When I was much younger—just a teenager—I didn’t want to be another face in the crowd. I had no interest in being obedient or fitting into society’s expectations. I saw the world as something to resist, and so I did. I hardly ever turned up at school, and when I did, I was often under the influence of alcohol or other substances. Unsurprisingly, I ended up expelled and simply never went back. Although I got a job, it was purely out of necessity. My real income came from selling drugs in clubs on the weekends. That lifestyle, as you can imagine, opened the door to a host of dangerous, destructive situations that shaped my early adult years.
Eventually, life caught up with me. I met someone, settled down, and we had a daughter together. That moment forced me to take a hard look at my life. I made some changes—I stopped dealing, started putting some effort into my job, and tried to build a stable home. But I’d married into a heavy-drinking family, and while I had left most of the drug use behind, alcohol remained a constant companion. At the time, it didn’t seem like a problem. It was just part of the culture—always available, always encouraged. Fourteen years went by in what felt like a blink, and then one day, as always, I went too far. Everything crumbled. My marriage. My sense of stability. My illusion of control.
That day marked the end of drugs for me, full stop. But alcohol? That beast still had me. I didn’t realise just how deeply its claws were in until much later. I kept drinking, kept hurting myself and those I loved, and kept spiralling. It took a lot of pain, a lot of damage, and several close calls for me to finally admit that I was utterly powerless over alcohol. That first drink each day was never just one drink—it opened the door to all the others that followed. It wasn’t about willpower; it was about surrender. I had to stop pretending I could manage it, and instead acknowledge that I couldn’t manage anything at all while alcohol was calling the shots.
When asked what freedom means to me today, I don’t talk about rebellion or sticking it to the system anymore. Freedom, for me, began the day I walked into Alcoholics Anonymous. It began the moment I gave up trying to force the world to conform to my chaotic will. At first, I surrendered to the programme and its suggestions. Over time, I began to see a new way of life through the people around me, and eventually, I handed my will over to my Higher Power—my God, as I understand Him. To some, that might not sound like freedom. They might wonder how giving up control to something greater than myself can be freeing. But I’ve never felt so liberated in my life. It turns out that real freedom isn’t about control at all—it’s about letting go.
Freedom today means waking up without fear. No shakes. No anxiety. No urgent need to numb myself before I can function. I start each morning with clarity and peace because I didn’t drink yesterday. I strive to be the best version of myself, to live with intention, to be kind and useful to others. At night, I reflect honestly on my day—where I could have been better, more loving, more patient. And then I sleep. Sober. Safe. Grateful. Freedom isn’t about doing whatever I want; it’s about not being a prisoner to what once controlled me. As long as I keep doing what AA suggests, keep seeking God’s will in each moment, and remember that I can do anything—except drink alcohol—I remain free. And that, to me, is the truest kind of freedom there is.
True Freedom comes from within, not without!
The Way of Being Free
When I was young,
I thought freedom meant resistance.
I turned my back on the world,
thinking I was turning toward myself.
I chased the night,
and called it purpose.
I drank the fire
and called it truth.
I dealt in shadows
and mistook them for light.
The world, I thought,
was something to outwit.
But the world waited.
It always does.
Then came love—unexpected.
A child, soft and luminous,
who asked nothing
but to be held.
In her stillness,
I heard the first whisper of the Way.
I tried to walk straight,
but my feet still knew the old rhythms.
The bottle was always full,
even when it was empty.
I drank not to remember,
but to forget
what forgetting had cost me.
Years passed like fog across the river.
Marriage crumbled,
peace vanished,
and control,
that great illusion,
slipped through my fingers like smoke.
One day, the fire went out.
The powder, the pills—gone.
But the drink remained,
clinging,
laughing.
I fought it,
and lost.
Fought again,
and lost again.
Then I heard an old truth,
quiet as a leaf falling in winter:
"To master the self,
you must first surrender it."
I walked into a room
where no one wore masks,
where broken people spoke
in voices stronger than kings.
There, I found the paradox:
That only in yielding
do we become unshakable.
I handed over my will,
not in defeat,
but in trust.
And what I received
was not chains,
but wings.
Now, I rise with the sun.
No tremble.
No terror.
Only breath,
and the quiet knowing
that I do not need to escape
this moment.
I am not the fire.
I am not the storm.
I am the space between,
the stillness within,
the path that leads nowhere,
and everywhere.
Each night, I lay down my day
like a garment.
Examine it.
Fold it with care.
And sleep,
sober, safe,
grateful.
Freedom is not rebellion.
Freedom is not control.
Freedom is the sacred art
of letting go.
It is walking the Way,
step by step,
with open hands
and a quiet heart.
And it is enough,
To be free.
