Yesterday was a really good day—one of those quietly profound days that, years ago, would have turned out completely differently. It could have been an absolute disaster had I still been clinging to my old mindset, the one ruled by self-pity, frustration, and ultimately, alcohol. We had a plan: one of our older daughters had generously offered to take our two youngest children out for the day to the beach, and then to stay the night at her house. For my wife and me, this was set to be a rare and beautiful occasion—no children for a full day and night, just us. A space to reconnect, breathe, and simply be together.

But as life often does, it changed course. After gymnastics, our youngest daughter began feeling unwell, and by the time we got home she was being violently sick. The illness carried on through the night and into the morning. The beach trip was off. In my old life, in my old mind, this would have been the trigger—the crack in the plan that let in the flood of resentment and justification. I’d have gone straight down “sod it lane,” which always led to the off licence. I would have wallowed in disappointment, built up a self-righteous anger over how “nothing ever goes my way,” and I’d have convinced myself that a drink was not only deserved, but necessary.

Back then, the real tragedy wasn’t that plans fell apart, but that I had nothing else I thought I enjoyed. Alcohol had a way of drowning out the light in my life, convincing me it was the only thing worth reaching for. It was a thief that quietly, methodically stole all the good things—my hobbies, my presence, my gratitude. But yesterday, none of what I used to love was obscured. In fact, those things now shine even brighter without drink’s dulling shadow. One of the passions that has truly returned to me is gardening. Years ago, I was a landscape gardener and worked at a plant nursery. I had such a love for growing things—some of them medicinal in nature, if you catch my drift—but it was an honest, grounding love. I’d work all day on others’ gardens and then still find joy pottering around my own. Visiting stately homes and admiring their grounds was a weekend treat, but even then, drink was always present. A beer in hand, wine in the picnic basket—it was never far away.

But yesterday was different. With the children home and the original plan cancelled, instead of falling into the old narrative of “poor me, poor me a drink” my mind quietly and instinctively shifted to, “Brilliant—I can spend the day in the garden.” And I truly loved every minute. I strung up the hammock and took time for meditation. I soaked in the simple joy of being with my wife and children as they sat and chatted nearby. There was no need to escape anything—no craving for a false high. Just peace, and presence.

Then something extraordinary happened. While rummaging through a box of old screws and bits, looking for something to help with a fence repair, I found an item I’d been searching for since the early days of sobriety. It was a green jade double twist infinity pendant, something I had been given in my younger years. I used to wear it constantly, back when I was still somewhat connected to the parts of myself that alcohol would later bury. I don’t recall when I stopped wearing it—there are many hazy gaps from the drinking years—but as I began to heal and remember who I really was, I began thinking of it again. I searched everywhere but could never find it. Eventually, I gave up looking. And yet, there it was—sitting in a tub of old hardware, waiting patiently to be found.

This pendant, I’ve since learned, is deeply spiritual. Jade is aligned with the heart chakra—Anahata in Sanskrit—which governs love, compassion, and emotional balance. Green, its colour, symbolises healing, connection, and inner peace. How fitting, then, that I rediscovered it at a time when those qualities are finally returning to me. Finding it wasn’t just nostalgic—it felt sacred. It was as if the universe, or my Higher Power, had hidden it until I was truly ready to carry it again, not just on my chest, but in my soul. Without hesitation, I threaded it onto some string and placed it back around my neck, where it now rests—over my heart, exactly where it belongs.

This, to me, is no coincidence. Since beginning this beautiful journey of sobriety, and truly seeking a relationship with my God—my Higher Power—I’ve noticed something remarkable. Life seems to unfold in its own perfect rhythm, usually when I stop trying to force it. When I just do the next right thing, stay connected, and let go of control, moments like these seem to arrive—full of meaning, full of grace. The right people, the right opportunities, the right healing—they show up, often in the quietest of ways. Not always in grand gestures, but in screws-and-nails tubs, in garden soil, in a child’s laugh, or in the gift of a still day at home.

The old me would have missed it all. But today, I am awake. I am sober. I am walking a path that I never thought I’d find. And though it isn’t perfect, it is honest. It is beautiful. And it is mine.

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The Jade Path

The plan was to be alone,
yet the day brought us together.
The sky did not ask permission,
to rearrange the winds.
The child grew sick,
the sea remained in the distance,
but peace came anyway.

In the days of fog,
I would have cursed this change,
poured resentment like a bitter drink,
told myself,
that suffering was my right,
and pleasure, a debt unpaid.
Then I would vanish,
into a bottle’s echo,
seeking peace in poison.

But now,
I know the garden speaks louder,
than the voice of old thirst.
It says:
“Grow where you are.
Bloom without condition.”

And so I did.
I touched the soil,
without needing to forget myself.
I strung the hammock,
not to escape,
but to arrive.

The child’s laughter,
though coloured with fever,
was music.
The breeze, untainted by craving,
was enough.

And then,
in rust and wood,
in a forgotten box of castaways,
a green jade pendant revealed itself.
It did not shout.
It had waited.

Not a reward,
but a remembering.
Not a prize,
but a mirror.

The jade is not magic.
It is truth.
It knows that healing
cannot be rushed,
that presence,
is the only temple,
in which the heart,
may be truly worn.

I placed it around my neck,
but it settled in my soul.

This is the Way:
not the beach,
not the beer,
not the flawless unfolding of plans.
The Way is,
in surrender.
In the next right thing.
In broken schedules,
and unbroken presence.

What I sought in drink,
was always here,
but only visible,
in stillness.

The old path is always there,
beckoning.
But I do not walk it now.
I walk the soft trail
through the garden,
feet bare,
heart open,
jade over chest,
light pouring through the leaves.

Let the day be what it is.
Let the self be what it becomes.
Nothing is wasted.
Even the screws and nails,
That can hold up,
the sacred.