Today’s mission: make a sign for my daughter’s gymnastics competition. The brief? “Carnival.” It always makes me laugh when it pops up in the comp schedule about making the number sign. Supposedly, the kids are the ones meant to make these signs with their numbers on—but, let’s be honest, it’s evolved into a full-blown parents’ showdown. Obviously, I let my daughter help… a little.
I had an idea straight away—something a little off the beaten track. Not the usual red-and-white tents, clowns, or cartoonish bumper cars. No, I went full Rio. Big mask. Sequins. Glitter. Feathers like you wouldn’t believe. Think Mardi Gras meets Cirque du Soleil on a sugar high. Bold. Flashy. A bit chaotic. Like life itself.
And, as always when my hands are busy, my head gets busy too. Making this mask, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons. I’ve got a knack for turning whatever I’m doing into some kind of metaphor that helps this beautifully mad brain of mine make sense of it all. This carnival mask? It started to look a lot like recovery.
Carnivals are wild things. There’s a surface-level joy to them—laughter, colours, smells that spark childhood memories. The joy of watching kids squeal with delight as they’re spun around on rides, the warmth of holding your family close under strings of glowing lights. But look a little deeper, and there’s something else—something older, darker. The clowns with too-wide grins, the calliope music that plays just a bit too slowly, the funhouse mirrors that twist your reflection and mess with your sense of direction.
Recovery’s a lot like that. On the surface, it’s celebration: joy at waking up sober, the calm after a storm, the glittering moments of clarity. But underneath, there’s complexity. The shadows of old habits, the distorted thoughts that sneak in when you’re tired or under pressure. Yesterday, I got pulled into the darker side of the carnival. A call from the sales director at work—just before lunch, brilliant timing—telling me that a major bid He’d been working on for weeks suddenly needs a cyber security accreditation we don’t have. One I know takes five to six weeks minimum to get. But he wanted it in ten days. And when I explained the timeline, his response was:
“Well, if you don’t get it done, we’ll lose the bid. That’s two million pounds. On you.”
Cue the freak show. My mind flung open the gates. The resentment tent popped up immediately, the anger carousel started spinning, and worry began juggling flaming swords. I could feel the tightrope of my sobriety sway beneath my feet. This was dangerous ground for someone like me—those thoughts that can so easily become justifications if I let them.
But this time, I didn’t. I paused. Caught my breath. I found the business case I’d already written for this exact accreditation a year ago—because of course I had. I sent it to the director, and copied in the MD and senior leadership with a carefully worded email. No drama. Just facts. Just truth.
Still, my emotions were everywhere. After snapping at my son—an innocent bystander—I knew I needed to step off the ride. So I pressed pause. Not just a quick break, but a proper stop the carnival moment.
The rest of the day became an act of recovery. I got my hair cut, had a shave, reclaimed a bit of dignity. I meditated. Wrote. Spent time with my family—not distracted time, but present, grounded time.
This morning, I woke up and realised something profound. My mind had started drifting into the haunted tents, the old attractions of chaos and blame. But I didn’t stay there. I didn’t drink. I didn’t spiral. I went to bed sober. I woke up content. Grateful.
That’s recovery. It’s knowing that the carnival will always be there—chaotic, colourful, sometimes terrifying. But I don’t have to lose myself in it. I can dance in the parade and still find my way home. I can wear the glitter, even if I’ve known the darkness behind the curtain.
And this mask I’ve made for my daughter? Maybe it’s more than sequins and feathers. Maybe it’s a reminder—that life is messy and marvellous, and if I stay honest, stay connected, and stay sober… then I get to keep showing up for the whole show.
The Unspoken Sign
The brief arrives, a whisper: "Carnival."
A painted smile on the competition's face.
The number sign, a child's task, they say,
yet parental ambition blooms, a gaudy race.
My daughter's small hand, a touch on the bright.
My mind, already a loom, begins to weave.
Not the expected, the predictable joy,
but Rio's heart, where secrets interleave.
A mask takes form, beyond simple delight.
Sequins like fallen stars, a feathered storm.
Mardi Gras spirit, Cirque's dizzying height,
a chaos embraced, keeping the spirit warm.
And the hand's work births a deeper seeing.
This carnival mask, a mirror held to the soul.
For carnivals themselves, a double being,
surface laughter, a story taking its toll.
The child's squeal on the spinning ride,
the family warmth beneath the glowing thread.
But shadows lurk where truths can hide,
the clown's fixed grin, a disquieting dread.
Funhouse mirrors, twisting what is known,
calliope's slow lament, a haunting air.
And recovery, too, a field strangely sown,
with bright awakenings and a hidden snare.
The sober dawn, a clarity that gleams,
the calm that follows the tempest's rage.
Yet beneath, the echo of fractured dreams,
old habits stirring on life's shifting stage.
Yesterday's call, a sudden, sharp descent.
The sales director's voice, a tightening band.
A missing piece, a fortune misspent,
responsibility laid heavy in my hand.
The freak show unfurled, gates flung wide,
resentment's tent, anger's dizzying spin.
Worry's sharp blades, nowhere left to hide,
sobriety's tightrope, threatening to give in.
Justification's whisper, a tempting lie,
the old escape, a familiar, shadowed door.
But the pause arrived, beneath a watchful sky,
a breath drawn deep, refusing to fall before.
The forgotten file, a year-old, saving grace,
facts laid bare, a truth calmly unfurled.
No drama's lure, no desperate chase,
just quiet strength in a turbulent world.
Still, the inner storm, a restless sea.
A snapped word, an innocent heart stung.
The carnival's pull, demanding of me,
a step back taken, the frantic music unsung.
A moment held, a deliberate stay,
hair trimmed, the face reflected, clean.
Meditation's stillness, washing the day away,
family's presence, a grounded, vital scene.
This morning's light, a gentle, clear refrain.
The haunted tents beckoned, the old allure.
But the journey inward, without the binding chain,
sober the night, content, and spirit pure.
This, then, is recovery's quiet art.
The carnival's clamour will never cease.
But the self remains, a separate, beating heart,
dancing in the bright, finding inner peace.
The glitter adorns, though darkness has been known.
Honesty's compass, connection's steady hand.
Sobriety's gift, a seed that's surely sown,
to witness the whole show, to truly understand.
This mask, a silent testament, beyond the gleam,
to life's wild beauty, its intricate design.
And the strength found, within the waking dream,
to show up fully, this messy, precious life, is mine.
The best part of today wasn’t just making the competition mask together with my daughter — it was sitting beside her while she got creative with colouring pens, glitter, and all things sparkly, and writing this while she helped me along the way.
