Lately, I’ve found myself reflecting deeply on time—how I use it, how it feels, and how it’s become one of the most valuable gifts in my life. Since walking the sober path through Alcoholics Anonymous and building a relationship with my Higher Power—my God—my relationship with time has completely changed. It feels sacred now, something not to be wasted or taken for granted.
In active addiction, time always seemed to slip through my fingers like sand. I never had enough of it, yet I squandered almost every hour I was given. So much of my energy went into either drinking or figuring out how to drink—how to get it, hide it, recover from it. Days blurred together in a fog of self-centred obsession and secrecy. I spent more time crafting lies to get out of family responsibilities than I did being present with the people I loved. I missed so many moments—real, beautiful, irreplaceable moments.
Looking back now, I struggle to understand how I allowed myself to waste so many years in a haze of drink and denial. I missed parts of my children’s lives. I lost a marriage. I nearly destroyed the relationship I have now with the woman I love so dearly. I burned through time like it was limitless—like it didn’t matter. But it did. And it does.
Today, things are different. I don’t live in the wreckage of the past or fear the future. I do my best to live fully in the present. That doesn’t mean I pack every moment with action or noise—I’m not a busy fool trying to fill a void. What it means is that I show up, with intention and awareness. Whether I’m sharing a day with my family , walking, writing, meditating, or simply being still—I try to be in it. Present. Awake. Connected.
Some days, time feels abundant. I wake up early, full of peace, and the hours stretch before me, full of opportunity and presence. Other days, it feels like time rushes past in a blur, like there just isn’t enough of it to do all the things I want or need to do. But the difference today is that however it feels—time-rich or time-poor—I trust it. I know it’s not mine to control. I know I wouldn’t even be able to notice these rhythms if I were still drinking. My sobriety and my connection to my higher power – my God have given me a new way of seeing and feeling time. I no longer run from it, fear it, or waste it.
Taoism and the Nature of Time
My journey in recovery has also opened me to new ways of thinking, and one perspective that has really resonated with me is the Taoist view of time. In Taoism, time is not seen as a rigid line from past to future, but more like a river—flowing, cyclical, and alive. It mirrors the seasons, the moon phases, the rise and fall of the tide. It’s not about controlling time, but about moving with it.
The Tao, which is the heart of Taoist teaching, exists beyond time. It is eternal, ungraspable, and yet it’s the source of everything. From that perspective, the ticking clock becomes less important than the rhythm of the moment. Taoism encourages us to live in harmony with that rhythm—to act when the time is right and to rest when it is not.
There’s great peace in this way of thinking. It aligns so beautifully with what I’ve learned in sobriety: to let go, to trust the process, to stop fighting life and start flowing with it. The idea of Wu Wei—effortless action—reminds me of the AA principle of surrender. When I stop forcing things, stop trying to control every outcome, and just do the next right thing in front of me, life works. Time works. I stop running against the clock and start moving with life.
Taoism also reminds me that time is subjective. How I experience time is linked to my state of mind. When I’m anxious, time races. When I’m grounded, time stretches. And now, because I’m sober and spiritually awake, I notice this. I can feel it. I can respond, rather than react. That’s a gift recovery has given me.
Living in the Now
Ultimately, both Taoism and AA have led me to the same truth: the present moment is all I ever really have. The past is done, the future isn’t promised. What I have is this breath, this heartbeat, this now. And in this now, I can be connected—to myself, to others, and to my God.
Time is precious. That phrase used to feel like a cliché. Now it feels like a promise. A daily reminder to live with purpose, to love deeply, to listen fully, and to cherish even the smallest moments. Because in this sober life—this life I never thought I could have—every moment is a miracle.
The Stream Of Time
The stream flows, not in haste,
nor lingering in want.
Time, a river, felt as sand
in a clenched, addicted hand.
Each grain, a lost moment,
a blur of seeking, hiding, mending.
Days bled into a fog,
truth bent to the craving's will.
Family, a distant shore,
love, a whispered, forgotten name.
Years, like smoke, dispersed,
a landscape of what might have been.
Now, the wreckage stills,
the future unburdened by fear.
Presence, a quiet anchor,
in the breath, the step, the word.
Not striving to fill,
but showing up, open and still.
Family's laughter, a walk's soft rhythm,
silence that speaks volumes.
Some days, abundance unfolds,
hours like petals, uncurling slow.
Others, a swift current,
yet trusted, unresisted.
For the river's course is not mine,
nor its feeling in the heart.
Sobriety, a clear seeing,
a connection to the boundless source.
The clock's tick, a small sound,
against the vastness of the way.
To move with the current,
to rest when the waters sleep.
Surrender, like effortless action,
Wu Wei in the soul's quietude.
No forcing, no grasping,
the next right thing, a gentle guide.
Time bends to the inner landscape,
anxious, it races; grounded, it breathes.
Awakening, a felt truth,
response over frantic reaction.
Past whispers no more,
future a silent, open space.
This breath, this beat, this now,
the only true holding.
Precious, no longer a hollow word,
but a promise whispered on the dawn.
To live with intention's light,
to love the fleeting, the small, the real.
For in this clear-eyed journey,
each moment, a grace unforeseen.
Time, a sacred unfolding,
in the stillness, the meaning is seen.
