Last Friday, I was on the receiving end of a deeply upsetting call from our company’s sales director. It was immediately clear from his tone and attitude that he’d made a major error, hadn’t taken the time to look at the necessary details, and was scrambling to cast the blame elsewhere. The call ended with him saying, “Well, if you don’t get it done, we’ll lose the bid. That’s two million pounds. On you.” I won’t go into the details here, as I’ve already written about it in Carnival of Life, but suffice to say—it hit hard.
After the call, I was left feeling angry and resentful. What he did was unfair and uncalled for, and it completely derailed my focus for the rest of the day. But instead of spiralling—which is exactly what I would’ve done in the past—I caught myself. With the right first reaction, and then no action beyond that, I was able to move through the feelings without feeding them. I spent the rest of the day leaning into the tools that AA, the 12 Steps, and my commitment to spiritual growth have given me.
In the past, something like this would’ve been all the justification I needed to drink—first to “cope,” then to punish myself, and then straight into oblivion. That was the cycle. Friday would’ve ended with me either smashed or passed out, and the rest of the weekend a blur of shame, defensiveness, and regret.
But this time, I didn’t react. I didn’t send an angry message. I didn’t storm into anyone’s office. I didn’t try to fix anything. I just let it be. And by choosing not to act, not to force, not to retaliate—I gave the situation space. Taoism refers to this as wu wei—“non-action” or “effortless action.” It’s not passivity, but a kind of spiritual discipline: to flow with life, not against it. Buddhism teaches something similar—the idea that our suffering often arises from clinging and grasping, from reacting impulsively to things that are already in motion.
By stepping back and observing, rather than charging forward with emotion, I created room for grace. I let the storm pass through me, and by the time the weekend came, I had let go. I spent time with my family, I was present—not stuck in my head, replaying the call or plotting some comeback.
Come Monday morning, though, I’ll admit the fear started to creep in. My overthinking kicked off: playing out a worst-case scenario in which I’m being dragged into a meeting with the MD, having to explain how I failed to meet an impossible deadline, and why we lost a two-million-pound bid. But reality had other plans.
The MD arrived early and made a beeline to find me. I was in the meeting room, attending the 7am Sunrise AA Zoom meeting. I love starting the work day that way—alone in a meeting room, facing east, watching the sun rise over the hills. There’s something grounding about it. Anyway, I left the meeting when she knocked. As it seemed urgent, and the first thing she said was, “I’m so sorry.”
She apologised sincerely for the sales director’s conduct and asked whether I wanted to file a formal complaint. I was stunned—how did she even know? I hadn’t spoken to anyone. As it turns out, the sales director himself had spent the weekend thinking about the conversation, and had gone to the MD pre-emptively—worried I might make a complaint, and confused as to why I hadn’t reacted at all.
That detail stuck with me. He was confused because I didn’t react. And when the MD asked why, I told her, “If I’d reacted on Friday while I was upset, I would’ve just made myself feel worse, and probably said something I’d regret.” She seemed taken aback by that answer. Even more so when I said that his apology was enough, because clearly, he’d already regretted what he said.
She went on to tell me that during the board meeting that morning, she planned to raise both the sales director’s behaviour and her own mistake—she hadn’t listened to my advice last year about upgrading our cyber security accreditation. That, more than anything, had contributed to the current pressure, and the fact that company had to pull out of the bidding.
After all that, I had a quiet moment to reflect. And I felt… good. Happy, even. Because I didn’t do what I would’ve done in the past. No rage, no emails fired off in anger, no sulking or passive aggression. And most importantly—no drinking. I didn’t fuel the fire, I didn’t poison my own peace, I just kept my side of the street clean.
There’s something powerful in learning to pause, to let things settle before responding—or choosing not to respond at all. That’s been one of the greatest gifts of recovery: learning that non-reaction is not weakness, but wisdom. I used to think that not saying something, not doing something, meant I was letting people get away with it. But now I see that sometimes, by doing nothing, we allow the truth to reveal itself. We give others the space to see their part without being forced to. We allow life to flow. And in that flow, I’ve found a kind of peace I never had while drinking.
This is the path I’m walking now. One breath, one step, one sunrise at a time.
Open Hand
The heavy word landed,
a stone thrown into still water.
Ripples of anger, resentment,
threatened to flood the quiet shore.
The director's voice, a tangled vine,
seeking to bind another to its failing.
"On you," the weight of two million,
a burden meant to crush.
The old self stirred,
a familiar thirst rising.
To drown the sting,
to numb the unfairness,
to vanish into the oblivion of drink.
But the hand stayed still.
The tongue held its fire.
No swift email, no harsh retort,
no storming of gates.
Emptiness was chosen,
a space carved out of reaction.
Wu wei, the unforced way,
allowing the current to flow.
Suffering, a clinging,
a grasping at shadows.
To step back, to observe,
the storm passing through.
The weekend unfolded,
presence instead of haze.
Family, a gentle anchor,
not the swirling of the mind.
Monday's dawn, a whisper of fear,
the overthinking serpent uncoiling.
Meeting rooms, accusations,
the weight of failure imagined.
But the path veered,
unexpected grace arrived.
The MD's knock, a gentle intrusion,
into the sunrise stillness.
"I'm so sorry," the unexpected balm.
An apology offered, unbidden.
The director himself, turned inward,
confused by the silence.
No reaction, a mystery.
"If I'd reacted in anger,
only more pain would bloom,"
the simple truth spoken.
The MD listened,
a deeper understanding taking root.
Her own oversight acknowledged,
the true source of the pressure revealed.
A quiet moment then,
a lightness settling in the chest.
No battle fought, no poison consumed,
the inner landscape clean.
The pause, a potent space,
where truth can surface.
Non-action, not weakness,
but a yielding to what is.
To force, to control,
only tightens the knot.
To release, to allow,
opens the hand to grace.
This path unfolds slowly,
one breath, one step.
The sunrise a daily reminder,
of the peace found in letting go.
