A large envelope landed on my doormat the other day, arriving much sooner than I had expected. As I bent down to pick it up, a strange sense of foreboding crept in. When I turned it over and saw the sender’s details, my stomach twisted—the final paperwork for the sale of my mum’s flat.
I hesitated for a moment before tearing it open, and as soon as I caught sight of the documents inside, I was overwhelmed. A wave of sadness hit me, but it wasn’t just sadness—it was a tangled mix of emotions I had obviously buried deep: regret, guilt, remorse, and fear. My body felt heavy, almost paralysed, and I couldn’t bring myself to read the contents, let alone sign it. Instead, I set the envelope aside, placing it on my ever-growing procrastination pile, and retreated into myself, searching for a way to steady my emotions.
For the rest of the day, those feelings lingered, like a dull, steady hum in the background of my mind. I knew ignoring them wouldn’t help, so I made the conscious decision to sit with them, exploring them in meditation throughout the day. By the time evening came, I was emotionally drained. I decided the best thing I could do was surrender to the exhaustion and go to bed early, hoping that sleep would bring some clarity by morning.
But morning felt like it came faster than usual.
After completing my usual routine and attending my sunrise AA meeting, I felt lighter, more grounded. Something within me whispered that I needed to turn to my mum’s Bible. Reading from her Bible has become a way for me to feel connected to her—it’s more than just words on a page. She had spent so much time studying her Big Book, carefully underlining passages and writing notes in the margins. When I read it, I hear her voice in my mind, as if we are having a conversation from across the void.
That morning, I opened it at random and let my eyes fall on the verses she had so deliberately highlighted. It felt as though some divine hand was guiding me to exactly what I needed, because every passage I read spoke of freedom and letting go. The final page I landed on was the very beginning of Exodus. Intrigued, I read the full chapter, and again, the theme was one of liberation—from bondage, from suffering, from fear.
With each passage, something shifted in me. I felt lighter. Stronger. The weight of those buried emotions began to lift, and for the first time since opening that envelope, I could breathe more freely. The experience spurred me on to go even deeper, to truly sit with my feelings rather than run from them.
Later that evening, I settled down to read, seeking comfort in a book I’ve been making my way through: Fail, Fail Again, Fail Better by Pema Chödrön. Within just a few paragraphs, I came across an analogy that struck so deeply, it brought tears to my eyes.
She wrote that life is like wading into the sea. Each failure, challenge, or fear that comes toward you is like a wave. When you are distracted, when you try to run or resist, the wave knocks you off your feet, tumbling you through the surf, leaving you dazed and gasping for air. But when you learn not to let go—when you lean into the wave, even dive headfirst through it—the waves seem smaller and not as powerful. And even when they do come slightly out of rhythm, at most, they make you wobble rather than knock you down.
As I read those words, the emotion overwhelmed me. In that moment, I realised just how much had changed.
The person I used to be—the person I was before AA—would have let that envelope knock me clean off my feet. I would have run from the emotions, seeking refuge in a bottle, drowning them in oblivion. But this time, without even realising it, I had done something entirely different. I had faced the wave head-on. I hadn’t sought escape, not even for a second. The thought of drinking hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Instead, I had surrendered. I had leaned in. I had trusted that the only way forward was through. And that is all thanks to the programme of Alcoholics Anonymous, which has taught me how to let go, how to live each day seeking my God with a grateful heart.
Not so long ago, this story would have had a very different ending. But today, I stand firm, steady in the waves, knowing that as long as I keep seeking, keep trusting, and keep leaning into the discomfort instead of running from it, I will never be knocked down in the same way again.
Leaning Into the Surge
The envelope, a sudden weight,
arrived, too soon, a paper stone.
Foreboding, a chill,
the sender’s name, a twist of gut.
Documents, a flood,
not just sadness, but silt of old pain.
Regret, guilt, remorse, fear,
a tangled net, heavy limbs, paralyzed.
Procrastination's pile, a silent tomb,
the envelope laid aside, a retreat inward.
The hum of feelings, a constant drone,
sitting with them, a slow, deep dive.
Exhaustion's surrender, early sleep,
morning's swift arrival, a lighter step.
Sunrise words, AA's grounding,
Mum's Bible, a voice across the void.
Random pages, highlighted truths,
freedom, letting go, liberation's song.
Exodus' beginning, bondage broken,
a shift within, the weight released.
To sit, not run, to face the wave,
The analogy’s sea, a mirror held.
Distraction, resistance, the tumbling fall,
leaning in, diving through, the wobble's grace.
The old self, drowned in oblivion,
the new, steady, facing the surge.
Surrender, trust, the path through,
no escape, no numbing, only the wave's embrace.
AA's teaching, letting go, grateful heart,
seeking God, in the discomfort, finding strength.
The ending changed, the story rewritten,
firm in the waves, no longer knocked down.
The envelope, a teacher now,
not a burden, but a path.
The void crossed, a conversation held,
in the silence, a deeper knowing.
