Over the last day or so, I’ve been reflecting on something that stuck with me from a recent meeting. It came from someone who has quite a bit of sobriety behind them—years of it, in fact. Now, I won’t go into the details, because we all know the line: Who you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here. But I can share how it made me feel, and the ripple effect it had on my thinking.
What I heard was a stark reminder—one that hit me hard—that even if you haven’t had a drink in 10, 20, or even 30 years, you can still be carrying around the untreated mind of an alcoholic. You can still be battling with the same toxic thoughts and emotional loops that made you drink in the first place. Like one of my good friends in the Fellowship always says: “You may have control over your drinking, but not over your stinking thinking.”
And that’s exactly what I felt during this person’s share. To them, it seemed like what they were saying was profound, like they’d delivered it many times before—almost like a script, refined over the years. But to me, it came across as closed off, defensive, and deeply anti-AA in its essence. It didn’t feel open-hearted or spiritual—it felt like someone who had rebuilt the old walls around their mind and heart, someone no longer seeking or growing. A spiritual dead-end.
But here’s the surprising part: my reaction wasn’t anger, or judgement, or ego-driven superiority. I didn’t feel resentment or frustration. The only thing I truly felt was compassion. Because I recognised it. I’ve lived with that kind of negativity before—an exhausting, painful, isolating mindset. One that feeds on fear, defensiveness, and mistrust. And I know how much it hurts. I know how much it takes from you.
That share also got me thinking about what it’s like when someone new walks into the rooms. When they’re broken. Lost. Like I was not all that long ago. And the first thing that hits them is that word—God—plastered all over the steps on the wall. You can see it in their eyes sometimes, that tightening, that fear, that recoiling. And the people around them will quickly say: “Don’t worry, this isn’t a religious programme.” And yet, for most people, that statement rings hollow. It sounds like a contradiction. Because of course it feels religious—especially when you’ve only ever been taught to understand “God” through rigid religious structures or through painful experiences tied to religion.
Let’s be honest—when most of us see the word God, we project something onto it. Maybe it’s the God of our childhoods—the one we were told about in church or school. Maybe it’s the God we were taught to fear. Or maybe we were brought up in a home completely free from religion, and the word just doesn’t mean anything at all. For some, it may even spark anger or confusion—Why should I believe in something I can’t see? I don’t even believe in myself half the time—why would I trust some invisible force out there?
But here’s the thing. AA isn’t asking us to believe in that God. It’s a spiritual programme, not a religious one. And there’s a world of difference. The AA Big Book even nudges us in that direction—on page 87 it says, “There are many helpful books also. Suggestions about these may be obtained from one’s priest, minister, or rabbi. Be quick to see where religious people are right. Make use of what they offer.” Personally, I think “one’s” should be replaced with “a,” and that the list should include “or any other leader of a spiritual way.” Because spirituality isn’t owned by religion—it’s something personal, vast, and evolving. It’s something we each find in our own way.
What I’m really trying to say is this: you can walk the walk, you can talk the talk. You can recite the steps and chair meetings and share your clean time. But unless you soften your heart—unless you become open, really open—to something greater than yourself, then your spiritual malady will still be in the driver’s seat. It might be quieter, more cunning, less obvious than when you were drinking—but it’s still there.
Since I began to truly let go of my prejudices and preconceptions—about God, about people, about myself—something in me shifted. I stopped resisting. I stopped needing to have it all figured out. I just became open. Open to ideas. Open to change. Open to the possibility that there’s something bigger out there—a force for good, for healing, for connection—that I can lean into. And that’s when AA really started working for me.
That’s why it’s so important—so vital—that we don’t bring prejudice or narrow-mindedness into this programme. Not towards others, and not towards spiritual ideas. The moment we start deciding who or what should work for someone else, we begin to close the very doors that saved us. And the beauty of AA is that those doors are open for everyone, no matter who they are, what they believe, or where they’ve been.
We don’t have to understand everything. We just have to stay open. Keep seeking. Keep growing. That’s where the healing lives.
Open The Heart’s Cage
The stagnant pool,
reflecting only its murky self,
believes it holds the ocean.
Years pass, dry stones piled high,
marking time without weathering,
the old thirst unslaked.
Words, once life rafts,
become pronouncements, etched in stone,
a map to a dead end.
But the heart, a compass still,
recognizes the locked gaze,
the familiar ache of isolation.
Compassion blooms, a quiet flower
in the barren landscape of another's mind,
a shared geography of pain.
The newcomer arrives, trembling,
at the foot of a towering word,
"God"—a wall, not a window.
Fear tightens the chest,
a reflex learned in shadowed rooms,
where faith was a weapon.
"It is not religious," the chorus chants,
but the echo of dogma lingers,
a dissonance in the raw spirit.
Each heart carries its own lexicon,
of childhood whispers, of adult betrayals,
of a void where meaning should reside.
To project, to define, to confine
the boundless mystery,
is to cage the very air we breathe.
The path is not paved with belief,
but with the softening of edges,
a yielding to the unknown current.
Let go the rigid hand,
the need to name and categorize,
the illusion of knowing.
Open the heart's cage,
to the whisper of something larger,
a kinship beyond definition.
The steps are a dance, not a march,
a yielding to a rhythm felt,
not dictated.
The clean years are hollow
without the spaciousness within,
the willingness to be moved.
Prejudice, a rusted lock,
narrow-mindedness, a blindfold,
bar the entrance to grace.
Who are we to decree the shape of solace,
the face of the unseen?
The door swings wide for all.
No need to grasp the infinite,
only to unfurl the tightly clutched hand,
and trust the unfolding.
Seek, not to find a fixed point,
but to follow the widening horizon,
where healing breathes.
