After my big God push at the beginning of the week, I made a conscious decision to keep a close eye on myself—on my emotional landscape, my habits, my defaults. I could feel the familiar weight of emotional fatigue and a subtle inner resistance to doing what I knew was right. Despite all my efforts to stay connected, present, and open to life, I could sense that old pull toward isolation, toward withdrawing into my own mental solitary confinement. I wasn’t spiralling, but I wasn’t thriving either—I was treading water in an emotional bog.
Midweek, I found myself tucked away in the office, noise-cancelling headphones firmly in place, barely speaking to anyone. It wasn’t intentional exclusion, but more of a self-protective cocoon. Then, unexpectedly, the company’s managing director popped her head around and asked if I had a moment for a chat. Of course, I said yes. But as we walked silently toward the meeting room, my head flooded with questions and insecurities. What have I done? What have I not done? Am I in trouble? Is something wrong? My mind conjured up every possible negative scenario.
We sat down and the first thing she said was, “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.” Clearly, my inner panic had been visible in my body language. She then shared something personal—her son had just been diagnosed with dyslexia. It had really knocked his confidence and left her feeling unsure of how to support him. She wondered if I could help her understand what he might be going through.
Some might have found that an unusual request in a corporate setting, but to me it felt natural. Since working the 12 steps in Alcoholics Anonymous, I’ve opened up about more than just my alcoholism. My mental health struggles, my dyslexia, my self-doubt—all of these have come into the light. And I’ve found strength in that vulnerability. Without hesitation, I started asking questions about her son, listening carefully, then gently offering my own experience—what it felt like to be his age, to struggle in silence, to push back against the label, and eventually to find tools that helped me.
I shared freely, though I carefully avoided mentioning AA or my recovery. But the truth is, everything I passed on—suggestions, insights, even the ability to sit and listen without judgement—came from my experience in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. That hour-long conversation felt like something more than just a workplace chat; it felt sacred, human, and deeply purposeful.
At the end of our chat, she thanked me for my honesty and then surprised me: “It’s Mental Health Week, and this Friday’s company huddle is dedicated to that subject. Would you be our guest speaker and share your experience, strength, and hope with everyone?” My heart froze for a second. Experience, strength, and hope—those are AA words. I panicked momentarily, thinking, She knows! I’ve been found out! But then I actually heard the rest of her sentence: she wanted me to talk about how I navigate mental health and dyslexia, and how it might help others.
I agreed. “Sounds great,” I said, without overthinking. Back at my desk, I remembered that I’d already written some pieces about my experiences—pieces that didn’t explicitly mention AA. One of them included a poem. I sent them over to her, and to my surprise, she loved the poem and shared it on the company-wide chat group. The feedback was overwhelming—kind comments, messages of encouragement, and a genuine buzz of interest. It felt… good. Not ego-good, but soul-good.
Friday morning arrived quickly. Those earlier feelings of fatigue and emotional resistance were still lurking in the background, but they’d lost their grip. When I was introduced in the huddle meeting, I stepped up and shared honestly—my battles, my journey, and the tools I use to stay grounded. Then, to my astonishment, the MD presented a slide with my poem and invited me to read it aloud. It was the first time I’d read my poetry in front of anyone—so, naturally, my God arranged for that debut to happen in front of 186 people. No pressure!
It went better than I could have imagined. There was one awkward moment when a director made a misguided joke, saying, “Well, not my kind of thing, I don’t get it. I must need to be dyslexic to understand it.” But before I could even react, the MD and several other senior leaders gently corrected him. To be honest, his comment didn’t faze me. Not everyone gets it, and that’s okay. I don’t write for everyone. I write because I love it. I write because it helps me heal. If someone else connects with it, that’s a beautiful bonus.
What really moved me, though, were the messages and calls I received afterwards. Colleagues from all over the business reached out, thanking me for sharing, opening up about their own struggles or those of people they care about. They asked for suggestions, support, or simply a listening ear. It was humbling. I didn’t feel like a guest speaker; I felt like someone simply being of use.
And that brings me to something AA has taught me, something that echoes louder and louder in my heart with each passing day: we get to keep what we have by giving it away. Being of service isn’t just about helping other alcoholics (though that will always be at the core). It’s about carrying the spirit of service into every corner of our lives—into workplaces, friendships, and even brief conversations with strangers. It’s about being present, being willing, and being honest.
Every single day, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for what AA has so freely given me. A new way to live. A way to be useful. A reason to wake up and show up. And I’m not just grateful—I’m compelled. I don’t just want to pass this on to fellow alcoholics. I want everyone to know that transformation is possible. That connection is possible. That grace is real. This isn’t a secret club with a locked door. It’s a miracle meant to be shared.
And here’s the first poem I read in front of other people on the 23rd May 2025
When I Stopped Fighting Myself
The river does not ask to be straight.
The tree does not curse the shape of its branches.
So why did I believe
that I had to bend
to be worthy of sunlight?
I tried my best,
even when the world wrote failure
on the walls I leaned against.
I climbed through days thick with silence,
carrying questions no one could name.
No one told me the sky,
was not disappointed in the crooked path of a cloud.
No one said,
that the whisper inside—you can’t, you won’t, why try,
was not my truth,
but a shadow cast by misunderstanding.
I was not broken.
Only unseen.
And in the absence of being seen,
I learned to vanish from myself.
But the life does not abandon.
It waits,
quiet as soil,
under the foot of a child who stumbles.
One day,
I listened—not to the voice of doubt,
but to the soft pulse beneath it.
And I heard something older than fear:
a willingness to be.
I stopped pursuing the river upstream.
I sat beside it instead,
watching how it moved without apology.
I asked for help,
and the world did not fall.
I spoke my truth,
and others echoed it.
I stood still,
and realised I was not alone.
Now, I walk not to prove,
but to participate.
I do not measure my worth,
by the speed of the journey,
but by the grace with which I continue.
The old voice still visits.
But I answer it with gentleness.
I say,
I see you. You may rest now.
And when I do not know,
I do not say I can’t.
I say I’ll try.
And like spring pushing through frozen ground,
that simple shift,
In my perspective,
changes everything.
