Here’s a paradox for you—one I’ve lived with for most of my life. I used to believe I was the only person in the universe who felt this way. That tightrope tension between knowing everything is okay and still feeling like it’s all falling apart. I now see that this belief—that I was uniquely cursed—was just another illusion, crafted by the self-centred, alcoholic mind I once let rule me. That voice told me I was different, separate, broken in a way no one else could understand. It kept me isolated, trapped in the illusion of control and fear. It whispered lies to keep me spinning in confusion, because chaos was its comfort zone. But the truth is, I am not alone. These feelings are not unique, and they are not permanent.

This past week didn’t go to plan—well, not my plan anyway. One of my deepest anxiety triggers, money, reared its head again. I’d been told the settlement of my late mum’s estate would be finalised on the 5th of June. Nearly two and a half years have passed since she left this world, and in that time, she’s become a kind of Obi-Wan Kenobi to me—a presence of calm wisdom, guiding me through God winks and gentle nudges from beyond. Still, the solicitor missed the date. And despite the delay not being her fault—after all, the first year of silence was because I was deep in addiction, too lost to face the real world—the emotional sting of the letdown was sharp. It reminded me how easily I can slip back into fear when things don’t happen on my timeline.

This delay hit hard because I’d taken real, responsible steps forward. I’d told my debt management company I would clear my debts—the money I’d drunk or used in the chaos—on that date. I’d begun work on converting the forgotten toy room into a creative space and home office, something I’ve dreamed of for years. I had time off and, for once, a plan. But I started it a few weeks before the funds were actually due to arrive, assuming everything would go smoothly. When it didn’t, and I realised I’d be short for a while, the old pattern began to stir. Anxiety came knocking. My old companions—panic, despair, and escapism—tried to slide back in.

But something beautiful happened. The tools I’ve learned in Alcoholics Anonymous, the structure of the 12 steps, and my spiritual practices kicked in without me even thinking. That’s the power of living this programme—it rewires your instinctive responses. Where once I would have spiralled into self-destruction, this time I paused. I breathed. I reminded myself that everything would be okay. Not because I was controlling the outcome, but because I no longer have to. I’m learning to trust that life, when handed over to a Higher Power, unfolds the way it’s meant to. Maybe not to my specifications, but always toward growth.

Now here’s the paradox fully revealed: even though I knew everything was going to be okay, even though my rational and spiritual self was calm and grounded, my body and the parts of my mind still healing from alcoholism began to react as if danger were present. Physical symptoms of anxiety cropped up—tightness in my chest, lack of motivation, and flashes of those old tragic daydreams. I became a spectator to my own dysfunction, watching familiar patterns play out. The difference today is that I don’t become the pattern anymore. I don’t merge with the storm. I observe it. I allow it to pass through, knowing I am not it. That shift in perspective has been gifted to me through recovery.

Without the tools that Alcoholics Anonymous has freely given me—tools that only work if I am willing to follow the suggestions and stay open—I would still be lost in that storm. As long as I let go and allow my God to guide me in the right direction, I know these parts of me—this chemical imbalance that fuels the mental and physical reactions of anxiety and obsession—will pass. They are not the whole of me. They are just echoes. As long as I focus on what I need to do today, and leave the rest to my God, I will stay on the path to healing. One day at a time.

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The Storm Is Not You

There is a thread,
so fine,
so silent,
stretching between peace,
and panic.

I have walked it barefoot
for most of my life,
thinking I alone,
knew this pain.

But the illusion of uniqueness,
is the first lie the ego tells.
The drunk mind,
a cunning architect,
builds walls of special suffering,
fortresses of separation,
where pain feels noble,
and despair feels earned.

I believed I was broken,
in a way,
the stars could not fix.
But my God does not break things,
they bend them gently,
until they remember how to move.

What feels like chaos,
is not disorder,
but the unfolding,
of a deeper order,
we do not yet understand.

Plans collapse,
and in their ruin,
we find new soil.

Even now,
the breath of my mother,
moves through the trees,
through the space,
between delay and acceptance.
She is quieter than thought,
wiser than words.
In her stillness,
I hear the truth:
the delay is not a failure.
It is a doorway,
to deeper surrender.

I was promised an arrival.
A resolution.
Instead, I was offered a pause.
The old fear stirred,
whispering its old sermons:
"You are not safe.
You are not enough.
You are not ready."

But I no longer kneel,
to those gods.
I watched them come.
I watched them pass.
They knocked,
but I did not open.

There is a strange grace,
in not reacting.
A sacred distance,
between thought and action.
This is where healing lives.
Not in force,
but in flow.
Not in resistance,
but in rhythm.

The storm still comes.
It shakes the leaves.
It darkens the sky.
But it does not
own the tree.

What I feel,
is not who I am.
What I fear,
is not what is true.
Even pain,
honest as it may seem,
is just weather.
And I,
I am not the rain.
I am the mountain,
it passes over.

Recovery is not perfection.
It is not immunity.
It is the soft skill,
of standing still,
as the old winds howl,
and remembering,
that I have survived worse,
with less.

I am learning,
the holy art of surrender.
Letting my God,
be the architect,
of time.
Letting today,
be enough.

The paradox is this:
everything is okay,
even when it isn’t.
And that truth,
does not live in thought,
but in the breath,
between them.

I do not need to chase peace.
I need only,
to stop running,
from myself.

My God moves all things,
in their season.
So I walk,
empty-handed,
heart open,
step by trembling step,
not toward perfection,
but toward presence.

And that,
at last,
is enough.