—but because when I click ‘bet,’ for one second, I feel real.”

That hit me like a drumbeat in silence.

The Rhythm That Feels Like Freedom

Rooster Battle isn’t just a game. It’s rhythm made digital. The way the chickens clash under golden sparks—like fireflies caught in carnival light—it mimics something ancient: the human need for patterned tension.

But here’s what they don’t tell you: that same rhythm can become an echo chamber for loneliness.

When we chase that moment of ‘clicking in,’ we’re not seeking victory—we’re seeking proof we still exist in time.

When Ritual Becomes Armor

Sofia from Rio speaks of her “Golden Flame Rules”—a budget set like a prayer. Daily limit? One Brazilian steak meal’s worth. Thirty minutes max. A pause after each round to breathe.

She calls it discipline—but it’s actually sacred geometry.

Every rule is an anchor against drifting into autopilot.

Because once the game starts feeling familiar… so does the numbness.

And that’s when the real danger begins—not losing money, but losing yourself in repetition.

The Hidden Cost of Winning Feeling Real

Studies show that repetitive digital rituals activate the same brain regions as social bonding (APA citation: Smith et al., 2023). But here’s what they miss: when those rituals replace actual connection, they don’t build belonging—they build dependency on simulation.

Your brain learns: ‘This is how I feel alive.’ But if every spark comes from code… where does your real energy go?

What If We Reclaimed Ritual Instead?

Instead of asking ‘How do I win?’, ask:

• Did I notice my breath during this round?
• Was my joy tied to outcome—or presence?
• Did this moment leave me lighter—or heavier?

every time you play, you’re not just betting on chickens—you’re betting on who you want to be when it ends.

clicking isn’t freedom—it’s rehearsal for attention. The question isn’t whether you’ll play again, it’s whether you’ll remember why you started playing at all.