In my old life before Alcoholics Anonymous, I now see clearly that one of the most destructive mindsets I lived in was the belief that the world revolved around me. Everything was either happening to me or because of someone else. When things didn’t go my way, I was quick to blame others — partners, friends, family, society — anyone but myself. The regrets and remorse I used to feel after a binge were suffocating, but I always had a scapegoat ready: it was the person who invited me out, the bartender who served me, the friend who didn’t stop me, or the stranger who looked at me the wrong way. Somehow, I had convinced myself that I was a victim of circumstance, never the architect of my own downfall.
But through the process of working the 12 Steps with rigour and honesty, I began to uncover a much deeper truth — that my addiction had been running the show, but it was me who had handed over the reins. I wasn’t just lost in alcohol; I was lost in self. The Steps didn’t just help me get sober — they helped me take responsibility. Step by step, I began to see that I was responsible for my actions, my reactions, and my choices. No one made me drink. No one made me lash out, isolate, or destroy relationships. That was me. That was the self-centred fear and delusion that addiction breeds. Looking in the mirror without excuses or blame was painful, but necessary. It was the beginning of freedom.
And as that awareness grew, so did a new kind of purpose — a life rooted not in self-seeking, but in service. AA taught me that I couldn’t keep what I had unless I gave it away. At first, service seemed like a duty — something to tick off. But over time, it became something far more profound. Making tea at a meeting, setting out chairs, hosting or co-hosting a Zoom room, or picking up the phone for someone who’s struggling — these aren’t just simple acts. They are sacred moments where I get to step outside of myself and show up for another human being. They reconnect me with the very essence of recovery: connection, humility, and love.
The paradox of service is that in helping others, I am the one who is helped. Every time I act in service — no matter how small the gesture — I take one more step away from that old world of self-obsession, fear, and isolation. I stop thinking about what I want or what I think I deserve, and instead become part of something greater. It’s not just about being useful — it’s about being present, about listening, about showing another alcoholic that they matter, and that they’re not alone. And in those moments, I remember that I’m not alone either.
Today, I can serve with a smile — not because everything is perfect, but because I’m no longer living in that relentless cycle of self. The Steps showed me how to live differently, and service keeps me grounded in that truth. It reminds me that the world doesn’t revolve around me, but I can revolve around others in love and service. And that shift — from self to service — is where the real magic of recovery lives.
The Smile That Serves
The one who lives only for self,
will always be thirsty,
even with the cup full.
I once lived like this—
the sun rose to warm my skin,
the rain fell to ruin my day.
The world spun only to delight or betray me.
And always, it was someone else's fault,
when I stumbled.
The drink,
sweet at first,
turned bitter in my throat—
but I drank deeper,
blaming the glass,
the barkeep,
the friend who didn't stop me,
the stranger who didn't smile.
I was not the victim of the world.
I was the architect of my pain,
and the builder of my prisons.
But I could not see it
until I stood still,
long enough
to listen.
Twelve steps,
like stones across a river,
carried me from shadow into light.
Not quickly.
Not without fear.
But with truth.
And truth,
though it burns,
does not destroy.
It purifies.
I saw that the enemy was not outside—
not the people,
not the places,
or things,
nor in the past.
It was the self,
untamed,
frightened,
and always wanting more.
In service, I found a strange salvation.
Not grand acts,
but quiet ones.
A cup of tea offered.
A chair placed in stillness.
A call answered with presence.
These are not chores.
They are the soft rituals of freedom.
In them,
I lose myself—
and in doing so,
I am found.
Service is not about duty.
It is about becoming the stream,
that flows outward,
never hoarding the rain.
It is not sacrifice,
it is harmony.
When I forget myself,
I remember the whole.
When I give without needing,
I receive beyond measure.
The old way said:
"Protect yourself. Take what you can."
The new way whispers:
"Lose yourself. Give what you have."
And in that surrender,
there is peace.
Now I serve with a smile—
not because I have no pain,
but because I no longer cling to it.
I walk in the way of recovery:
a way of humility,
connection,
and love.
I do not need the world,
to revolve around me.
Instead,
I revolve around others—
and find my centre there.
