Columns 201-300 — BENJAMIN LERNER

201

The tantalizing aroma of festive delicacies wafted through my grandmother’s apartment as I stepped into her kitchen. I was five years sober, and I had brought my girlfriend to visit my family for Thanksgiving. Cousins, aunts, and uncles exchanged tipsy banter as I slid past them to find my place in the food line. I grabbed a plate, poured myself a glass of sparkling, non-alcoholic apple cider, and headed back towards the dining room table. My girlfriend had already found a seat next to my grandmother, who was busy asking her thoughtful questions about her college classes.

Although I was overjoyed that my girlfriend was getting to know my family, I was grappling with my repressed emotional issues that had come back to haunt me. On the surface, I was steely and confident, alternating between braggadocious rants about my journalism work and my creative endeavors. Beneath my flimsy façade, I was incredibly insecure about my position in the family hierarchy. It had been years since I had last come to Thanksgiving under the influence of addictive inebriants, but I was nevertheless weighed down by extreme guilt.

Every time I walked back to the kitchen to fill my plate with more potatoes or stuffing, I was overcome by visceral recollections of my past. Every corner of my grandmother’s apartment held countless memories, ranging from joyful childhood evenings to the darkest days of my life. At the apex of my chemical dependency, I would sneak away from festive gatherings to drink or use drugs in the bathroom. I would emerge in a stupefied haze, masking my inebriation with a combination of sarcastic bravado and belligerent egotism. Although I was sober and clean, I was still holding on to my doubt and misery with the unbreakable grip of a seasoned Olympic gymnast. I wanted to drop my guard and relinquish control of the situation, but I didn’t think I was capable. At the height of my personal crisis, I remembered the wise words of a good friend from my recovery circle:

“When we make a certain amount of progress in our recovery, we can become complacent about our character defects. We might believe that we are incapable of moving past them. We may even fall victim to the illusion that they are foundational pillars of our identity. Over time, we learn that the same coping mechanisms that we used as crutches in active addiction and early recovery are not helpful anymore. We are then confronted with an important decision: Are we truly ready to rid ourselves of the emotional baggage? If we take the time to breathe, pause, and think it through, we arrive at the following conclusion: Our darkest fears, insecurities, flaws, and the crude defensive tactics that they fuel no longer serve us. We can then happily welcome the warm light of family and fellowship with open arms, and we can find a new freedom that we never knew existed before.”

After catching my breath and calming my heart rate, I let go of my fears, opened up my heart, and took a moment to survey the scene around me. My family and friends were smiling, my delusions were unfounded, and life was good. I still had a lot of work to do in my sobriety, but I was thankful to be able to be present, grounded, and aware of the gifts that I had been given as a result of my recovery program.

Always remember:

202

Powdery snow fell gently from the sky as I trudged up a steep hill. I was five years sober, and I was returning home after visiting my family. My house was located at the top of a long and treacherous mountain driveway. The road was rough, rocky, and uneven, and my home was only accessible on foot during the wintertime.

I had made the foolish decision of parking my car at the top of the hill before leaving Vermont for my Thanksgiving trip. In my absence, a sudden, massive snowstorm had trapped it there for the foreseeable future. My girlfriend was several months pregnant, and she was working at a restaurant that was located over thirty miles away. We had taken her car down to a nearby train station before traveling onward to see my family, which had saved it from being swallowed by the storm. Although I was grateful that my girlfriend had access to reliable transportation, I was nevertheless frustrated about my predicament. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else, and I couldn’t accept the reality that I had been presented with.

Upon reaching the house, I grabbed a shovel and began digging my car out of the snow with rigorous tenacity. The road was almost half a mile long, and it was impossible to carve a safe path by hand. Still, I remained stubbornly determined to free my car against all odds. My girlfriend had dropped me off at the bottom of the mountain before her work shift, and I had promised her that my car would be freed from the snow upon her return.

After grunting and heaving for thirty minutes, I came to a disappointing realization: the sun was beginning to set, and I had only cleared fifty feet of snow from the road. I quickened my pace and pressed forward, feeling my heart race with rabid intensity. After a brutish and awkward shovel lunge, I lost my balance and fell face first into a ditch. I spat out a mixture of snow and dirt and proceeded to angrily kick the boulders lining the culvert. Exhausted, I plopped down on a treelined snowbank, cast my shovel to the side, and marinated in a potent haze of self-hatred and situational anxiety.

Looking outward at the vast expanses of snowcapped trees, I felt like an insect in the grasp of a hungry bird. I was powerless against the strength of nature, and I was forced to reckon with my inability to control the world around me. Suddenly, it occurred to me that even though my car was trapped in the snow, I didn’t have to be held prisoner by my anxiety and fear.

I realized that in surrendering to the forces beyond my control, I could find freedom in serenity and acceptance. In my haste to free my car from the snow and drive down the hill, I had foregone the privilege of luxuriating in the natural splendor that was all around me. I carried the shovel back to the porch, sat down on the back steps, and took in the awe-inspiring beauty of a pastel-shaded Vermont winter sunset. As I watched the light slowly dim, I felt my feelings of anger and frustration fade away. I might not have been able to dig my car out of the snow, but I had managed to dig myself out of a bottomless pit of resentment and anxiety. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but recovery had given me the ability to accept the things I could not change.

Always remember:

203

The sounds of muffled conversations faded into nothingness as I stepped outside into the cold winter night. I was five years sober, and I was trapped in a state of self-inflicted isolation. I had just attended a recovery event for the first time in several weeks. Although I had been sitting in a crowded room full of other recovering addicts for the past hour, I still felt like I was entirely alone.

Long before the most miserable and lonely days of my active addiction, I had always been somewhat of a lone wolf. Although my Autism Spectrum diagnosis and the social complications that came with it served as a convenient excuse, the true cause was much deeper. At my innermost core, I had been plagued by feelings of hopeless unbelonging for my entire life. I had spent years building back bridges of trust with my family and friends in recovery, but a familiar sense of crippling alienation was beginning to rear its ugly head once again. There was no discernible reason for my sudden reclusion. My regression was unprompted by any pivotal event. Still, the insidious tentacles of doubt and fear were beginning to wreak havoc within the deepest cellars of my subconscious foundation. I knew that I had to act quickly before risking a relapse, but I didn’t know how.

After waddling back to my car at a downtrodden and lackadaisical pace, I plunked down in my seat and began scrolling through my phone. I was due to return at my house to enjoy a home-cooked meal with my girlfriend, but I was afraid to even show my face there. I drowned my sorrows in a mind-numbing cascade of online videos, hoping to silence my dark and destructive inner voices. I had a great life, half a decade in recovery, a good job, wonderful friends, and supportive loved ones, but none of that could erase my anxiety and low self-esteem. I had been cast away on a metaphoric island of cloistered seclusion by my own tempestuous mental maelstrom – and it was only a matter of time before the storm washed me away from the shoreline of stability and sobriety. Suddenly, I came across a blinding light of truth in the course of my social media scrolling. It was something I had never seen before: a viral video made by another person in recovery. In the earliest days of my sobriety, the stigma surrounding addiction was considerably stronger – especially on the internet. I had never expected to find a message of recovery being spread by a content creator with a large following, and it conjured strong feelings of warmth and hope. An inspirational soundtrack played behind a montage of photographs, which portrayed a complete stranger’s transition from addiction to recovery. At the end of the video, a text banner flashed across the screen with the following message:

“You deserve to be sober. You deserve to be happy. Reach out for help. You are not alone.”

I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as I closed the social media application and flicked through the contact list in my phone. I texted a friend from my recovery fellowship who I looked up to, asked them if they would be willing to meet with me and help me through my crisis, and took a long and deep breath. I had a lot of work to do, but I was grateful to be alive and sober. In my time of greatest need, the message of recovery had found me, and it had inspired me to do what was necessary to stay alive and clean.

Always remember:

204

Papers rustled on a lacquered desk as I sat in a hospital waiting room. I was five years sober, and my girlfriend and I had just checked in at her first ultrasound appointment. She was seated next to me, and it was clear that she was both excited and nervous. Her baby bump had started to show, and I was beginning to accept that I was about to be a father very soon.

I held her hand tightly as the clerk finalized the paperwork, then rose to my feet and followed an attendant down a long hallway. I smiled brightly in an effort to reassure her, but I was beginning to feel equally anxious. In my active addiction, I never imagined I would live past the age of 25. Back then, the idea of finding a life partner and raising children as a gainfully employed, 30-year-old father was a laughable prospect at best. Yet there I stood, with my heart beating at a rapid pace. I was trapped in a pensive haze as we walked through the door of a spacious medical office.

After entering the room, she handed me her bag, slipped off her shoes, and climbed up onto the ultrasound bench. The attending technician was kind and bubbly. Her upbeat affect had a calming effect on my frazzled nerves. It was a welcome distraction from my fears and insecurities. I sat down in a padded chair, clutching my girlfriend’s backpack strap with the grip strength of a seasoned angler.

As the technician readied the ultrasound equipment, I closed my eyes, paused, and reflected. It was an incredibly important moment, and I was overwhelmed and apprehensive. I wanted to be there for my girlfriend, but I was beginning to mentally dissociate. It was a coping mechanism that I had developed over the course of my recovery, which helped me deal with stress and sensory overload. Whenever I encountered hectic or emotionally-charged situations, I would create an emotional barrier between myself and the world around me. It had greatly aided me during my years in the service industry, when I was forced to deftly maneuver through tight spaces while being inundated with visual and auditory stimuli. Sadly, in this case, my self-preserving detachment was far from advantageous. It was hindering my ability to connect with my girlfriend in her time of need, and I didn’t know how to maintain my serenity while remaining grounded in the moment.

Suddenly, I came to an enlightening realization: The most significant periods of growth in my recovery all occurred when I forced myself to be fully aware and engaged – even when things were difficult to process. Mindful awareness had allowed me to confront the tendencies that fueled my chemical escapism. It had also helped me address the character defects that prevented me from moving forward in my life.

I knew that in order to be equally successful in my journey of fatherhood, I would have to remain both physically and emotionally present. It wasn’t going to be easy to move past my reflexively indifferent tendencies, but I owed it to my girlfriend, my unborn child, and myself. I knew I had to start making the change then and there, so I unclenched my fist, inhaled deeply, and looked towards my girlfriend with attentive focus and clarity. As I watched the pictures of my unborn son flash across the display monitor, I felt grateful and proud to be alive and sober. Recovery had given me the ability to be present when it mattered most.

Always remember:

205

The sounds of honking horns and revving engines echoed through the streets as I pulled into a crowded parking lot. I was five years sober, and I had just arrived at the front of a bustling department store. I was on my way to do some last-minute Holiday shopping, and tensions were running high. I grabbed my wallet and keys, zipped up my coat, and walked past dozens of savvy retail warriors. It was clear from the frustrated looks on their faces that I was in for a stressful experience, but there was no turning back now. I had already secured Holiday gifts for my closest family members, but there were still a number of items that needed to be purchased. After walking through the door, I grabbed a cart and ran through a preliminary checklist in my head. I had an hour of free time to shop for the remaining gifts, and I intended to make it count.

Inside of the store, the cheery and lively Holiday music blended harmoniously with the sounds of beeping scanners, rustling pocketbooks, and shuffling feet. Many of the shelves had been thoroughly ransacked, but I didn’t let that deter me. I tossed knickknacks and kitschy home décor products into my cart with reckless abandon. It was a glorious festival of convenient efficiency, and I was riding high on a wave of situational euphoria. After a rapid sequence of impulsive gift selections, I saw a massive rack of cozy wool socks. They were embroidered with fun and fanciful designs, each of which was perfectly-suited to a different family member. Suddenly, I saw another customer advancing towards the sock display. He grabbed two dozen pairs of socks with blistering speed, leaving the shelves barren as he cast them into his cart. My heart sank as he tore down the aisle, and my gleeful elation gave way to anger and resentment.

After wallowing in my misery for several minutes, it occurred to me that the situation that I was faced with bore striking similarity to a problem I had encountered in active addiction. At the apex of my chemical dependency, I would feel similarly disappointed when my dealer or the liquor store ran out of my preferred poison. Although I had been chemically abstinent for half a decade, the same feelings of powerless desperation had been conjured by my Holiday misadventure. I leaned against my cart and bowed my head, struggling to make peace with my trivial predicament. While teetering on the brink of insanity, I arrived at an enlightening conclusion: I didn’t have to let the socks control me like my substance of choice did in the past. Following a brief pause, I gathered my bearings, turned my cart down another aisle, and found another pile of discounted Holiday socks next to a stack of festive sweaters. They had similar prints to the socks that I had seen at the opposite end of the store, and they were even cheaper and more colorful.

As I reached down to grab the socks, I smiled and reflected on the power of detachment and acceptance. The true value of recovery could not be measured by material means – and no gift was as priceless as my sobriety and serenity.

Always remember:

206

Glasses clinked and plates rattled as I walked through a crowded, lively restaurant. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to enjoy a hearty and filling New Year’s Eve dinner. I had just arrived at the elegant country inn where my girlfriend worked, but I didn’t know how she was going to react when she saw me. We had just finished a horrid argument several hours earlier, which was deeply-anchored in our mutual fear of the future. She was three-and-a-half months pregnant, and we were both working long hours to save up money for our first baby. As a result of the hectic pressures of the Holiday season, we were plagued by exhaustion and emptiness. Our bank accounts were slowly climbing, but we were more spiritually and emotionally bankrupt than ever before.

After sitting down at a small table in a romantically-lit tavern, I began perusing the menu. In the process of selecting a suitable appetizer, I was interrupted by one of my girlfriend’s co-workers. She welcomed me to the restaurant, but her nervous smile concealed a sad truth: my girlfriend was still upset with me, and I was in for a rocky New Year’s Eve. After placing my order, I looked around the room and took in the crowd of tipsy revelers. Their cheerful conversations stood in stark contrast with my introverted, gloomy bearing. As I spread a small sliver of butter across the surface of a warm and crisp bread roll, I could feel my patience growing equally thin. I took the first bite and watched my girlfriend walk across the tavern. She intentionally avoided eye contact with me, staring forward with the dogged determination of an Olympic marathoner.

As the clock continued to tick towards the inevitable midnight celebration, I savored a tasty, yet lonesome meal before settling my check and walking outside. I felt hopeless and distressed as I wandered towards my car, but I didn’t know how to approach my girlfriend and mend our relationship. I drove off into the darkness, cranked the radio up, and pressed my foot down on the pedal. I was miserable, irritable, and discontent, and it seemed like my life was skirting off the road at an even faster speed than my vehicle. Suddenly, I experienced a blinding realization: it had been over half a decade since I had clumsily chugged a glass of New Year’s Eve champagne, but I was still behaving like an incorrigible drunkard. I was literally and metaphorically speeding towards ruin in a resentful daze – and I knew that it was time to turn my life around in every sense. I reversed my course several miles before reaching my house, took a deep breath, and remembered the wise words a friend had told me on my first sober New Year’s Eve:

“Don’t go into the New Year angry about what happened or what you couldn’t control. Celebrate your life and sobriety by focusing on turning inward, fixing yourself, and connecting with the people you love with patience and compassion.”

I drove back to the inn at a slow and measured pace, parked my car, and walked into the restaurant with my head held high. I approached my girlfriend in a corridor, asked her forgiveness, and held her hand while staring into her eyes. As the clock struck midnight, her gaze softened, and we confronted our past, present, and future with a healing kiss and embrace. The New Year would hold challenges beyond anything we had experienced before in our lives, but I was grateful to be moving forward while holding firm to the principles of recovery. Always remember:

207

Fluffy snowflakes drifted down from the evening sky as I drove up a steep gravel road. I was five years sober, and I was on my way home after a challenging day at work. I had driven back and forth across the state to conduct several interviews for my journalism job, and I was absolutely exhausted. A thin layer of snow was beginning to pile up on the ground, and my girlfriend had called me several hours earlier and urged me to park my car at the bottom of the hill. We were living on a remote mountain that was only accessible through a bumpy and ungraded dirt road. Although I knew that I was taking a risk by driving up to the top, a mixture of laziness and egotism compelled me to disregard my rational fear. It had been over half a decade since I had gotten sober, but I was still addicted to taking reckless risks.

After turning onto my long and poorly-maintained driveway, I coast- ed down a twisty hill before beginning the treacherous ascent towards my house. My car was trusty and roadworthy, but I could feel its wheels beginning to slip on the slushy ice. Still, I pressed onward, and I felt my heart begin to palpitate as adrenaline coursed through my veins. It brought to mind memories from the worst days of my active addiction, when I would nervously race through the street in pursuit of narcotic escape. I was seeking out a different type of instant gratification on the road towards my house, but I was nevertheless charting an irreversible path towards self-destruction.

As I neared the final summit, I floored the pedal and grit my teeth with eager anticipation. When my front two wheels crested over the top, I thought that I had safely reached my house. Sadly, I was sorely mistaken. My wheels gave out, and my car began barreling down the hill in reverse. I slammed down on the brakes and pulled back the parking brake to no avail, and I began to seize up in horror as I watched my car draw closer to a steep, rocky ravine through the rearview mirror. I held my breath, braced for impact, and thought about everything that I would lose in the potentially-deadly crash: my pregnant girlfriend, my future son, my family, my friends, and the connections I had made in recovery. After making peace with my predicament, I let go of the wheel and closed my eyes. Seconds later, my car came to a screeching stop at the edge of the cliff. I sat in the drivers’ seat for several seconds in traumatized disbelief, then experienced a blinding moment of clarity when I remembered the wise words of my sober friend:

“Unmanageability and recklessness come in many forms. Just because we get sober doesn’t necessarily mean that our judgment and reason is infallible. If we allow our impatience to consume us, we risk crashing and burning in more ways than one. Gratitude and awareness are the keys to balancing courage and restraint. When we move through life with conscientious purpose, we can bravely meet life’s challenges without foolishly throwing away the gifts of recovery.”

After grabbing my bag, dusting myself off, and shutting my car door, I trudged up the hill in a disoriented haze. My foolish actions had taught me an important lesson, and I knew that I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to keep my life and my sobriety. Recovery had given me a chance to learn from my mistakes, and I had survived a frightening encounter with the consequences of my thoughtless impatience.

Always remember:

208

The winter wind howled outside of my window as I stumbled through a pitch-black room. I was five years sober, and I had just woken up in the middle of the night. A snowstorm had descended on Southern Vermont several hours earlier, and it had disabled power systems throughout the region. I tread carefully as I made my way down the stairs towards the kitchen, fumbled blindly through the cabinets, and grabbed a small, weak flashlight. After turning it on, I began searching for candles and matches. I was attempting to stay calm and focused, but the blackout could not have come at a worse time.

I had recently made critical revisions to several articles for my journalism job, and they were due for submission in several hours. I was stranded at the top of a steep and snowy road with no viable internet connection, no cell phone service, and no way of checking to see what efforts had been made to restore the electrical grid. I had done all the necessary work to meet my deadline, but a series of unfortunate events had rendered me incapable of following through when it mattered most.

I threw a log in my wood stove and watched as it became engulfed by whispering tongues of red flame. When the house began to warm up, I commenced a series of mundane, preparatory tasks. I bagged up all of the perishable food in my refrigerator and placed it outside on my icy porch. I was determined to minimize the damage from the storm, but there was nothing I could do to keep my mind at ease. The snow was still pouring down from the sky, and the winds seemed to be strengthening at an exponential pace.

My thoughts became increasingly frenzied and pessimistic, escalating a pace that closely mirrored the gusty blizzard. It brought to mind memories of the worst days of my active addiction, when I felt equally trapped and hopeless on a daily basis. Back then, it didn’t take a winter superstorm to ruin my plans for the day. The absence of a destructive substance conjured epic mental tempests that dwarfed the mightiest squalls. Nevertheless, when my girlfriend walked down the stairs and joined me in the living room, I found myself regressing into a similar state of desperate impatience. Her attempts to make conversation with me were met with terse, monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgment. When she asked me what was wrong, I dismissed her inquiries and turned further inward. The storm hadn’t just cut me off from my professional network; it had destroyed my ability to connect with the people I had cared about most. Suddenly, I remembered the words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship.

“When the world seems the most cold and frightful, we will only find inner peace if we are willing to stoke the flames of hope and gratitude. That starts by remembering that we are lucky to be alive, regardless of the outcome of any present situation. We work towards the solution by accepting reality as it is.”

After taking a moment to pause and reflect, I apologized to my girlfriend for my distant affect and revealed the reason for my distress. She offered calming words of heartfelt reassurance, which reminded me of a core truth of recovery: we may not be able to immediately alter the world around us or stop the snow on a winter morning – but we can weather the storm within by finding shelter in the proverbial stronghold of acceptance.

Always remember:

209

The sound of a whistling teakettle pierced my eardrums as I hurriedly skittered into my kitchen. I was five years sober, and my morning was off to a hectic start. I had awakened at the crack of dawn to embark on a spirited adventure across the state for my journalism job, but my preparations had been marred by a series of disorganized and untimely mistakes. My shirt was untucked, my socks were backwards, and I was trapped between alternating spikes of jovial optimism and anxious discord.

After pouring a cup of tea and snatching several pieces of slightly-burnt bread out of the toaster, I grabbed a plate, picked up my bag, and skipped towards my front door. Along the way, I tripped over a dog toy that had been left on the ground, spilled the tea, dropped the plate, and slammed my face onto the ground. I rose up slowly, regaining my bearings as I struggled to come to terms with my present situation. My shirt was drenched in honey chamomile, my floor was littered with ceramic shards, and I had less than five minutes before I was due to depart.

After realizing the depth of my predicament, I was unable to control my anger and resentment. I kicked the plate fragments across the room while screaming out in unbridled anguish. After stomping around for several seconds, my reckless frustration added insult to injury in a literal sense. I stubbed my toe on the edge of a wooden chair leg, which sent me rocketing into stratospheric levels of physical and emotional pain. I collapsed down on the ground and banged my fists, screaming with the rage of a rancorous toddler. I was considering abandoning my plans, cancelling the meeting, and putting my professional life in jeopardy for the sake of my ungrateful impatience. At the apex of my indulgent tantrum, I remembered the wise words of a sober friend that had guided me in the earliest days of my recovery:

“Just because we have a bad moment or a bad day doesn’t mean that our life is completely ruined or that we have to give up. In active addiction, we allowed temporary setbacks and the absence of instant gratification to control us. In recovery, we slowly regain our ability to move forward and persevere regardless of what challenges we encounter. Still, we can only make progress in our lives and our journeys of emotional self-actualization if we make a conscious decision to remain grateful in the wake of painful setbacks. If we allow our challenges to serve as humbling lessons, we can charter a course for a better life where our worst foibles can become our best teachers.”

In the wake of my introspective vision, I realized that I had the power to choose serenity over exasperation and hope over fury. I swept up the shards, wiped up the tea, walked upstairs, changed my shirt, took a deep breath, and readied myself to restart my day. I opened the front door, looked towards the sky, and smiled at the grey clouds that stood over the distant horizon. The sun might not have been shining as brightly as it could have been, but recovery had given me the ability to embrace the light within during my darkest moments.

Always remember:

210

The waxing moon cast pale light through the branches of tall trees as I trudged up a snowy mountainside. I was five years sober, and I was walking up to my house on a steep hill in Sandgate with my girlfriend. She was six months pregnant with our first child, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that our home was not suitable for the baby that we were expecting.

My girlfriend was a strong and courageous woman who was born and raised in Vermont, and she went above and beyond to demonstrate her resilience in all circumstances. I had asked her several weeks earlier if she wanted to move to a safer house, but she had insisted that she was still capable of walking up to our remote homestead in the ice and snow. I was beginning to realize that our living situation was completely unsustainable, but I was hesitant to move forward with the necessary steps to relocate our family. I had always been plagued by people-pleasing tendencies, which made it difficult to confront the people that I loved. Still, on that clear and frosty night, the stars aligned in a manner that forced me to face my anxiety head-on.

As we neared the top of the hill, my worst fears were realized in a jarring and stressful series of events: my girlfriend lost her balance, fell down onto her back, and dragged us both down into the snow. My heart raced like a supersonic jet as I scrambled to help her up. After rising to her feet, she dusted herself off, regained her bearings, and shoved my hand away when I tried to comfort her. I followed her into the house while bracing myself for the inevitable confrontation that lay ahead. It was time for me to speak my mind and take the necessary steps to protect my family, but I was feeling frightened and insecure. I didn’t know if I had the mental fortitude necessary to air my concerns in a way that would clearly resonate. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle:

“Whenever we are faced with the burdensome task of attempting to change someone’s mind – especially someone who is set in their ways – we must first ask ourselves if we are willing to abandon our own stubborn pride in the process of doing so. Whether we are trying to help someone who is struggling with addiction realize that they need to get sober or help a loved one escape an unsafe situation, we can only transmit a clear message if we remain grounded in humility and accep- tance. If we speak with the same spirit of compassionate awareness that reached us when we were at our lowest point in active addiction, we can build a firm foundation of mutual respect and understanding. From there, all things are possible.”

I walked towards my girlfriend, looked her straight in the eye, and told her that we needed to move to a safer place for the sake of our unborn child. I was expecting her to greet my proclamation with stern indignance. Instead, she embraced me, agreed to my plan, and heaved a cathartic sigh of relief. There were many tough decisions that remained to be made before the baby came, but I had finally found common ground with her on a critically-important issue. Recovery had given me the ability to overcome my fears and speak with confidence, and I was grateful to be working towards stability and security one day at a time.

Always remember:

211

Salt crunched under my boots as I lugged a massive suitcase up the stairs of my mother’s front porch. I was five years sober, and I was faced with a humbling predicament that was testing the limits of my optimism and patience: a series of logistical complications at my remote mountain cabin had forced me to move into my mother’s house with my pregnant girlfriend. She had generously offered us refuge at her house in Arlington while we figured out the next steps for our permanent living situation. It had been four years since I had last depended on my family for a place to live, and I was wracked with feelings of shame, guilt, and absolute powerlessness.

After bringing the final suitcase inside, I walked into the downstairs bedroom. I found my girlfriend lying on a futon mattress with a disconsolate look on her face. She was nearly seven months pregnant, and it was clear that she was worried about what the future held. After an awkward silence, she posed a question that cut straight through the cheery and upbeat façade that I was attempting to uphold.

“How are we going to figure this out?”

Although I quickly reassured her that I was in the process of pursuing several suitable housing options, my words did little to lift her spirits. After bringing her a snack and filling her water bottle, I took our dog out to the yard to clear my head. Less than three months remained before the expected arrival of our first child, and I was overwhelmed with insecurity and fear. I had reached out to the owners of several properties and apartments, but each potential lead presented several challenges: one apartment did not allow large dogs, another was too far away from our jobs, and the last one was being held in contingency for a potential sale. The housing market was in a phase of high demand, and I was beginning to lose hope that it would be possible to find a safe place to land with our new baby. I plopped down on an icy patch of ground while my dog sniffed the roots of a nearby tree. It felt like the weight of the world rested on my shoulders.

As I wallowed in sullen despair, my doubts were pierced by a proverbial sunbeam of inspiration: I remembered that my boss had told me about a small townhouse that he owned, which was potentially available for rental pending the departure of its current tenants. I had held back from directly asking him about it, because I didn’t want to bother him and risk the prospect of rejection. I also knew it would be occupied until a month before my baby’s due date, which presented several key risks. Still, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle, which spurred me onward as I grabbed my phone to make the call:

“If we hold back from reaching out to friends in our greatest times of need in life and recovery, we don’t rob ourselves of the opportunity to work towards solutions – we rob our friends of the opportunity to find fulfillment and purpose in helping us, as well.”

I picked up the phone, called my boss, asked him about the apartment, and felt a massive burst of relief course through my spine when he told me that it was still available. As we laid plans for my tentative move-in, I reflected on the power of vulnerability and transparency. The future might have still been uncertain, but as long as I remained grounded in the lifesaving principles of honesty and openness, I had nothing to fear but my own hesitancy and inaction.

Always remember:

212

The sound of clattering forks and knives echoed through a large dining room as I dug into a bowl of spicy pasta. I was five years sober, and I was enjoying dinner with a friend from my recovery circle for the first time in several months. I had been so busy preparing for the expected birth of my son that I had neglected to maintain my positive social connections. It felt great to see my friend face-to-face and catch up with him, but I was still fighting feelings of guilt and self-centered fear.

Whenever I had resentments or thoughts of returning to destructive patterns, I turned to him for guidance and support. Sadly, the stressful instability that I had experienced after temporarily moving back into my mother’s house had made me ashamed to reach out. I had managed to extricate myself from my anxious state and pick up the phone, and I was grateful to be reconnected with him in my time of need. As we savored our entrees, my friend dropped wise gems about dealing with personal issues in recovery. His affect was cool, calm, and serene, and I felt validated and reassured by his words. Suddenly, the conversation shifted its tone without warning when he asked the following question: “I hear you’re living at your mom’s house again. Do you really think that you’re ready to raise your kid if you can’t even figure out a decent living situation?”

I felt a shiver of electric anger pulse through my spine. I had already arranged to move into an apartment of my own, and the move-in date was scheduled for several weeks down the line. Nevertheless, I was taken aback by what I perceived as a tactless affront to my capabilities as an expectant father. I grit my teeth and clenched my fist underneath the table as I readied a scathing retort. Before unleashing my impulsive tirade, I remembered the wise words of another close friend who had guided me in early recovery:

“Whenever someone poses a question that offends us, the question that we must ask ourselves is why we feel so disturbed by their inquiry. If we look within, we can usually address the root of the insecurities and fears that they have triggered. We can then detach from the illusion of victorious anger – and we can maintain our emotional sobriety regardless of what anyone says.”

After taking a deep breath and clearing my throat, I smiled at my friend and responded in a reserved and even tone:

“I already have an apartment lined up that I’m getting ready to move into next month. I have a lot of doubts and fears about my abilities as a father, but I’m doing my best to address those problems by working on my character defects and asking the advice of trusted friends like you. It really hurt to hear you say that you think I’m not ready, but I want to learn everything I can. Do you have any advice for how to stay sane as a sober parent?”

After taking in my response, my friend’s face lit up with happiness and surprise. After apologizing for his insensitive question, he continued to speak freely and share his experience, strength, and hope. I heaved a sigh of relief as I scanned the sugary selections on the dessert menu. I had managed to maintain the health of my social connections while standing up for myself and speaking my mind at our dinner. As a result, I didn’t just walk away with a clean plate and full stomach - I left the restaurant with a clean slate and a full, grateful heart.

Always remember:

213

The teakettle whistled at a piercing volume as I stumbled erratically through my kitchen. I was five years sober, and my life was out of balance in every sense. I was attempting to prepare a homemade breakfast, but things were not going as I had originally planned. The eggs were improperly scrambled, the toast was overdone, and my mental landscape was in a similar state of disarray. I had been up all night working on professional assignments, and I had woken up at the crack of dawn for an early ultrasound appointment. My first child was due to arrive in three months, and I was struggling to maintain my sanity and gratitude while meeting my obligations. It conjured memories of the chaos that I experienced during active addiction, where my days were plagued by constant uncertainty and instability. My life was headed in a beautiful direction, but it was proving difficult to maintain my bearing as I navigated the proverbial path forward.

After getting dressed and grabbing her bag, my girlfriend joined me at the table and ate her subpar breakfast with a kind smile. I apologized for the burnt toast and the messy kitchen, and she told me that she was grateful for my efforts. I felt a strong feeling of relief as I took the dishes to the sink and we readied ourselves for the drive to the hospital. My day had started off on shaky ground, but it seemed like things were beginning to stabilize.

Suddenly, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I cringed in horror as I

read out the notification on my screen. It was a reminder for an online meeting that I had completely forgotten about, which was scheduled to take place less than half an hour after the ultrasound appointment began. I paused on the front steps as my girlfriend continued walking towards the car. I had failed to schedule my work commitments in an organized manner, and I had put myself in a delicate and uncomfortable situation: if I cancelled the work commitment, I put myself at risk of not meeting my journalistic deadline. If I told my girlfriend that I could not go to the ultrasound appointment with her, I would be forced to abandon the mother of my child during a precious moment.

My heart thumped like a bass drum as I opened up the driver’s seat door. When I sat down, my girlfriend could tell that I was out of sorts. When she asked me what was wrong, I attempted to stall and lie by omission, but my ruse fell flat. Confronted with an uncomfortable truth, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had guided me through the toughest stages of early recovery:

“We can’t please everybody or do everything right, but if we tell the truth, we just might keep our sanity and our sobriety intact while we figure out the best course of action.”

I took a deep breath, told my girlfriend what had happened, and she laughed loudly before responding to my heartfelt admission:

“I don’t even have an ultrasound appointment today – it’s just a routine checkup with the midwives. Go and do your interview! Just don’t forget to write down the date of the actual ultrasound so you can come. Don’t stress out. It’s all going to be OK.”

After kissing me on the cheek, opening the passenger-side door, and walking towards her car, my girlfriend waved to me as I walked back into my house to prepare for my interview. I had a lot to learn in terms of balancing my life and schedule, but I knew that I could stay on the right track as long as I remained honest.

Always remember:

214

Faint shadows danced across the eaves of my mother’s attic as I rose from my bed in a dissociated haze. I was five years sober, and I was preparing myself for a demanding workday. I walked over to a nearby clothing rack, grabbed a button-down shirt, and proceeded to rifle through an overstuffed plastic bin for suitable socks and pants. My life and mind were in complete shambles, but there was no time to dwell on the disorganized clutter. Recovery had brought about professional and personal opportunities that I never could have dreamed of in active addiction, and it was time for me to fulfill my obligations.

Although I was ashamed that a series of logistical challenges had forced me to temporarily move back into my mother’s cottage, I was grateful that she had given me and my girlfriend a safe and comfortable place to stay. I was also looking forward to moving into a new apartment in several weeks. As our residential transition drew nearer, my girlfriend and I were anticipating a far more significant change: Our first baby was due in two months, and the pressure was beginning to mount in ways that I did not think I was capable of handling. I was facing a series of impending deadlines for my journalistic assignments, and I was struggling to maintain my balance as I navigated my daily routines.

I waddled into the kitchen at a plodding pace, clicked on my phone, and scrolled through a series of urgent messages from people I had interviewed for my magazine stories. Each and every one of them demanded timely responses, which required clarity, executive function,

and decisive action. Sadly, I was stuck in a cycle of procrastinatory pessimism. As I hovered my fingers over the keypad and attempted to begin my professional outreach, I felt weighed down by self-imposed guilt and insecurity. It was a destructive loop that proved difficult to escape, but I was determined to break through the mental chains that were holding me back from self-actualization. After brewing a fresh pot of tea, I began rattling off short and effective messages with the speed of a seasoned stenographer. In the middle of my swashbuckling journalistic campaign, my girlfriend called down to me from the attic:

“Can you take a break from work? I need you to help me down the stairs!”

I slammed my phone down, grit my teeth, and clenched my fists. I should have been gratefully willing to help her cope with the physical limitations imposed by her late-stage pregnancy, but my stress and fear had manifested in selfish egotism and impatience. I grumbled incoherently as I stomped towards the stairs. My mind had been consumed by a firestorm of self-righteous frustration, and I was preparing to transfer my emotional instability onto her through a resentful, condescending monologue. On the verge of yelling at my undeserving girlfriend, I paused on the bottom step of the staircase. I took a deep breath, gathered my bearings, and came to the following realization:

I might have been carrying the proverbial weight of our financial future, but she was carrying the literal weight of our expected child. If I wanted to stay sane and sober, I had to support her and understand that we were now carrying our burdens together as life partners.

After taking a moment to relax my mind and body, I headed up the stairs, helped her out of bed, and took her hand as we walked down together. By taking a step back from the stress of everyday obligations, I had also taken a bigger step towards emotional accountability and sustainable recovery.

Always remember:

215

The sun was warm and bright in the afternoon sky as I walked through the doors of a picturesque townhouse in East Arlington. I was five years sober, and I was grateful to be moving into a new home with my girlfriend. Our first child was due to arrive in less than two weeks, and I had spent the whole day transporting dozens of awkward boxes and suitcases. As I opened up the trunk of my car, I let out a weary chuckle as several bags fell down onto the ground. My car and my mind were both a jumbled mess, but I was determined to maintain my good humor and cheery bearing.

After hauling the last of the bags through the front doorway, I collapsed onto the couch next to my girlfriend. She was staring down at her cell phone with a pained look on her face. I attempted to catch her attention several times with witty banter and positive affirmations, but my efforts were in vain. As I sat on the couch twiddling my thumbs, I began to feel underappreciated. I was drenched in sweat from a long day of physical labor, and I had gone above and beyond to manage the financial and logistical elements of our housing transition. Nevertheless, there was a feeling of anxious energy that was growing between us, which was beginning to translate into palpable emotional friction. I rose from the couch and walked towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and I was surprised when I heard my girlfriend pipe up with the following question:

“You’re not even going to try to talk to me?”

I put the glass down on the counter, clenched my jaw, and felt my body shake with resentful frustration. I couldn’t believe that she had the audacity to question my motives as a partner – especially after my attempts to connect with her had fallen flat. I stood in the kitchen in stony silence, contemplating my next move as I gnashed my teeth like a rabid donkey. I felt misunderstood, powerless, and small, and I didn’t know if I had the strength to be present and considerate.

Suddenly, I came to a humbling realization: she was probably feeling the exact same way as I was, but it was up to me to bridge the gap and keep us united as parents and life partners. I knew then and there that I was faced with the final test that preceded my journey of fatherhood: I couldn’t disregard my feelings and repress them, but I had to confront them and comfort myself while simultaneously remaining compassionate and deferential. At my moment of doubt, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“Kindness to others is the ultimate form of kindness to self, and vice-versa. If we can treat others as we want to be treated in our times of need, we will build a life that is every bit as beautiful as we deserve – even on our most difficult days.”

I took a deep breath, walked out of the kitchen, and gave my girlfriend a hug and understanding smile. I knew that I would never understand what it felt like to carry a baby, but I did understand the importance of carrying my responsibilities with gratitude and patience.

216

"Upbeat theme music blared out of the television speakers as I walked through my living room. I was five years sober, and I was getting ready to take my girlfriend on a surprise dinner date. As I walked towards our washing machine with an overflowing hamper, I looked over at her and she smiled back warmly. She was eight months pregnant, and she was seated on a comfortable couch while watching her favorite show. I hummed a merry tune as I walked towards the kitchen to finish the final dishes in the sink, dreaming of the gourmet delicacies that awaited us at our favorite farm-to-table eatery.

After setting down the last freshly-scrubbed pan in the drying rack, I walked towards her, cleared my throat, and presented her with what I thought was good news:

“I just made reservations at our favorite place! We can leave in fifteen minutes.”

Her happy and content smile quickly transitioned to a glassy-eyed stare. She sighed, put down her chips, and offered the following response:

“That’s really sweet, but I don’t think I have the energy. To be honest, I just want to watch TV and read my book. You should come watch this show with me!”

I gave a nod of approval that concealed my superficial emotional bruises. I felt my ego deflate, languishing in the discomfort of temporary powerlessness. The reservation could be easily cancelled, but it was harder to erase my resentments and insecurities. I had attempted to win my girlfriend’s favor with a heartfelt romantic gesture, but it had fallen flat due to the complications of her late-stage pregnancy. My face was wrapped in a tight-lipped grimace as I stewed in an exasperated haze. I didn’t know if I was capable of moving on and accepting things as they were.

Suddenly, I experienced a powerful epiphany: taking my girlfriend to dinner might have been romantic, but I could still be kind and thoughtful at home. Throughout the course of my recovery, I had learned that the allure of fancy food or gifts paled in comparison with the timeless power of personal involvement and small, yet meaningful acts of service. Instead of lamenting that I couldn’t enjoy a lavish meal at a restaurant, I decided to take things in a different direction. I turned to my girlfriend and offered the following prompt:

“What would you like to eat?”

Her eyes lit up like a meteor shower as she listed off a wish list of potential gastronomic delights that we could enjoy from our refrigerator. I felt both empowered and liberated as I walked back to the kitchen. I might not have been a world-class chef, but I was determined to make the evening at home even more memorable than a glamorous night out on the town. Recovery had given me the ability to adjust to a situation in which I had very little control, and I was grateful to be reaping the rewards that came from living life in the solution one day at a time.

Always remember:

217

The sounds of shuffling feet and rustling bags blended with soft country music as I paced through the aisles of a small convenience store. I was five years sober, and I was picking up some necessary provisions at the end of a long, draining workday. After grabbing several selections, I walked towards the counter. My heart sank when I saw a massive line forming in front of me. The store was drastically understaffed, and the lone attendant had an anxious and worried look on her face. It was an expression that perfectly mirrored the compromised emotional state that I was trapped in. I was attempting to balance my professional workload with my home life as an expectant father, but I had fallen far short of my obligations. My first child was due to arrive in a month, and I had come to the convenience store in search of some snacks for my pregnant girlfriend. Sadly, there were no sweets or sodas that could distract me from the doubt and insecurity that was enveloping my mind.

As I watched the attendant frantically scan items and swipe credit cards, I felt like we were both caught in an overpowering tidal wave of stressful tension. I was stuck in the middle of a slowly moving line, but the true encumbrance I was facing came from within. I was entirely unwilling to detach from my self-centered fear, and my egotistical mentality had made it impossible for me to move forward in any sense.

When I finally got to the front of the line, my patience was tested by an unexpected curveball: a distracted customer walked straight up to the counter without seeing the line. They cut in front of me due to their own apathy and ineptitude, but I internalized it as a personal insult. A strong, fiery rage built up within me as I watched them lay their food down on the counter. I grit my teeth, clenched my fists, and prepared to unleash an angry rant. Suddenly, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had guided me in the earliest days of my recovery:

“When we are blinded by our own shame, we project our darkest fears onto the actions of others. In the midst of our feverish delusions, we misinterpret the smallest of their unintentional slights and oversights as direct, intentional provocations. In doing so, we perpetuate cycles of misery and pain that make everything worse. When we can take a step back, recognize our own shortcomings, and detach from our need to control the world around us, we can reclaim our sanity. Ironically, it is only by surrendering that we can emerge victoriously in our daily battles for inner peace.”

I took a deep breath, stepped back, and made a conscious decision to abandon my anger and contempt. After the customer in front of me finished their checkout, they turned around and offered the following apology:

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there at first. I hope you can forgive me.” After telling them that it was alright and thanking them for their acknowledgment, I realized that person I truly needed to forgive was myself. I took a moment to reflect on my own missteps and oversights, grounded myself in serenity and self-awareness, and laid my burdens down like the snacks that I dropped on the counter. Recovery had given me the ability to move past my selfish and destructive urges, and I was grateful to be working towards a life that was in line with my principles.

Always remember:

218

The sun was barely rising over the faraway mountains as I stumbled down the stairs with heavy bags in both hands. I was five years sober, and my pregnant girlfriend’s water had just broke. We were headed to the hospital to welcome our first child, and my heart was racing out of my chest. After double-checking that we had everything we needed and calling the attending specialists, we headed down the road from East Arlington. As we sped past farm fields, barns, and grassy hills, the brimming brightness of the sunrise cast gorgeously-shifting hues on my girlfriend’s face. Ever strong and stoic, she gripped my arm silently as the contractions began to intensify. She put on one of her favorite folk songs, looked towards me, and asked a question that I had no idea how to answer:

“Is everything going to be OK?”

I froze, catatonically entranced in the looming skyline as we approached the outskirts of Bennington. The majestic slopes of Mount Anthony were dwarfed by the metaphoric peaks of doubt and antic- ipatory stress in my mind, but I knew that I owed it to her to remain mellow and optimistic.

“Of course,” I responded, curling my lips into a falsely-confident smile. “I’ll be with you the whole way, and I’m here to make sure you’re taken care of.”

As we coasted into the hospital parking lot, I felt a sense of nervous uncertainty that I hadn’t felt since I pulled into an identical driveway at inpatient treatment in 2016. Back then, I walked into a different type of medical institution for reasons that were not nearly as joyous. Nevertheless, the transformation that occurred there had similarly shaken the framework of my existence. While grabbing her bags and closing the trunk, visions of the life that awaited me on the other side of the birth rushed through my mind. Watching her change into a medical gown and answer questions of the attending nurses, the reality of my impending transition into fatherhood began to sink in. A new journey was beginning, and I was excited and terrified.

The room was eerily silent as the doctors left, but it was a comfortable silence. My girlfriend and I were both intimidated and tense, yet there was a profound sense of interconnected awareness. For a brief moment, it seemed as if there was nothing that existed outside of that room. I scooted my chair over to her bed and attempted to soothe her contraction pains through gentle encouragement, but there was little I could do. As the critical stage of labor commenced, time became meaningless as my focus narrowed. I remained by her side at every moment, bearing witness to a primal, timeless spectacle that was ten times more dramatic than the worst narcotic detox I had ever witnessed. She showed more courage than I ever believed possible during those twelve hours in labor, and I came to the following understanding before my son came into this world: My recovery might have taken considerable determination and grit, but it paled in comparison to the miraculous strength that my girlfriend summoned while giving birth.

Still, the lessons that I had learned in recovery had given me the ability to remain present, attentive, and considerate during a critical period of time in which I had absolutely no control.

As I held my newborn son in my arms, I truly comprehended the power of surrender, acceptance, and gratitude. Recovery had brought me to a place where my life was no longer just about my own survival. I had a new purpose guiding my recovery, and his name was Jude.

Always remember:

219

The room was peaceful and silent as I looked down at the newborn baby boy in my arms. I was five years sober, and I was exhausted and overpowered by primal emotion. I had just welcomed my first son several hours earlier, and every passing moment felt more surreal than the last. The sun had set over the faraway mountains, and my girlfriend was getting some much-needed rest after a long and intensive childbirth. Although I was overjoyed that my son had come into the world as a healthy baby, I was nevertheless terrified at the responsibility that I now carried. As I adjusted my seating position on the thin hospital mattress, I moved with an overabundance of caution. I was emotionally and physically present like never before, but I was toeing a fine line between total lucid awareness and anxious hypervigilance.

While watching his chest rise up and down underneath the swaddling cloth, I attempted to soothe my racing mind by synchronizing my breathing with his. The subtle movements of his tiny hands reassured me as I rested the back of his neck on my forearm. With every tick of the clock, I became increasingly conscious of the fact that my life would never be the same. As the euphoric shock and adrenaline faded, I began grappling with intense feelings of inadequacy. It dawned on me that I wasn’t just responsible for keeping my son physically safe – I was tasked with providing love, emotional support, financial security, shelter, food, clothing, education, behavioral training, and a broad panoply of other needs that I could not yet fully grasp or comprehend as a new parent. I felt my strained psyche begin to bend and contort under immense metaphoric weight, quavering and rippling like the arms of a fatigued bodybuilder. I didn’t know if I had the strength to show up and follow through for the angelic being that I had been entrusted with. At the height of my crisis, I remembered the words that a wise counselor had told me several days before I left the treatment center that saved my life:

“Guard and love your recovery like a helpless baby. It’s more precious than you could ever know.”

After understanding how those words served as the foundation for the patience and love I showed myself in early recovery, I knew it was time to flip that philosophy around. It was now up to me to protect my son like I had protected my recovery. As long as I applied the same respectful, nurturing ethos that had guided my early recovery towards my actions as a parent, I knew that I would be able to adjust to any challenges that came my way. There would no doubt be days where my serenity and sanity would be pushed to the brink, much like in early recovery. There would also be moments where I would be forced to abandon my old ways, learn new skills, and forge ahead on a bold new path of accountability, perseverance, and indomitable tenacity.

I took a deep breath, cleared my head, and made the same decision about my parenting journey that I made about my recovery years earlier: I was going to dive headfirst into the discomfort, embrace the trials and tribulations that awaited me, and humble myself through hard work. I was thankful to be sober, and I was ready to carry both my son and my recovery forward into a promising future.

Always remember:

220

The sky was cloudy and grey as I coasted down a winding road that encircled a massive hospital. I was five years sober, and I was headed home with my newborn son. As I looked over at my girlfriend, I saw a concerned, yet grateful look that mirrored my own embattled mental state. I was putting up a brave front in an effort to conceal my doubt and insecurity, but I was nevertheless facing a terrifying truth: I had no idea how to take care of a baby, and I was now responsible for a tiny, fragile, beautiful being.

After pulling up in front of my house, we detached the baby seat from its holster, opened the front door, and brought our son upstairs to our bedroom. As he peacefully slumbered, we placed him in the bassinet next to our bed with meticulous care. I held my girlfriend’s hand as we stared at him together. After five minutes of complete silence, we looked up at each other and laughed nervously. It was a surreal moment that was swiftly truncated by our son’s piercing, operatic scream. He needed to be changed and fed immediately, so I offered to take care of the first part of the joint mission. The time had come for me to prove my mettle as an upstanding father, and I was eager to showcase my domestic skills as a new parent.

I lifted my son out of the bassinet, walked towards the changing table, and proceeded to begin the process that I had been taught at the hospital. Three quarters of the way through, I came to a humbling realization: I had left his diapers in the other room, and I would have to carry my son back there, risk embarrassment, and ask my girlfriend where they were located. As his cries exponentially increased in volume, I wrestled with my ego and my untimely dilemma. I knew that I had to ask for help, but I didn’t want to admit my incompetence.

My predicament brought to mind memories of the shameful feelings I experienced as a result of my crude missteps in early recovery. While applying for jobs back then, I would often walk through the door of various businesses with arrogant confidence. Upon discovering that I had left my resumés at home, I would always end up emotionally deflated. The stakes were much higher now that my fragile son was staring up at me, and I was still held back by the same pride and hesitation to admit my shortcomings. When all seemed lost, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle:

“No one does anything perfectly the first time in life or recovery. The only thing that matters is our willingness to recognize our mistakes and our ability to learn from them. When we ask for help, we are freed from our feelings of self-judgment, and we often find acceptance and peace on the other side.”

I took a deep breath, walked into the adjacent room, and asked my girlfriend where the diapers were. I was expecting her to get angry, but instead, she laughed, handed them to me, and greeted me with a gentle, tired smile. We had a long way to go on our journey forward, but recovery had given me the ability to embrace the beauty of difficult change one day – and one diaper – at a time.

Always remember:

221

The fading summer sun lit up the edges of the overhead clouds as I walked through a narrow doorway onto a cobblestone path. It was my sixth sober anniversary, which I had celebrated with a timely visit to a large recovery group. As I fumbled around in my pockets for my car keys, I looked around and saw two distinct groups of people at different stages of their sober journeys. To my left, there was a gaggle of wide-eyed inpatient treatment residents. They were standing next to the transport van that had brought them from the detox ward to the fellowship event. To my right, the longstanding leaders in the local sobriety community were congregated under the shady branches of a tall maple tree. I was standing between them in a wide clearing. My isolated physical position served as an apt metaphor for the figurative crossroads where I found myself. I was mired in the awkward and ambiguous “middle” phase of recovery, and it felt somewhat uncertain and unsatisfying.

I had come a long way from my earliest days as a timid newcomer, but I was still a far cry from a respected elder with multiple decades of continuous sobriety. In the first few years of my recovery, I had identified with fellow alcoholics and addicts who were fresh out of treatment. We cracked self-effacing jokes, shared war stories, and commiserated over the difficulties that we encountered while readjusting to sober life. Back then, it was also easier to relate to people who were far further along than I was, because putting together multiple years of continuous sobriety seemed like an impossible feat. As a result, I greeted people who had decades of sobriety with reverent awe. I sought their counsel at every turn, and they went out of their way to share their wisdom due to my fledgling status.

Although I was grateful to be alive, sober, and present, I felt like I had nothing to offer the recovery community anymore. I was comfortable in the middle, but I envied the certainty and clarity of purpose that I saw in other people who were much earlier or further along than I was. Thanks to my sobriety, I had built a life beyond my wildest dreams, complete with a healthy newborn son, a fantastic and fulfilling job, and wonderful friends. Still, I wasn’t exactly sure of how to adjust to my evolving role within the social fabric of the recovery community. Suddenly, it dawned on me: the reason I felt detached from people on both ends of the spectrum is because I had failed to adhere to what a wise friend told me in the earliest days of my sobriety:

“If we choose to focus on what we don’t have in common with other people rather than what we do, we lose the opportunity to build bridges of trust and friendship on solid, common ground. You might think that you’re all by yourself, but that very delusion is what is actually isolating you. Get out of your head, confront your fear of rejection, and talk to someone. You’ll thank yourself for it later when you realize they’re more similar to you than they are different.”

After snapping out of my tortured funk, I walked towards the treatment center van, struck up a conversation with a newcomer, and told them that I was available if they ever needed someone to talk to. Afterwards, I circled back to the group of seasoned veterans and checked in with them. They greeted me with kind, encouraging words that brought it all home:

“Congratulations on 6 years! Just remember – all we really have is one day at a time.”

Always remember:

222

My shoulders were rigid and my forehead was pounding as I walked through my living room. I was six years sober, and I was experiencing a phenomenon that I had been plagued with throughout the course of my addiction and recovery: an unanticipated anxiety attack. There was no reason for the physical, emotional, and mental tension that was overpowering me. My workday had been minimally stressful, and my whole afternoon was clear and open. Nevertheless, I was mired in a constantly-escalating fog of sensory overload. I clenched my jaw and felt my heart beat rapidly as I sat down on the couch. I squeezed my fingers into a tight fist, closed my eyes, and waited for it to pass. As a surge of unprovoked adrenaline coursed through my body, my girlfriend posed the following question in a soft and unassuming voice:

“Is everything OK?”

I turned towards her, curled my lips into a fake smile, and responded in an irritated tone with a blatant lie:

“Everything is great! I’m just a little tired.”

There it went: the avoidant cop-out. It was a defense mechanism that I had honed as a lifelong people pleaser, but it fell flatter than fresh- ly-steamrolled asphalt. She raised her eyebrows, sighed heavily, rose from the couch, and walked upstairs. I could tell that she wasn’t buying it, but she knew better than to follow up on her inquiry when I was making every effort to push her away.

For as long as I could remember, my life and relationships had been defined by the clumsy and stubborn manner in which I dealt with these sporadic episodes. Growing up, I was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder by several behavioral development specialists. It manifested in a broad away of symptoms, which ranged from fear of eye contact to self-imposed social alienation. Although the time I had spent in recovery had given me the necessary tools to make it through the day, I had reached the point where purely coping was no longer enough. I yearned to escape the dysfunctional patterns that were holding me back, but I felt trapped by a self-perpetuating cycle of guilt and shame. I was afraid to let people know how scared I was, and I was anxious about speaking openly about my anxiety. In my moment of doubt, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had played a critical role in my early recovery:

“Regardless of how hopeless we feel, we’re as free as we want to be. If we are willing to confront our personal challenges and speak on them honestly, we can take the first steps towards true freedom. We might not be able to erase our mental health issues, our pain, or our struggles entirely – but some afflictions can be healed when secrets are revealed.” After taking a deep breath, I walked upstairs, sat down on the bed next to my girlfriend, and poured my heart out. I told the truth about how I felt paralyzed by my anxiety, and she responded with kind encouragement and reassurance. Remarkably, when the metaphoric weight was lifted off of my shoulders, my heart slowed its pace and my shoulders relaxed. My anxiety was still there, but I had taken away its painful power through honesty and openness. Recovery had given me the ability to overcome my fear of fear itself, and I was grateful to be working towards a better life one day at a time.

Always remember:

223

The room was dark and cool as a piercing cry broke through the silence. I was six years sober, and my baby boy had just woken up in the middle of the night. It was my turn to change him and check on him, and I was exhausted and disoriented beyond belief. I flicked on a small lamp next to my bed, walked over towards the bassinet, and picked him up with gingerly care.

My hands trembled as I laid him down on a thin cushion and fumbled around for the necessary accoutrements. After clumsily grabbing what I needed, I picked out a new onesie while my girlfriend tossed and turned on our bed. The time would soon come for her to nurse him back to sleep, and I wanted to make sure that every step leading up to that moment was as impeccable and seamless as possible.

After finishing a series of awkward and poorly-timed changing maneuvers, I emerged victorious. My baby was freshly changed, his cries had decreased in volume, and I had seemingly conquered every obstacle. The feeling of gratitude and accomplishment brought me back to my first months in recovery, when I savored every small and mundane triumph. Sadly, my indulgent, self-centered reminiscence was short-lived. While lifting my son off of the changing table, I shifted my feet towards the bed and tripped over the undercarriage of his bassinet. I shuffled my legs like a manic figure skater as I attempted to regain my balance. Upon finding my footing, I arrived at a startling discovery: My son was screaming at the top of his lungs, and he had been profoundly startled by my loss of control.

My girlfriend rose from her pillow with a concerned look on her face. She sighed while staring at me with the strength of a thousand eyes, then furrowed her brow as she asked the following question:

“What just happened? Is everything OK?”

I froze like a cat burglar caught in the act as I scrambled to concoct a favorable explanation. I knew that I owed it to her to tell the truth, but I didn’t want to frighten her any more than I needed to. I stared down at the ground, bit the side of my cheek, and closed my eyes. I was trapped by the weight of my own ego, and I didn’t know how to free myself. Suddenly, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had helped me in early recovery:

“In both active addiction and recovery, we find ourselves confronted with situations where lying may seem advantageous – especially when others have placed their trust in us, or when we are tasked with an undertaking that requires great responsibility. In situations where we fall short, we can maintain our sanity and self-esteem by doing what seems almost entirely impossible: telling the truth and admitting our faults. Ironically, by confronting our flaws, we conquer our greatest shortcomings of all: our fear of inadequacy and our crippling self-doubt.”

After taking a moment to breathe and compose myself, I admitted that I had almost fallen down with our baby. Instead of scolding me and revoking my parental privileges, she greeted my admission with a relieved facial expression and the following kind response:“I’m just glad you’re both OK.” As she took our son and held him in her arms, I experienced a calming sense of relief. Recovery had given me the ability to tell the truth about my mistakes, and I was grateful to be moving forward as a more honest man and father.

Always remember:

224

My eyelids were heavy as I sat in front of my computer on a hot summer afternoon. I was six years sober, and I had done my best to power through an exhausting workday. Although I was ashamed to admit it, I was afraid to return home to see my infant son and my girlfriend. The idea of holding my son in my arms brought warmth to my heart, but I didn’t know if I could summon the necessary strength to be equally present in my domestic affairs and professional obligations.

As I walked towards my car to drive home, I hesitated before opening the driver’s-side door. I plopped down in the seat, heaved a plaintive sigh, turned the key in the ignition, and started off down the road. It felt like the earliest days of my recovery, when I had similarly failed to properly manage my time and mental health. Back then, I would work double shifts in the service industry as a busboy. On those days, my gratitude for my job and my life in sobriety was often eclipsed by dread and exhaustion. I would frequently abandon my commitments to my recovery groups, justifying my absence with a clipped text message before retreating to my apartment to regain my bearings. In my new role as a father, that form of self-care was no longer an option. I didn’t just owe it to myself to stay sober and alive – I owed it to my family to be present, helpful, and obliging, regardless of how depleted and resentful I was feeling.

After parking my car, I walked through the door and found my girlfriend entrenched in a chaotic scene. She wore a downtrodden look on her face as my son screamed out in agony. His first teeth were starting to come in, and it was clear from her expression that she was in equally dire straits as I was. I walked over to her, offered to take our son while he chewed on his teether and cried, and was greeted by a humbling response:

“I’ve been all alone taking care of him all day, and you didn’t even call to check in with us. I’ve fed him and changed him. You need to watch him for a few hours while I take a nap.”

I grit my teeth as I pondered my next move. A wellspring of anger bubbled underneath the surface of my stony face. As I readied a scathing, self-aggrandizing retort, I remembered the wise words of a friend that had greatly helped me in early recovery:

“When we feel misunderstood, unloved, or uncomfortable, we can sometimes find the comfort we seek by detaching from our egocentric fears and serving the needs of others. When we abandon our need to control the situations around us and focus instead on the greater good, we can achieve inner peace even when we are tired and irritable. The power of love, humility, and gratitude gives us strength beyond what we believe possible, and we deserve to tap into that reservoir of goodwill to guide us through our toughest moments.”

After taking a deep breath, I walked towards my girlfriend, gave her a hug, apologized for my late return home, and told her that she was doing a great job as a mother. I sat down on the couch with my son and held him close as his cries faded into a restful slumber. Recovery had given me the ability to find strength and sanity when it seemed impossible, and I was grateful to be working towards a better way of life.

Always remember:

225

Warm summer winds rushed through my open windows as I coasted down a rural highway. I was six years sober, and I was driving home with my girlfriend after a long, fulfilling afternoon. We had embarked on our first family road trip with our baby boy earlier in the day, and the outcome had exceeded all of our expectations.

Although we were initially hesitant to attempt the voyage, the results were nothing short of spectacular. We had savored tasty food, fresh air, and exciting diversions at colorful shops and cafés, and our son had been happy and calm the entire time. The trip was a smashing success, but it seemed almost too good to be true. I felt a lingering sense of fear, which was rooted in the fact that we had gone against traditional parenting conventions by traveling with our infant child. My worries were validated when the peaceful silence was broken by a piercing cry. Our son had woken up from a short afternoon nap, and he was hungry and needed to be changed. After it became apparent that he was not going back to sleep, my girlfriend tapped on my shoulder and told me that we needed to stop the car and feed him. I scanned the horizon for any possible opportunities to pull over and park. I felt my heart sink as I comprehended the gravity of the situation: we were ten miles away from the closest town, and we were on a section of the highway with no gas stations, no rest areas, and no open businesses in sight. I was completely powerless to change our situation, and I was overcome with a potent mixture of insecurity, fear, and shame.

To make matters worse, a road work blockade had slowed traffic to a complete standstill. After my car came to a halt in a serpentine river of glowing brake lights, I watched a faraway traffic policeman holding up a stop sign with anxious anticipation. I drummed my fingers and clenched my teeth as I drowned in anger and impatience. My baby son was screaming, my girlfriend was wringing her hands and despairing, and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. At the apex of my crisis, I realized that I had been entirely stripped of my sanity by a series of everyday obstacles. It had been over half a decade since my last drink or drug, but I was behaving like an addict or alcoholic in the midst of fevered withdrawal. I was so desperate to change my external situation that I had neglected to remember a core truth of recovery:

“When we learn to accept the things we can’t change, we find clarity, courage, and the ability to step back, take a deep breath, and detach from our fear and frustration.”

I knew I couldn’t speed up traffic or keep my baby from crying. I could however, keep my calm and wait patiently for things to change for the better. When the stop sign flipped and traffic began to slowly move forward, a gas station soon appeared on the right. I pulled in, stopped the car, and took my baby boy out of the seat, feeling grateful for the patience and restraint that recovery had given me. I couldn’t always change the world around me, but as long as I stayed sober, I had a chance to accept reality and stay grounded in the solution.

226

My knees cracked loudly as I bent down to grab a coffee cup that I had just dropped on the ground. I was six years sober, and I was haphazardly attempting to hold my morning together. Sadly, it was not going as well as I had hoped.

After sleeping through my alarm, I had awkwardly jumped out of bed with lingering feelings of doubt and dread. From that point onward, my day had consisted of a series of exponentially-worsening misad- ventures. First, I had left my microphone unmuted during an online work meeting while my baby screamed in the background. Afterwards, I had burnt my breakfast toast, ripped a trash bag open while taking it outside, left my house in disheveled disarray, and forgotten my wallet at the grocery store.

I had only completed my second errand of the day at the coffee shop, and there were countless obstacles that remained before my obligations were taken care of. I could feel myself becoming increasingly irritated and resentful, but the time I had spent in recovery had given me the restraint and self-awareness necessary to navigate a rough patch – or so I thought. I planted my feet, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, grounded myself with a series of encouraging recovery affirmations, and emerged refreshed and optimistic. Seconds later, a speeding car rushed by me in the parking lot and honked loudly as it passed me. The passenger stuck his head out the window, shouted a series of expletive-laden insults, and skirted off, leaving a brackish fog of thick exhaust fumes in my face. Needless to say, I was taken aback by their outburst, and I faced a crucial, split-second decision:

If I chose to see the questionable actions of a random stranger as confirmation that my day was going in the wrong direction, I might have been justified in that perspective, but I would still be setting myself up for pessimistic misery. It would certainly be difficult to maintain a flexible and upbeat worldview in the wake of that jarring interlude, but I chose to go the opposite direction after remembering the wise words of a friend I knew in early recovery:

“If we’re already having a bad day, when someone else acts or speaks in an angry and aggressive manner towards us, the resulting effect can be like a toxic, murky cloud that hangs around our heads. Once the cloud has been created, it’s up to us to realize that the only way to regain our serenity is to keep moving forward. Poisonous fogs – both mental and literal – only hang around as long as we stay in the same place while cursing our predicament. If we hold tight to the principles of acceptance and detachment, we can always move towards brighter skies and a breath of fresh air when we need it most – even on the cloudiest days.”

After recalling his helpful observation, I laughed off the unfriendly stranger, waved the remaining smog clouds off my face, and walked towards my car with a more grateful heart and grounded mind. The world and my unlucky morning might have given me every excuse to lean into negative thinking and stay trapped in a dark and noxious haze. Still, the lessons that I had learned in sobriety had made it possible to emerge unharmed with a new appreciation for a clear mind, clear conscience, and clear forward view.

Always remember:

227

My eyelids were heavy as I watched the sunrise through my foggy windows. I was six years sober, and my infant son had woken up at 5 in the morning. It was my turn to watch him, and I was glad to help his doting mother get some much-deserved rest. Still, I was struggling to remain grateful in the wake of the worrisome predicament that I was facing. His untimely awakening had occurred on a day that I was saddled with a series of high-stress work meetings and personal obligations, and I had only gotten an hour of sleep.

After heading downstairs and regaining my bearings, I reclined on the couch with my son gently cooing in my arms. I flipped on the television, adjusted my position, and found myself neurotically criticizing myself as I fed him from a small plastic bottle. Here I was, a new father who had been given the priceless gift of connecting with my son with no distractions. Sadly, in my emotionally-brittle and depleted state, I found myself unable to appreciate the boundless beauty and value of the moment.

After a period of prolonged silence and anxious reflection, I grabbed the remote off of a nearby couch cushion and queued up my favorite streaming service. I was subsequently presented with a bevy of tantalizing entertainment options. As I hovered the cursor over several promising selections, I came to a startling realization: I was making a willful effort to detach from the potentially transformative, real-life experience that I was having with my son. Following my epiphany, I understood that I needed to shift my focus away from the fictional narratives on the television screen. It was time to dive back into creating the story that I wanted to write for my own fatherhood journey as a present and loving parent. Nevertheless, I was trapped in a challenging mental battle, and I was wracked with feelings of guilt and helplessness. At the apex of my existential crisis, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had guided me through a different period of transition in early recovery:

“Whenever we go through periods of significant change, the road to a brighter and more fulfilling future is often paved with a series of trying and frustrating moments. These moments may string together to form narratives, scenes, and plots that we create within our own minds, which sometimes cloud our vision and powers of perception. If we allow this phenomenon to fester for too long, we either become obstinate in our blindness, or we become passive and apathetic while we watch our lives pass by. We may then find it difficult to remain grateful for the price- less gifts that surround us. If we can take a step back and welcome the frustration and discomfort alongside the blessings and victories, we can change the narrative from one of pessimism and ingratitude to optimism and self-betterment. But in order to do that, we must take things one day and one conscious action at a time.”

I took a deep breath, turned off the television, and looked down at my son with a newfound sense of awe and appreciation. By reorienting my perspective towards gratitude and awareness, I had managed to turn the page in my life story – and I had begun a promising new chapter as a parent in recovery.

Always remember:

228

The air was cool and dry as I stepped outside into the autumn wind. I was six years sober, and I was getting ready to take my dog and infant son for a walk around the block. After bringing my dog out to the front steps and hitching his leash onto the railing, I walked back inside. I picked up my son, dressed him in a warm hat and sweatshirt, grabbed the stroller, and secured him safely with the buckle straps. I untied my dog’s leash, unlocked the stroller, and headed down the block with a feeling of cautionary optimism. It was the first time that I had taken my son on a walk with me and my dog, and I was determined to conduct our excursion in an orderly and balanced manner. Sadly, the literal and metaphoric forces pulling me in different directions had other plans.

Upon reaching the other side of the street, my dog began pulling my right arm with the strength of a galloping steed. I struggled to stay on my feet while gripping the stroller handle, stuck between two opposing priorities that I was not capable of perfectly controlling. Sweat dripped down my brow as my son’s coos and cutesy babbles turned into anxious cries. Suddenly, my dog bolted at an unprecedented velocity, dragging me down onto the ground as the stroller tilted. I jumped onto my feet, slammed my foot down on the leash, locked the stroller with break-neck speed, and heaved an exasperated sigh. I was trying as hard as I could to maintain my balance, but it seemed like I was trapped in a frustrating conundrum: with every bit of additional effort that I put into controlling the world around me, I felt less grounded and serene. At the apex of my crisis of confidence, I remembered the wise words of a friend that had helped me greatly in early recovery:

“When we first get sober, we regain control of our chemical regulation, and that sometimes gives us the illusion of complete control in all aspects of our lives. Sadly, even when we regain some semblance of internal balance, our newfound disciplinary strength rarely translates into complete dominion over external circumstances. When we take a step back and accept what we can’t change, we can then live with the following truth: although perfect equilibrium does not exist, we can learn to live in harmony with the chaos. When we regain balance and serenity within, it can then be mirrored externally in terms of how we relate to the world around us.”

I took a deep breath, regained my bearings, and moved forward with a new perspective of humility and patience. Instead of trying to rush down the block and angrily pull on my dog’s leash, I slowed my pace, maintained awareness of the subtle changes in his movement, and made a conscious effort to connect in a present and loving fashion with both my son and our canine companion. Over the course of several minutes, my dog calmed down, my son stopped crying, and our walk proceeded with no further mishaps. My life might not have been in perfect balance, but I was nevertheless grateful to be able to live in a state of grateful surrender. By doing the internal work necessary to accept the limits of my powers, I had regained my ability to roll with the punches, balance my expectations, and move forward one day and one step at a time.

Always remember:

229

Cold sweat fell from my forehead as I haphazardly dropped half a dozen grocery bags in my front hallway. I was six years sober, and I had just arrived home after taking my dog for a walk. My girlfriend had recently returned from the grocery store with our infant son, and she had brought back a massive haul of produce and home goods. I sprung back to my feet, dusted myself off, and walked back to her car to grab the remaining bags. It was a brisk fall day, but there was a fierce and determined fire burning within me. I had been hard at work since the break of dawn, and I had managed to complete an eclectic range of domestic tasks, professional assignments, and creative projects.

Although I was grateful to be competently handling my obligations, the fulfillment I found through my strained efforts was overshadowed by my lingering state of total exhaustion. There were many challenges that remained before the day was over, and I found myself faced with a tricky predicament: If I slowed my pace and took a moment to relax, I risked crashing, burning, and falling onto the couch in a comatose heap. At my innermost core, I felt that I did not deserve a break from the action. There was a part of me that did not know how to stand still, find peace, and heal – especially when I was feeling drained and worn.

Throughout the course of my recovery, my hard work had paid off in a variety of powerful ways. I had seen the fruits of my labors coalesce into a beautiful life full of purpose, variety, and progression. Sadly, the effort I was channeling into the mundane, everyday aspects of my life dwarfed the work that I had put into elevating my self-esteem and spiritual wellness. As a result, the same taxing responsibilities that I had run from in the midst of my active addiction had become a different type of external distraction. I thought that I wasn’t worthy of enjoying life when I wasn’t working hard enough, and I didn’t know how to slow down, detach from my compulsive drive to prove myself, and restore balance to my life.

This truth was made abundantly clear when I grabbed the grocery bags out of my girlfriend’s car, lost my balance, dropped the food onto the ground, and fell in the dirt. As I regained my bearings, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had helped me greatly in the earliest days of my recovery:

“Sometimes the hardest work that we have to do is learning how to accept when we’ve done our best and it’s time to take a step back, rest, and recuperate. Recovery takes hard work and gives us a much fuller life – but we can’t pour from an empty cup, and we can’t be of service to others if we’re not taking care of ourselves.”

After grabbing the remaining food items off of the gravel and grass, I brought them into my house, put them in the refrigerator, sat down on the couch, and allowed myself to breathe and center myself. I had a lot more work to do in terms of my chores, and professional commitments, but I had finally reached a place in my life where I was no longer ashamed to be working on myself, my wellness, and my recovery before anything else.

Always remember:

230

Auburn leaves fell from tall and majestic maple trees as I walked towards a crowded parking lot with my girlfriend and infant son. I was six years sober, and I was participating in a Halloween parade for the first time since I had started my journey of recovery.

Over the course of the time that I had spent as a sober man, I had distanced myself from the raucous revelry of festive Halloween parties. Although I had nothing against Halloween, such events brought to mind memories of the dissociated, inebriated evenings I spent in active addiction. I would often wake up in a foggy haze, literally and metaphorically peeling back the mask I had worn the night before as I came to terms with my bleak reality. In recovery, I had managed to take the mask off in every sense and work towards discovering my truest self. Sadly, I was still struggling to adjust to the pressures of everyday life. I had overcome my crippling social anxiety in many forms, but there was an undeniable, primal fear that arose whenever I arrived at any public event. It caused me to revert to performative, overly-theatrical tendencies. I would often manufacture a different kind of temporary emotional mask, which served as protective emotional armor for my insecurities and doubts.

Although there were prizes handed out for the best Halloween outfit at the parade, the costume I was wearing to the parade was not the disguise I was most afraid of being judged for. I was more frightened of being punished for the mental and spiritual mask that I conjured as an ineffective self-defense mechanism, which threatened to isolate me from the friends and loved ones that I wanted to connect with.

As I wrestled with my existential crisis, I looked down at my four-month-old son, who was gently cooing in an adorable, themed costume as we pushed him towards the starting point of the parade in a large, padded stroller. His eyes were wide, innocent and perceptive, and he had an air of authentic presence that I desperately wanted to find within myself. After I walked past a series of smiling friends and acquaintances with my head bent shamefully towards the ground, my girlfriend stopped and looked up at me. She gently grasped my hand, furrowed her brow, and asked me the question I had been dreading all along:

“Is everything OK? You seem like you’re off in your own world.”

I froze, stuck in a binding predicament: if I told her the truth, I could have soured the festive mood of the Halloween party and burdened her with my dark, neurotic ruminations. If I held back, I risked retreating further and further behind my mask in more ways than one. After heaving a heavy sigh, I chose to tell the truth, and I admitted that I felt out of place and overwhelmed by the hectic parade. Instead of scolding me or laughing at me, she smiled, gave me a hug, and pulled back my costume mask over my eyes as she spoke the following words:

“We love you for who you are. Don’t be afraid to be yourself.”

I put the mask back on, unlocked the stroller, and walked towards the start of the parade with a grateful heart and free mind. Recovery had given me the ability to unmask my deepest fears, find confidence, and move towards self-acceptance, and I was grateful that I didn’t have to hide who I was anymore – even when I was wearing a Halloween costume.

Always remember:

231

Sticks crunched underneath my feet as I walked towards the front door of a bright and lively recording studio. I was six years sober, and I was getting ready to record the first recovery video that I would ever upload onto social media. I had seen a rising movement of outspoken online creators in recovery who fearlessly spoke their truth through short and candid video posts, and I was propelled forth by a strong calling to do the same. After getting approval from the team that had worked with me from the earliest days of my recovery advocacy campaign, I had made a request to the recording studio engineers for ten minutes of free time in a soundproofed room. I wanted to have time and space to clear my head while I crafted the script for my first message, and I was nervous beyond belief.

Although I had released music multiple times and appeared on various online podcasts throughout my recovery advocacy campaign, I was nevertheless overcome by a daunting feeling of stage fright when it came to social media. The short and concise format of the online “reel” videos was something that I was entirely unfamiliar with. In my past appearances and speaking engagements as a community recovery advocate, I had been permitted to talk without a time limit or any regard to my movement or camera positioning. Sadly, the conventions of social media dictated that I speak into a phone camera for no more than 60 seconds. I also had to hold the phone steadily while maintaining a relaxed and confident composure. Sadly, the more I tried to come off as natural, the less I felt like my true self. When I attempted to speak, it felt like my tongue and mind were freezing in synchronized atrophy. My hand trembled as I held the phone. I pushed it down into my pocket, held my head in my hands, and slumped forward in a defeated slouch. I wanted to share my story of recovery in every way possible, but I didn’t know if I had the necessary poise, charm, or presence to relay a message of sobriety in less than 60 seconds to an audience of internet strangers. Suddenly, it occurred to me that in attempting to refine, rehearse, or stage any pre-written statement, I was neglecting to remember some of my most important, life-changing experiences in early recovery. Whenever another sober person spoke from the heart and shared their strength and hope without any predetermined agenda, it made an impact that resonated deeper than any slick speech ever could. It was there and then that I made a decision that took me back to the roots of my sobriety. I decided to be honest, to be myself, and to stop holding back because of self-centered fear. I threw away my written notes, took a deep breath, cleared my mind of every pre-rehearsed speech, and asked myself two simple questions:

“What would you have wanted to hear if you were still trapped in active addiction?”

and

“What would you want to hear if you were still in early recovery?”

I raised the phone, clicked the record button, and talked openly about how recovery had given me the keys to a better life. At the end of the video, I held up the keys that had literally opened the door of the recording studio I was sitting in, which served as proof of the trust I had regained in sobriety. The video wasn’t perfect. It was far from slick or glossy. But it was better than that – it was the pure, unvarnished truth.

Always remember:

232

My mind was spinning at the pace of a broken, runaway carousel as I walked through my kitchen in a state of utter disbelief. I was six years sober, and I had just discovered that one of my first online recovery videos had been viewed by millions of people. I’d only dipped my toes into the proverbial waters of social media content creation, but I was overwhelmed by simultaneous feelings of gratitude, excitement, and self-doubt.

As I scrolled through the comment section of my social media “reel,” I read hundreds of affirming messages of hope and sobriety from other people who were walking on their own paths of recovery. It brought me boundless joy to see that people from around the world were embracing messages of sobriety and hope. Sadly, that joy was very short lived. My euphoric elation was cut short when I came across a much more negative comment, which cut me to my core and made me doubt the impact of my online recovery advocacy work:

“That’s great that you got sober, but why are you talking about it on the internet? You should keep it to yourself and work with people one-on-one where you live. Nobody cares.”

“This harsh voice of doubting dissent stood out in the comment section like a metaphoric thorn amongst a garden of beautiful, positive roses. Still, as a relative newcomer to the online recovery advocacy scene, my skin had not yet thickened to the point that I could encounter a comment like that without feeling immense pangs of heartfelt pain. I began alternating between swells of fury and childish frustration, typing out retaliatory comments before deleting them in a flurry of overwrought petulance. After scrapping the last of several half-typed, sloppy retorts, I slammed my phone down on the table.

“I’ll never post a recovery video again,” I whispered to myself. All it took was one bad comment to break my spirit. It seemed that the internet had defeated me and all was lost.

Suddenly, I heard my phone buzz one more time. When I hesitantly picked it up, I saw a message from someone who had recently started following my social media page:

“I’m four weeks sober, I’m fresh out of treatment, and I don’t have any in-person recovery groups where I live. I saw your video when I wanted to relapse and throw my life away. I know it might not mean anything coming from a stranger, but you helped me stay sober today.”

I felt my eyes well up with tears as I remembered every similar moment in my own life, where the wise words of a sober stranger helped me similarly stay the course. From the day that I almost left treatment and decided to stay, to the day I wrote my first CLEAN Column, I had the privilege of hearing those encouraging words face-to-face. Unfortunately, not everyone was blessed with the same in-person network – and this message served as proof positive of the value of online advocacy. It was time to pay it forward. Others had been kind to me when I was at my most vulnerable. I had the chance to share my truth with everyone who didn’t have a strong, in-person sober network through my online posts.

After typing out a grateful reply, I knew that there was no turning back. I was going to keep sharing my message of sobriety – both in my local community and on the internet – and I was going to do it with gratitude, courage, and openness to all paths of recovery. I clicked off my phone, walked out towards my car, and drove towards a local recovery event with the following words echoing in my mind…

Always remember: