Have you ever noticed that many successful podcasts are hosted by recovering addicts and alcoholics? Armchair Expert with Dax Shepard is an obvious one, but there’s also We Can Do Hard Things with Glennon Doyle, This Past Weekend with Theo Von, and The Rich Roll Podcast. Not to mention both the My Favorite Murder hosts, two-thirds of the SmartLess team, and others across comedy, wellness, politics, and true crime. Once you notice it, you see the pattern everywhere.
Not all of these hosts are 12 Steppers, but for those who do consider themselves members of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) or related 12 Step programs, there's an elephant in the room. AA has an explicit tradition that discourages members from breaking anonymity "at the level of press, radio, and film." This particular tradition was written decades before podcasts existed, but the spirit of the text speaks for itself.
The rationale behind maintaining anonymity was born out of hard-earned experience in the early days of AA when word of the program was first spreading. AA members discovered that if someone from the group was publicly singing the praises of the 12 Step program, that person was likely to be perceived as a spokesperson. What’s more, if that same person were to then relapse, which unfortunately is quite common, there was a serious risk that the public would conclude the program simply doesn't work.
The result was that those seeking sobriety may be discouraged from giving the Steps a chance.
AA's coming of age coincided with the rise of broadcast media, so its founders were reckoning with a new reality of what it meant to be a public entity. The internet only accelerated that reckoning, ushering in a media environment that wrecked our notions of privacy. Today, we’re operating in an attention economy that incentivizes oversharing, and podcast culture puts particular pressure on the norms of disclosure. Many shows are enticing precisely because they offer a vicarious experience of stories of individual struggle.
When exactly is an AA member breaking anonymity? Sure, there’s a strict reading of the tradition, but there’s also space for interpretation.
On one end of the spectrum, there's Rich Roll. The lawyer turned ultra-runner’s approach is largely built on his experiences in recovery. Dax Shepard, on the other hand, will go to great lengths to say he's not an AA spokesperson. Brené Brown's entire body of work is steeped in recovery principles, but she's never been explicit about her own affiliation, whereas two-thirds of the SmartLess team can't seem to help themselves from dropping 12 Step innuendo. There's also an added layer of complication depending on the degree to which a host has been subjected to outsized scrutiny because of their celebrity status.
That is all to say, there's significant gray area when it comes to anonymity in the 21st century.
While the anonymity waters have become murky in the digital age, there's another phrase in the same AA tradition that states AA is "a program of attraction, not promotion." The idea here is that, to the extent AA works for people with the disease of alcoholism or addiction, members of the program should adopt an attitude of "show-don't-tell." If AA newcomers can see desirable qualities in recovering alcoholics, perhaps they will feel drawn and empowered to pursue a program of recovery for themselves.
“If Maron can do this, maybe I can too.”
Personally, I can say that a podcast helped change my life. In the early 2010s, I was going through my own struggles, and around that time, I became obsessed with Marc Maron's WTF podcast. Throughout the run of the show, and especially in the early days of WTF, Maron walked a fine line between expressing gratitude for his experiences and breaking anonymity. For a certain kind of studious listener, it almost seemed as if he were modeling the program of action in every conversation. In fact, many of his early episodes sounded a lot like a public 9th Step (that's the one about admitting your wrongs and making amends). A recurring reason for any listener to tune in to WTF was to see whether Maron was going to revisit his personal history with a guest, try to clear the air, and then ask: "We good?"
As WTF was ascending, it was clear that Maron was a man who was working on himself. Over time, regular listeners learned that he’d been through two divorces, several career setbacks, and a string of damaged friendships – and yet, here he was trying to clear the air and make peace with the direction of his life. So when I was bottoming out, and as I was trying to work up the nerve to ask for help, I vividly remember thinking, “If Maron can do this, maybe I can too.”
It should be said that AA and related programs do not have a monopoly on recovery, and the 12 Steps don’t work for everyone. But for people in AA who have achieved anything resembling lasting sobriety, there is an ever-present temptation to shout from the rooftops that miracles are possible. This temptation is particularly understandable when you consider the feelings of hopelessness and desperation that surround the diseases of alcoholism and addiction. When a person experiences a wholesale turnaround and a new lease on life, they want to talk about it, damnit. From there, it's a pretty small leap to think, “Maybe I should start a podcast?” And indeed, many do.
One theory for why so many successful hosts have ties to recovery is that the rooms turn out to be a surprisingly good training ground for acquiring podcasting skills. Recovery asks people to get honest about themselves, often in front of strangers. One of the defining characteristics of addiction is denial, and lasting sobriety requires rigorous honesty. People who have been through the Steps will almost inevitably cultivate qualities of humility and authenticity. They’ve also learned to become deep listeners, which is at the heart of what it means to be a great host.
The practical structure of a meeting also maps well onto podcasts. Meetings will open and close with the same language, so there’s a reliable script to work from. Speakers are prompted to share about their experience, strength, and hope; on its face, this is good creative direction. The runtime is established in advance, so if you’re going to speak up then you better get to the point. In so many ways, a meeting can look and sound a lot like a podcast.
AA members who favor a rigid reading of this tradition will no doubt bemoan the cavalier attitude with which many podcast hosts break anonymity at a public level. But to take the other side of the argument, perhaps there's something to be said for the myriad of hosts who are willing to cultivate parasocial relationships as an act of service to the newcomer. People have to learn about AA somehow, and this is one upside of podcasting as a democratized medium. We often feel like we personally know the hosts of our beloved shows, and, if sobriety is something you desire, maybe they have something you want.
"A meeting can look and sound a lot like a podcast."
I only ever met Marc Maron in person once. I was three months into my sobriety, and he was doing a talk combined with book signing at City Arts and Lectures in San Francisco. After the talk, I waited in line to get my book signed. When I got to the table, I took the opportunity to tell him, "Marc, you changed my life in two profound ways. First, you inspired me to start a podcast. Second, you inspired me to become a friend of Bill."
Maron closed the book, stood up, came around the table, put his hand on my shoulder, and looked me right in the eye. He said, "Keep it up man. Keep it up."
Was he talking about recovery or was he talking about podcasting? All I know is that I felt encouraged on both counts. And for that moment, I will always be grateful.
Editor's Note: I want to thank Michael for writing this essay on a topic that has interested me for many years. If you're interested in hearing us discuss recovery in greater detail, check out one of our joint episodes of Michael's podcast, Famous & Gravy, on Anthony Bourdain.
If you have been affected by any of the issues discussed in this essay, help is out there. Whether through an AA meeting near you, with help from Samaritans, or through another organization, there are people ready to listen and help.
Michael has created three independent shows, all of which led to major media partnerships. He launched his first show, Generation Anthropocene, in 2011 during his PhD studies in earth science at Stanford University. The podcast later partnered with Smithsonian Magazine.
After finishing his PhD, Michael developed Raw Data, in 2015, a narrative podcast that collaborated with PRX/PRI. In 2021, he launched Famous & Gravy, a dead celebrity biography podcast that partnered with Wondery in 2024. His work has earned multiple Webby and Signal Awards, including for Famous & Gravy, Black Women of Amherst College, and Stanford’s From Our Neurons to Yours. Michael has also delivered two TEDx talks. He operates 14th Street Studios where he manages production, develops podcasts for launch, and leads trainings and workshops. His clients include brands, universities, independent producers, and mission-driven organizations.
