Yesterday marked a significant step forward in my recovery, though not so much in my recovery from alcoholism, but rather in my spiritual and mental healing. It was a moment of raw emotion, one that forced me to confront feelings I had long buried deep inside me.
The day had been going smoothly until lunchtime. Then, an email arrived—one I had been expecting but had deliberately chosen to push aside, burying it deep within the mental basement where I had been stockpiling all the emotions I wasn’t ready to face. The email confirmed that the sale of my mum’s flat had completed. It was no longer ours. A new owner now held the keys to a place that had been a sanctuary for me, a final, tangible connection to her. The moment I read it, my head completely fell apart. In an instant, I was thrown off-centre. The basement door, weakened by the weight of all those suppressed emotions, finally buckled under pressure and flew open. Everything I had ignored came flooding out at once.
Almost immediately, my mind went into flight mode. I couldn’t stay at work. I needed to be somewhere else, anywhere but where I was. But for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I felt that the truth wasn’t enough—I needed an excuse, a way to justify leaving. And so, I lied. I told my boss that my wife was ill and that I had to attend my son’s parents’ evening at school. It was a total fabrication, and yet, in that moment, it felt like the only way out.
But, of course, running didn’t help. When I got home, the emptiness I was trying to escape had followed me. No one was there to distract me, no noise or conversation to drown out the storm in my head. I had nowhere left to run. I was stuck with myself, and the reality of my loss sat heavy in the silence.
I sank into the sofa, allowing my thoughts to take control. My mind latched onto the finality of it all: I would never be able to go into the flat again. It sounds strange, but that space still held the scent of my mum. Since she passed away, I had been making weekly visits just to sit there with my eyes closed, letting my other senses take over, allowing myself to imagine, even for a fleeting moment, that she was still there with me. It was a ritual of comfort, a way to feel close to her. And now, that was gone too.
As sadness set in, it wasn’t alone. Regret, remorse, guilt—each emotion vied for dominance, swirling together into something dark and heavy. I could feel myself spiralling, and deep down, I knew what I needed to do. I reached for my AA emergency toolkit, the set of principles and practices that I had learned to trust in moments like this. I did what I should have done the moment the storm started raging in my head: I stopped. I paused. I took a breath. And then, I meditated and prayed.
It didn’t take long for the storm to settle. The negative feelings lost their grip, and though the sadness remained, I understood that sadness, in itself, was not something to fear. It was okay to feel sad.
Some months ago, I read The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche. The title may sound morbid, but the book is anything but. It explores loss and the emotions that follow, particularly the grief left for those who remain. One idea that stuck with me was the concept of fully embracing grief rather than trying to suppress or escape it. The book suggests leaning into it completely—meditating on it, letting it wash over you, allowing it to become part of you rather than something to fight against. In doing so, you strip it of its power to control you.
So, that’s what I did. I closed my eyes, focused on the grief, and let it take over. Within moments, the tears came, a flood of them. For anyone who knows me, this would be hard to believe. I have rarely shown my emotions outwardly. Aside from my mum’s funeral, the only person I had ever openly cried in front of was my mum herself. But this time, I let it happen. And it felt amazing.
After that deep, cathartic release, something shifted. The sadness was still there, but it no longer carried the same unbearable weight. It no longer had power over me. I had allowed myself to feel it fully, and in doing so, I had taken control.
By evening, I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. But despite that, I felt a quiet happiness. I was grateful. Grateful that the pain had loosened its grip. Grateful that the flat, once a place where I had continually revisited my grief, was now a space being filled with new love and new memories. And above all, I was profoundly grateful for the tools AA has given me, for the knowledge that there is always another way, a better way, to face life’s challenges. I no longer need to run. And I certainly no longer need to seek refuge at the bottom of a bottle.
Yesterday was a massive step in my recovery. Not just from alcoholism, but from the old ways of thinking that once defined me. And for that, I am truly thankful.
Bend But Not Break
The email, a stone dropped,
ripples widen, the basement cracks.
Old feelings, a flood,
no dam holds, no lie shelters.
Flight, a phantom bird,
wings beat, but the cage travels.
Emptiness, a vast room,
no echo, only the lost scent.
The flat, a held breath,
now exhaled, a stranger's air.
Regret, a tangled vine,
guilt, a heavy cloak, remorse, a shadow.
The toolkit, a still point,
breath in, breath out, the storm quiets.
Sadness, a river's flow,
no need to dam, no need to fear.
Rinpoche's words, a gentle hand,
embrace the grief, let it wash,
strip the power, the control,
tears fall, a cleansing rain.
Release, a loosening grip,
the weight lifts, the sadness remains,
transformed, no longer a master,
but a quiet companion.
Exhaustion, a soft landing,
gratitude, a slow bloom in the dark.
The flat, a new story,
love's echo, replacing loss.
The path unfolds, no bottle,
no running, just the steady breath.
Recovery, not a line, but a circle,
returning, changed, to the centre.
Thankfulness, a silent song,
in the space where old selves crumbled,
a new self, rooted, rises,
like bamboo, bending, but never breaking.
