I've been staring at my laptop screen for twenty minutes, cursor blinking mockingly at me, because I'm trying to write about something that sometimes makes me deeply uncomfortable: the fact that I ultimately profit from people's pain.
There, I said it.
I run a sobriety coaching business. I've built landing pages with compelling headlines, crafted email sequences that nudge people toward purchasing decisions, and yes - I've even A/B tested subject lines to maximise open rates. All in service of helping people overcome alcohol addiction.
And every time I optimise a conversion rate or celebrate a successful launch, a small voice in the back of my head whispers: "Are you exploiting vulnerable people?"
The Guilt That Keeps Me Up at Night
Let me paint you a picture of my internal conflict:
It's 2 AM. I'm lying in bed, mind racing. Earlier that day, I'd been working on improving the checkout flow for the Phenomenal program - removing friction points, adding urgency elements, making it easier for people to buy. Standard business practice, right?
But then I remember Sarah (not her real name), who reached out to me last week. She's tried to quit drinking seventeen times. Seventeen times. She's desperate, vulnerable, and willing to try anything. When she sees my marketing materials promising transformation, is she making a rational decision, or is she grasping at straws because she's in crisis?
This is the uncomfortable reality of being in the addiction recovery space: your target audience is, by definition, in a vulnerable state. They're often desperate, sometimes at rock bottom, and frequently making emotionally-driven decisions.
So when I write copy that speaks to their pain points, when I create urgency around enrolment deadlines, when I price my services at a level that ensures my business survives - am I helping or am I taking advantage?
The False Binary
Here's what I've learned after years of wrestling with this tension: the question itself is flawed.
We've created a false binary that says something must be either purely altruistic or purely commercial. But life - and certainly business - doesn't work that way.
The uncomfortable truth is that effective help often requires sustainable business practices. And sustainable business practices, done ethically, can enable more effective help.
Consider this: the free NHS addiction services in the UK have waiting lists stretching months. Alcoholics Anonymous, while free and helpful for many, doesn't work for everyone. Traditional rehab centres cost tens of thousands of pounds and often have success rates that would embarrass any other industry.
Meanwhile, I can start working with someone next week. I can provide personalised, evidence-based support delivered in a format that actually engages people rather than preaching at them. I can be available for crisis support, celebrate their wins, and adjust my approach based on what's working for them specifically.
But I can only do this if my business survives.
The Money Question Everyone Avoids
Let's talk about something that makes everyone in the helping professions squirm: money.
At the time of writing I charge up to £1,200 for the Phenomenal program. That's roughly what some people spend on alcohol in two months. It's less than a week in most residential treatment centres. But it's still a significant amount of money for many people.
Every time I set that price, I feel the tension. Too low, and I can't sustain the business - which means I can't help anyone long-term. Too high, and I'm pricing out people who need help but can't afford it.
But here's what I've realised: free doesn't equal valuable in most people's minds. I've given away thousands of pounds worth of coaching over the years, and the completion rates for free programs are abysmal. People don't value what they don't pay for.
When someone invests in their recovery, they're making a commitment. They're saying, "This matters enough to me that I'm willing to make a financial sacrifice." That investment often becomes part of their motivation to succeed.
The Ethics of Effective Marketing
This brings us to perhaps the most uncomfortable part: marketing to "vulnerable" people.
Traditional addiction marketing can be predatory. Think of those aggressive rehab ads that target people in crisis, making promises they can't keep, using fear and shame as primary motivators. That stuff makes my skin crawl.
But what about marketing that's actually helpful? What about copy that accurately describes the problem someone is facing and offers a genuine solution? What about sharing real stories from real people who've found success?
I've struggled with this distinction. When I write about the "wine witch" or describe the anxiety that comes with Sunday morning regret, am I manipulating emotions or am I speaking to shared experiences that make people feel less alone?
When I create urgency around enrolment because I genuinely can only work with a limited number of people at a time, am I using scarcity tactics or am I being transparent about capacity?
The line isn't always clear, but I've developed some personal guidelines:
Accurate representation: Never promise outcomes I can't deliver. Addiction recovery is complex, and no program works for everyone.
Transparent communication: Be clear about what's included, what's not, and what success requires from them.
Value-first approach: Every piece of content should provide genuine value, whether someone engages with me or not.
Respect for autonomy: Present information and let people make their own decisions. Never pressure or shame.
The Uncomfortable Middle Ground
Here's what I've concluded after years of internal wrestling: the most ethical approach isn't to avoid commercialising recovery - it's to commercialise it ethically and responsibly.
This means:
- Building a sustainable business model that allows me to provide excellent service long-term rather than burning out and disappearing
- Charging appropriately for the value provided while offering payment plans and occasionally pro bono spots
- Marketing honestly about both the challenges and possibilities of recovery
- Continuously improving both the business systems and the help provided
- Being transparent about the commercial reality while maintaining genuine care for clients
The alternative - pretending that money doesn't matter or that business principles don't apply - often leads to well-intentioned people providing inconsistent, unsustainable help.
What This Means in Practice
I still lose sleep sometimes over these questions. I still second-guess myself when I'm working on conversion optimisation or pricing strategies. But I've learned to channel that discomfort into better practices rather than paralysis.
When I'm crafting marketing copy, I ask: "Would I be comfortable if my own family member saw this while they were struggling with addiction?"
When I'm setting prices, I consider: "Is this fair compensation for the value provided, and am I creating accessibility where possible?"
When I'm designing business systems, I wonder: "Does this serve my clients' best interests as much as my business interests?"
The tension never fully goes away, and maybe that's a good thing. The moment I become completely comfortable with commercialising people's pain is probably the moment I should find a different line of work.
The Bigger Picture
Here's what I've come to believe: the world needs more people who are willing to wrestle with these uncomfortable questions while building sustainable solutions to addiction.
The current system isn't working. Traditional approaches help some people, but leave too many behind. The commercialisation of addiction recovery isn't the problem - it's predatory, dishonest commercialisation that's the issue.
Done ethically, building a profitable business around addiction recovery can:
- Provide faster access to help than overwhelmed public services
- Fund innovation in treatment approaches
- Create sustainable livelihoods for skilled practitioners
- Offer personalised solutions that mass-market approaches can't match
The key is maintaining the tension between commercial success and genuine service, never letting one completely override the other.
Living in the Tension
I'm writing this not because I've figured it all out, but because I think these questions matter. If you're in the helping professions, or if you're someone seeking help, this tension affects you too.
As a potential client, you have the right to expect that the people offering to help you have wrestled with these ethical questions. You deserve practitioners who can sustain their work long-term while maintaining genuine care for your wellbeing.
As a practitioner, the discomfort you feel about commercialising help isn't a sign that you're doing something wrong - it's a sign that you care about doing it right.
The solution isn't to avoid the commercial aspects of recovery work. It's to engage with them thoughtfully, ethically, and with full awareness of the responsibility that comes with helping vulnerable people rebuild their lives.
I still struggle with this balance. I probably always will. But I've learned that the struggle itself - the ongoing commitment to questioning my motives and improving my practices - might be the most ethical stance I can take.
The alternative is leaving the field to people who don't lose sleep over these questions. And that's a thought that keeps me up at night for entirely different reasons.
Book a free discovery call. We'll talk honestly about where you are and whether my approach fits what you need.
If we're a good match, we'll work together. If not, we'll know and maybe I can point you toward someone or something else.
Either way, you'll have clarity about your next step.
What's your take on the commercialisation of recovery services? Have you navigated this tension in your own work or recovery journey? I'd love to hear your thoughts - the uncomfortable ones especially.
If you're struggling with addiction and considering paid support, remember: you have the right to ask tough questions about credentials, success rates, and business practices. The best practitioners will welcome that scrutiny.
