I finally had the opportunity to host the Sunrise meeting this morning. It’s a service role I’ve wanted to take on for what felt like an eternity. In Alcoholics Anonymous, there are guidelines about when you can step into certain positions, largely depending on how far along you are in your sobriety journey. The main host role doesn’t become available until you’ve reached one year of sobriety. At first, I struggled to understand why. Around the six-month mark, I was impatient and thought to myself, Can’t they see how well I’m doing? But looking back now, I realise that I wasn’t ready for the responsibility, no matter how much I believed I was. Everything truly does happen when it’s meant to.
Hosting today was an incredible experience, and I loved every minute of it. It’s funny how life presents you with exactly what you need, exactly when you need it—as long as you’re open to seeing and hearing it. During the meeting, as I listened to others share, I was reminded of how overwhelmed I used to get with everything—work, life, people, places, and just about everything in between. Back then, that sense of overwhelm would consume me. My mind would spiral into chaos, and my default reaction was to run, hide, and numb myself with alcohol until my thoughts stopped and the world faded away.
Looking back over the past year, I can see just how much I’ve grown. I’ve learned so much, not just about sobriety but about life itself. I no longer fight against everything or seek to escape into oblivion when things don’t go my way. When I feel that familiar overwhelm creeping in, I lean on the tools I’ve gathered from the AA rooms: wisdom from my brilliant sponsor, guidance from the Twelve Steps, the teachings of the AA Big Book, and the support of my beautiful Sunrise family. I also turn to my Higher Power—my God—taking a moment to stop, pause, and meditate. In those moments of reflection—or even moments of clearing my mind entirely—things start to become clearer. The path forward doesn’t seem so crowded.
Someone once shared a piece of wisdom with me that has stuck ever since: “When you’re in a crowd, surrounded with no clear way out, don’t try to fight your way through. Just walk slowly in one direction, and the crowd will eventually part, letting you pass.” This simple yet profound idea has changed how I approach challenges.
Nowadays, even when life seems to come at me from all directions, I see things differently. It’s not one insurmountable problem; it’s a series of smaller issues, many of which are easy to tackle. Some are just low-hanging fruit, requiring minimal effort. As I start to check those off my list, I see my basket filling up, and the “half full” perspective encourages me to keep moving forward. Before I know it, I’m at the top of the ladder, reaching for goals that once seemed out of reach.
Mornings are no longer filled with dread, fear, or worry about what lies ahead, nor am I weighed down by guilt or regret over what I didn’t do yesterday. Instead, I wake up knowing that just for today, I will do my very best to fill my basket. I find comfort in knowing that yesterday, I did the same.
I am deeply grateful for everything Alcoholics Anonymous has given me this past year, and for the beautiful community of fellow recovering alcoholics who make it what it is. Each day, I’m reminded that I am not alone on this journey, and that’s a gift beyond measure.
Not All at Once ❤️
The mountain looms, a jagged, sky-clawing thing,
and they say, climb it all, now, in one breath.
But mountains, like lives, aren't conquered in a sprint.
We don't have to do everything all at once.
The weight of expectation, a crushing avalanche,
more than these shoulders, these hands, can seemingly bear.
It screams, perform, achieve, conquer,
and the voice echoes, a deafening roar.
But we've stood before, on the precipice of impossible,
wind whipping, fear gnawing, and yet, we're here.
Scars etched on our souls, stories whispered in the dark,
proof that we've weathered storms fiercer than this.
So, let the peak be for now, a distant dream.
Look down, instead, at the orchard's edge.
The low-hanging fruit, ripe and ready,
a sweet, simple victory.
One apple at a time, the basket fills,
and with each plucking, a strength returns.
The higher branches, once so daunting,
now seem within reach, their bounty less intimidating.
And the crowd, a sea of faces, pressing in,
a current threatening to sweep us away.
No need to fight, to thrash, to struggle against the tide.
Just breathe.
A slow, steady step, a quiet confidence,
and the waters part.
They make way for the calm, the cantered,
the one who knows their own pace.
The mountain remains, but it no longer holds us hostage.
We climb at our own rhythm,
nourished by small triumphs,
guided by the wisdom of survival.
We don't have to do everything all at once.
We just have to begin.
