It’s funny how the mind can still play tricks on me, even after 15 months of sobriety. This morning, as I prepared for my usual AA meeting, I found myself wrestling with a familiar inner conflict: should I share my milestone or just keep quiet and carry on as normal? The ego whispered one thing, humility another. But after my morning meditation, I took my usual moment in the gap—that sacred pause where I try to connect with my Higher Power—and, as if on cue, a message landed in my WhatsApp inbox. It was from one of my soul brothers from the Sunrise AA meeting. We share the same monthly milestone date, the 10th. He’s a few months behind me, marking 11 months today. And just like that, the question in my head dissolved. My Higher Power had spoken through the words of another. My 15 months mattered, yes—but what mattered more in that moment was his 11. I was full of gratitude and joy, not for my own achievement, but for his. That was all the answer I needed.
Anyone who knew me before sobriety would probably laugh out loud—or even be shocked—reading that last paragraph. They’d ask, “Who even are you?” And rightly so. The old me thrived on attention, on being noticed and celebrated. I needed to be accepted so badly that I often overshadowed others just to get the recognition I craved. I would never have stepped back so someone else could have the spotlight. In fact, I would have felt threatened by their success. Alcohol fuelled that egotism. Most mornings, I was already compromised before the day even began—my mind hijacked by the first drink. My thoughts were selfish, my emotions erratic, and my behaviours driven by an ego that needed constant feeding.
I’ve come a long way since those days, and yet, I’m still adjusting to this new way of thinking and being. Even now, sitting here writing about this morning’s experience, there’s a part of me that still can’t quite believe it. “Did I really respond like that?” I ask myself. But the truth is, I did. And I continue to surprise myself. The desperate, clawing need to be accepted has lessened. I no longer need to be anyone but me. I’m not “burning up energy foolishly,” trying to create versions of myself to fit in, or inventing stories to make myself seem more impressive than I am. Back then, I used to wear personalities like suits—one for work, one for family, one for the pub, one for whoever I thought I needed to be at the time. Each one had bottles hidden in the pockets. Each one was a costume worn by someone trying to run from the truth. The irony is that those disguises only ever fooled me.
Now, in recovery, I’m learning to be still. To pause between thought and action. To examine the truth of what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, and what I’m about to do. This space—the gap—has become sacred. It’s where I can breathe, reflect, and seek guidance. It’s where I ask, “What’s the right thing here?” Not “What will make me look good?” or “What will get me the most attention?”—just, simply, “What’s right?” And when I act from that place, I feel more at peace and more accepted than I ever have. Not accepted by a room full of people—but accepted by myself, and by my God. That is something I never knew was possible, and it is something I no longer take for granted.
Fifteen months today. That’s no small thing. And while I honour that for myself, I now know that the true gift of this journey lies not in the number, but in the transformation. Alcoholics Anonymous and the Twelve Steps have taught me how to live. They’ve shown me how to surrender, how to be honest, how to examine my past without being destroyed by it. They’ve shown me the importance of service, humility, and connection. Most importantly, my continual search for my Higher Power—my God—has taught me that I don’t have to perform, pretend, or posture anymore. I just have to be me. And today, that’s enough. Today, the best I can do is be the best me I can be. Some days that feels easy, some days it doesn’t—but every day I remain sober and connected, I get another chance to live as the person I was always meant to be. Just for today—that’s more than enough.
The Gap Between Breaths
It is funny,
how the mind still dances in shadows,
even after fifteen moons without,
whisky and wine.
This morning, the old voice returned.
Not loud,
just sly.
“Should you speak of your journey?
Or let the milestone pass, like wind through trees?”
The ego offers a golden stage.
Humility, a quiet seat beneath it.
Both voices true,
but only one leads home.
So I sat.
Still.
And in the gap,
that sacred moment between inhale and exhale,
I heard nothing,
and in that silence,
everything.
A message arrived,
not from heaven,
but from a friend walking the same sunlit path.
He said, “Eleven months today.”
And just like that,
the question dissolved.
The answer had already spoken,
but I needed his voice to hear it.
Fifteen months is not a badge.
It is a breath.
And this breath is no greater than his.
In fact, in that moment,
his breath became mine.
The old self would laugh at this softness,
would mock the joy found in another’s light.
The old self needed to be seen,
needed to win,
even if the prize was empty.
Each morning began in a blur,
a mind already surrendered—not to peace,
but to poison.
Back then,
I wore many masks.
One for the boss,
one for the barstool,
one for the mirror.
Each stitched together
with fear,
with need,
with the sour breath of yesterday.
Each mask fooled only the man wearing it.
Now,
there is only one face.
It is lined with truth.
It blinks slowly in the sun.
It asks, not “How do I appear?”
but “What is the next right thing?”
In the stillness,
in the space between doing and desiring,
I find something ancient,
yet new.
The way does not shout.
It does not celebrate.
It does not count the days.
It flows,
quiet,
sure,
enough.
Fifteen months.
A number.
A mark on the wall of time.
But transformation has no calendar.
This is not the story of abstinence.
It is the story of becoming.
Of unbecoming, too.
Of peeling back all that is not real
to find what always was.
Today,
I do not need to perform.
I do not need to shine.
I only need to be.
And today,
that is enough.
Just for today.
What a gift.
