Yesterday was one of those days that I simply had to write about—one that left me feeling deeply grateful, reflective, and connected. It began with something that has become a cherished part of my recovery journey: hosting the AA Step 11 sunrise Zoom meeting. This meeting has been an anchor for me, and being able to give back in this way is something I genuinely love. It’s more than just a service commitment; it’s a way to express gratitude for what has helped me daily throughout my recovery. By showing up, sharing, and holding space for others, I hope to pass on the same support that was so freely given to me when I was new to the programme.
After the meeting, my focus shifted to my other role—football dad. My daughter had a match, and what a brilliant game it was! She played her heart out, even assisting in one of the goals, which filled me with pride. There’s something so special about watching her on the pitch, growing in confidence and skill, forming bonds with her teammates. It’s moments like these that remind me how much I cherish being present in her life—truly present, not just physically but emotionally too. That’s something I never would have had before sobriety.
Later in the day, both my daughters wanted to head into town with their friends, so I drove them down. Normally, I’d have just dropped them off and gone about my business, but yesterday, I made a different choice. Instead of rushing away, I decided to stay. Of course, hanging around with them would have been an immediate “cringe” in their eyes, so I let them go off while I took the time to wander. I found myself browsing through charity shops, tech stores, and little hippy stalls—places I’ve always enjoyed but rarely take the time to explore properly.
While in town, I made a spontaneous decision to visit the indoor market where my cousin has a stall. We hadn’t spoken in a while, and it was good to catch up. As we were chatting, I noticed an older gentleman standing nearby. Something about his demeanour caught my attention—he looked lost, not just in a physical sense but emotionally too. His face carried an expression of quiet distress, but as people hurried past, he remained unnoticed.
Without hesitation, and before I even fully realised what I was doing, I walked over to him and asked, “Are you okay, mate?” A simple question, yet one I would never have had the confidence to ask in the past. Once upon a time, I struggled to talk to people I knew, let alone reach out to a stranger. But yesterday, something in me responded instinctively.
His reply was heartbreaking: “I feel lost.”
Without thinking, I responded, “Let me help you find where you need to go.”
That simple exchange led to an incredibly profound conversation. He shared that he had recently lost his son—his boy, who was around my age—to addiction. Drugs and alcohol had stolen his son from him, and the pain in his eyes was overwhelming. He told me he hadn’t been into town in a long time, and now that he was here, nothing felt familiar anymore. He was looking for something special to place on his son’s grave, but the market had changed, and the stall he had in mind was gone.
At that moment, something inside me stirred, and I found myself saying, “I’m a recovering alcoholic.” The words tumbled out naturally, without hesitation. As soon as I said it, he seemed to relax slightly, and in that instant, he opened up fully. He spoke of his frustration, his helplessness, the anger and sadness that consumed him. He told me how much he wished his son had found the support I have, how different things might have been.
I listened. Properly listened. Not with the intent to respond, not to fix or to comfort with empty words—just to hold space for his grief. And when the moment felt right, I asked him what he had hoped to find for his son’s grave. When he described it, I realised I knew exactly where he could get something similar. So I offered to walk with him to the shop.
A shift happened then. His eyes brightened just a little, and as we walked, he asked about my recovery journey. I shared some of my story, and he listened with the same attentiveness I had given him. There was no judgment, only a genuine exchange between two people who had experienced different sides of the same devastating illness.
When we arrived at the shop, he found what he was looking for almost instantly. He had a few options and asked for my opinion, ultimately choosing the one I suggested. Then, unexpectedly, he turned to me and asked if he could buy me a coffee as a thank-you. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he was insistent. So we sat together in a little café, two strangers who, for that short time, felt like old friends.
Over coffee, he shared more about his life—a life full of experiences, wisdom, and heartbreak. The more we spoke, the more I realised how rare and precious moments like these are. True human connection, without pretence or agenda, just honesty and kindness.
As we finished, I walked him back to the bus station. Before he left, he turned to me and said, “Please take my number. Give me a call from time to time. It would be nice to hear how you’re getting on.” I took his number and gave him mine in return. Then, just as he was about to walk off, he looked at me and said, “I’m proud of you, son.”
Those words floored me. This man, who had just lost his own son, who had no reason to offer me anything, gave me one of the most profound gifts I’ve ever received.
As I walked back to meet my daughters, my mind was reeling. I felt a strange mix of emotions—sadness for him, for his son, for the pain addiction causes so many families. But at the same time, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I am a recovering alcoholic. I am not a lost cause. And yesterday, in stepping outside my comfort zone, in choosing to help someone, I was reminded once again that service isn’t just something we do in AA meetings—it’s a way of life.
We met as strangers. We parted as friends. ❤️
Simple Service
The drop-off, a usual swiftness,
but yesterday, a pause, a stillness.
"Cringe," a daughter's whisper,
yet the father stayed, a wandering soul.
Charity's relics, tech's cold hum,
hippy stalls, a forgotten scent.
The town, a river of faces,
then, a market, a cousin's smile.
A man, a shadow, a lostness,
unseen, unheard, in the rushing tide.
"Are you okay, mate?"
A question, a stone breaking the surface.
"I feel lost."
A mirror, reflecting back the void.
"Let me help you find where you need to go."
Words, a bridge built of fragile trust.
A son, stolen by the hungry ghost,
addiction's shadow, a father's grief.
"I'm a recovering alcoholic."
Truth, a seed planted in barren ground.
Listening, a silent holding,
space for the unspoken, the raw.
A grave's longing, a lost object,
a walk, a shared direction.
Eyes, a flicker of light, returning,
stories exchanged, wounds laid bare.
No judgment, only the shared weight,
of brokenness and fragile hope.
A shop, a small thing found,
coffee's warmth, a fleeting kinship.
"Please take my number."
A thread, spun between strangers.
"I’m proud of you, son."
Words, a gift, unexpected, profound.
The mind, a whirlpool of feeling,
sadness, gratitude, a tangled dance.
"I am not a lost cause."
A truth, rising from the depths.
Service, not a task, but a way of being,
a flow, like water, finding its path.
Strangers, then friends,
a circle, unbroken, whole.
Connection found, in the market's heart,
in the simple act of presence,
in the quiet exchange,
of brokenness and grace.
