I’ve found myself tired, irritable, and discontent today — not my usual self at all. I had to laugh at myself as I wrote that, because it wasn’t so long ago that this state was my usual self. I spent years living in a fog of frustration and low-level misery, and the only thing I ever thought could relieve that pain was another trip down alcohol lane, straight to oblivion. Back then, I wouldn’t have dreamed of sitting with how I felt or even acknowledging it. The moment I sensed discomfort, my alcoholic autopilot would engage, and off I’d go — no hesitation, no thought, just a mechanical urge to numb whatever was rising inside me.

In those days, emotions like sadness, frustration, or anxiety weren’t signals to pause and reflect. They were threats. They were enemies to be defeated by drowning them in booze. Writing about how I felt — like I am now — would have seemed pointless at best and terrifying at worst. The idea of being vulnerable, of looking inward, of feeling things without immediately reacting — I didn’t have the capacity for that. Alcohol wasn’t just a coping mechanism; it was the whole emotional operating system.

But things are different these days. Now, when I feel off — when I notice that I’m not my usual self — I have the awareness and tools to pause. I can sit with that feeling and ask, gently, why? Often, the answer is something remarkably simple. Maybe I stayed up a little too late the night before. Maybe I didn’t let go of the work week after finishing on Friday, and I’ve been mentally carrying it through my weekend. These are small things, really, but they can throw me off balance — and the difference now is that I can see that. I don’t have to escalate that discomfort into crisis or reach for something external to make it disappear.

My continued daily meditation practice has been a major part of this shift. Through it, I’ve learned how to sit with negative emotions without needing to act on them or escape from them. While reflecting on this today, I was reminded of one of my favourite lines from the Tao Te Ching: “Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?” That image speaks so deeply to the experience of recovery — learning not to thrash about when the mind is murky, but to wait, to trust in the stillness, and to let clarity come in its own time. Meditation has taught me patience — not just with the world, but with myself. It’s taught me to pause before reacting, to soften rather than resist, and to trust that I don’t need to be afraid of what I feel.

But if I’m honest, none of this would have started without the constant surrender and seeking that Alcoholics Anonymous has suggested to me. The idea of turning my will and my life over to something greater than myself — of admitting I didn’t have all the answers — was terrifying at first, but it was the doorway to everything that’s changed. It was in that act of surrender that I found the willingness to try meditation, to journal, to feel instead of flee. AA didn’t just help me stop drinking; it gave me a framework for living. A daily reprieve based on the maintenance of my spiritual condition. And today, when I’m tired, irritable, or discontent, I don’t have to fear it — I can meet it with curiosity, with compassion, and with the courage to stay present.

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When the Mud Is Stirred

The tired mind speaks,
and I listen.
The irritable heart clenches,
and I breathe.
The discontent stirs,
like silt in a still pond,
and I do not run.

Once, I feared the stirring.
I did not know how to stay.
Discomfort rose
and I drowned it,
not in silence
but in noise,
not in presence
but in absence.

In those days,
numbness wore the mask of peace.
The bottle was my temple,
ritual escape my only prayer.
Feelings were fire;
Only alcohol to quell.
Not quenching the spark
but increasing the inferno.

But now,
I sit.

The ache is still there sometimes,
the fog,
the pull toward oblivion.
But I have learned:
not every cloud is a storm,
and not every fire,
needs to be Pacified.

I have traded reaction for reflection,
urgency for stillness.
When the ground within me shakes,
I do not rebuild in panic.
I wait,
and the mud settles.

I do not need to understand everything.
I do not need to fix what is only passing through.
Fatigue is not failure.
Irritation is not sin.
Discontent is not doom.

They are teachers,
whispering:
Pause.
Listen.
Return.

I trust a wisdom deeper than thought,
a river that flows beneath
the mind’s noise.

I did not find this in myself alone.
I found it when I gave up
the lie of control.
When I bowed to something greater,
not a god of thunder,
but a presence
quiet as breath.

AA gave me this path,
not paved with perfection
but with willingness.
It asked only that I stop running.
It promised nothing but a daily chance,
a reprieve,
earned through spiritual attention.

And so today,
when I feel off-course,
I do not fear the current.
I float.
I trust the river to bring me home.

Let the water be cloudy.
Let the heart be unsettled.
There is wisdom in the waiting.
There is peace,
even here.