


Kayla Currier is a Senior Web Content Editor at Recovery.com. She received her B.A. in Journalism and Media Studies at the University of South Florida where she served as a contributing writer and editor for the Crow’s Nest.




Kayla Currier is a Senior Web Content Editor at Recovery.com. She received her B.A. in Journalism and Media Studies at the University of South Florida where she served as a contributing writer and editor for the Crow’s Nest.
Reality TV often captures the highlight reel, not the heartbreak behind it. But for Dakota Mortensen, known for his appearance on The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, the spotlight revealed something far more complex: a man who has struggled with addiction, loss, and the weight of public perception.
In this episode of Recoverycast, Dakota opens up about growing up in a loving family, the injury that led to his first encounter with pain pills, and the spiral that followed. His story is one of resilience and redemption, from divorce and overdosing to rebuilding his life through faith, fatherhood, and the fight for self-love.
For anyone who’s ever felt trapped by addiction, shame, or the opinions of others, Dakota’s journey is a masterclass in what it means to keep going, and to hold on to even the smallest sliver of hope when everything feels lost.
Dakota’s story begins on a farm in rural Idaho, surrounded by family, hard work, and small-town values. By all accounts, he had an “awesome upbringing.” His parents were loving, his siblings were athletic, and he lived for basketball.
“Basketball was my whole life,” he recalls. “I should have known then that I had an addictive personality.” His dedication to the sport bordered on obsession, which would be a preview of how he’d later chase the numbness of a high with the same intensity.
A knee injury during his senior year changed everything. A friend offered him a few painkillers after practice, assuring him they’d “help with the pain.” The relief was immediate, and at the time, the danger was invisible. “I didn’t even know what they were,” he says. “I just knew they worked.”
From that moment, he was hooked. Not just on the pills, but on the escape they provided.
Like many teens, Dakota didn’t understand what addiction was, or how quickly it could take over. “I told myself I wasn’t addicted,” he admits. “I heard the announcements at school about pills being bad, but my brain started convincing me I was different.”
Even as his parents caught him with drugs and tried to intervene, he rationalized his behavior. He wasn’t a “typical addict.” He was a hardworking kid from a good family, and that narrative made it even harder to see the truth.
Dakota reflects on this as a warning to others: addiction doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if you’re an athlete or a straight-A kid from a stable home. “If I could fall into it, anyone could,” he says.
As his addiction deepened, Dakota’s life began to unravel. College basketball scholarships disappeared. He quit the sport he once loved. “I didn’t want anything anymore,” he says. “I was fine with nothing. My purpose was just to get high.”
He lied. He stole. He drained his parents’ jars of quarters, the kind families saved for years. “Looking back, it was probably five to seven grand,” he admits.
The real breaking point came when his high school sweetheart (and future wife) walked in on him using heroin. “I saw her face, and I felt nothing,” he remembers. “I couldn’t feel anything. It was like I had no soul.”
That moment, watching the pain in her eyes while feeling utterly numb, marked the beginning of his rock bottom.
After his wife left, Dakota’s world collapsed. “She was the only thing keeping me alive,” he admits. “When she left, I wanted to kill myself.”
He bought a gram of heroin with the intent to overdose. But before he could use, something unexpected happened. His cousin called out of the blue. “He worked at a rehab center,” Dakota says. “He took me in.”
It was the lifeline he didn’t know he needed. For the first time, he prayed. “I wasn’t spiritual, but I said a prayer, just to see what would happen,” he recalls. “And then my cousin called.”
That coincidence became a turning point. In treatment, he began rebuilding from the inside out. He reconnected with faith and learned that recovery wasn’t about perfection, but persistence.
Early recovery wasn’t glamorous. It was grueling. “Withdrawal is hell,” Dakota says. “But every sober day felt like a miracle.”
For the first time, he began to feel hope, those small moments of self-belief that once seemed impossible. “I started having positive thoughts,” he shares. “Just small things like, maybe I can do this.”
His cousin, who is in recovery himself, mentored him through the darkest days. “It was hardcore,” Dakota laughs, “but it’s what I needed.”
Through faith, therapy, and sheer will, Dakota built a foundation for sobriety that would carry him into his next chapter, fatherhood.
Nothing prepared Dakota for how fatherhood would change him. “I never thought I’d have a kid,” he says. “Every time I talk about my son, I cry.”
Having a child gave his recovery new meaning. “If I had given up back then, I wouldn’t have my son. He’s my whole world.”
He describes fatherhood as the most humbling, healing experience of his life. “Kids remind you how life is supposed to be, innocent, joyful, present.”
When the world felt judgmental or heavy, his son kept him grounded in love and purpose.
Dakota’s approach to recovery changed drastically after multiple relapses. “I used to obsess over how many days I had sober,” he says. “Now, I just focus on living my life.”
He’s found peace in simplicity, taking it one day at a time. “When I fixate on the number, it stresses me out,” he explains. “This time, I just try to live well, every day.”
Instead of defining success by time, he measures it by presence, joy, and balance. It’s not about perfection, it’s about progress.
Learn more about aftercare and relapse prevention strategies.
When Dakota joined The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, he wasn’t prepared for the scrutiny. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done,” he admits. “People questioned everything, even if I was still sober.”
He describes the paranoia of public perception, using eyedrops before filming so people wouldn’t assume he was high. “There were nights I cried myself to sleep,” he shares.
But the experience forced him to confront something deeper: self-love. “I had to ask myself, do I like who I am, even if the world doesn’t?”
Learning to separate his identity from others’ opinions became another layer of recovery, one that tested his strength in new ways.
Even with over three years sober, Dakota says recovery is still beautiful, messy, and ongoing. “You think getting sober fixes everything,” he laughs. “But that’s when the real work begins.”
He’s learned to manage new forms of addiction, overworking, people-pleasing, and perfectionism, and finds stability through working out, therapy, and staying connected to his sober community.
“Take care of yourself,” he urges. “Find what grounds you, the things that help you feel alive, and don’t drift too far from them.”
If there’s one message Dakota wants to leave listeners with, it’s this: never give up on hope.
“No matter how low you feel, there’s always hope,” he says. “You can be in one place today and in a completely different place next month.”
Hope doesn’t have to be huge, it just has to exist. For Dakota, it looked like a prayer, a phone call, a second chance, a son. And for others, it might be the courage to ask for help for the first time.
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