I’m grateful for a Friday morning. I’m grateful for the gauzy pink and blue sky. I’m grateful for letting things be. I’m grateful for a super busy week and getting a lot done. I’m grateful for two fantastic children. I’m grateful to be sober today.

Mystery ?? Button

song of the week:

Hi There.1

This is me. Maybe not now. Aside from this just being a really groovy song, I think I’ve actually thought all of the thoughts in this song. “Big Time” got released in 1986, and I graduated from law school in 1987. This song pretty accurately tracks my career aims and progression:

I’m on my way, I’m making it, 
I’ve got to make it show, yeah! 
So much larger than life.

Yeah! is right. I used to listen to this song over and over while I drove to work. As you might expect, I was in the office pretty early, almost always well before 8 (I had a 40-minute commute) and this was my anthem. I was a very, very enthusiastic hard charger and it was because I was unbelievably excited at the opportunity to make the big time. I was burning to make the big time.

You see,

The place where I come from is a small town 
They think so small 
They use small words, 
But not me, I'm smarter than that

I had made it from Iowa City to a big law firm with a top-of -he-class Ivy League law school pedigree.

I’m on my way, I’m making it

I was 24 years old in the Fall of 1987. I was about 1/3 of the way through my first doomed marriage (and knew it), I worked absurd hours. I had talked my way onto a huge white collar criminal case and my job, as the lowly first year associate, was to go through boxes and boxes of documents of photocopies of financial records and bank statements—trying to track a few million dollars that went “missing.” My windowless office at the end of a long hall, was larger, which was good, because it was also used as the storage room for the boxes of documents connected to the case. This was also good, since there were the documents I had to spend most of my waking hours perusing.

My office looked a little like how a serial killer’s might—if a serial killer decided to put in a few soul-crushing years as an associate at a big law firm. There were about 20 different accounts involved in this criminal, money-laundering tangle—so I had started taping up copies of the statements and the relevant transactions on the wall of my office. My office was next door to the 85 year old “name” partner of the firm,2 who still came into the office most days, but now to plan tennis matches. He would often wander in and look at the wall and ask me to explain some of the newest branches on my deranged wall tree of financial transactions. Henry would whistle, say something along the lines of “go get ‘em, young man,” and then he was on the phone planning the day’s match and lunch.

I worked late most days, grabbing Sbarro pizza or worse McDonalds or Burger King from the horrific Metro-based “food court” across Connecticut Avenue. My office, though windowless, was in a new gleaming, swanky building, ensconced between the elegant Mayflower Hotel and Farragut Square.

I was so proud, so big, when I was strolling through that lobby at 7:45am. And even though I was tired and bleary-eyed when I left at 8pm, I felt even bigger. I was making my way, making my name. I was in a hurry, too. I knew I had seven years ahead of me until partnership, but I just put my head down and worked a lot of hours.

There are lots of things to love about law firms, if you’re a lawyer. When people ask about how my new gig is going, what it’s like to be back at a big firm, has it changed much? I always give the same answer:

They are very, very serious about the work.

But me, too. That’s why a big part of why I’m so ridiculously happy these days. I get the same thrill, the same sense of purpose, when I stroll through the cavernous lobby of our building across from Bryant Park. Even my secret missions to the coffee machine in the main reception area on 44 are pretty exciting.3

But things are very, very different now.

We still run the Anyone, Anywhere AA meeting (via Google Meet) on Tuesday evenings at 7:00pm.4 We are a pretty small group, but together we read the 164-pages of the Big Book, and then we tackled the stories in the back of the book (all 1,100 of them) and now we are reading from the pretty excellent Living Sober. We had just finished Chapter 17—”Looking Out for Over-Elation,” and I said, out loud, “Shall we just dive into the next one?” I barely waited for an answer and began reading:

Have you just this minute finished reading the previous section, and are you now rushing right into this one? Why? It may be that you need to put into practice the slogan “Easy Does It.”

hahaha. It’s funny how the Program can just whap you in the face sometimes and make you feel silly? I felt sheepish as I read that aloud to the laughter from the group. That impulsiveness, the impatience, the need for things to go fast, is a real hallmark of alcoholism and addiction. Lots of professions are founded on getting people to live like that: That’s why rates of alcoholism are so high among lawyers. Why Wall Street still runs on cocaine.

I don’t know if the professions create the issue or attract people who already have those traits, or a little of both, but the combination of hard work, recognition, material benefits and prestige are pretty impossible for the young alcoholic/addict to ignore. I drank nearly every day and was a regular at Duke’s the swanky restaurant in the lobby of the building, a place where you could get glimpses of what passed for DC celebrity back then.5 Jack Kent Cooke, then the owner of the Washington Redskins, parked the two Super Bowl trophies in Duke’s lobby.6

My crew of hard-drinking lawyers would convene at Duke’s most evenings for a few cocktails. My pals were at the end of their day, I would usually go back upstairs for another hour or so—very drunk and still very eager to work. I also needed to make the call home advising of my imminent departure from my office phone, not the pay phone in Duke’s lobby.7 There were appearances to be maintained.

I didn’t really have a vision or a plan or even much thought about how I wanted life to be, what I wanted out of life. I just wanted it to be big. I wanted to be important, “to make a big noise with all the big boys,” I wanted to make bank, ‘bro.

I knew where it would lead, I knew that I was chasing a life as empty as the office lobby at 6:45am. I didn’t care what the cost would be to me, and never considered the cost to others:

And my heaven will be a big hell And I will walk through the front door

I wanted to walk through the f***ing front door, I wanted to climb the mountain and kill the dragon. It was not some careful, calculated ascent of the mountain, it was a drunk in a clown car driving as fast and as loud as possible, with maddening, occasional flashes of brilliance that made people put up with me. Looking back, it was a crazy mix of really hard and sometimes inspired work, and then the self-destructive and self-defeating behavior of the classic alcoholic.

I was popular at the firm. Partners liked the “let’s win, baby” approach and the willingness to leave it all on the floor. Other associates appreciated the crazy drunken risks I took (they didn’t know I was drunk), the pranks I pulled. The jokes and insouciance. Everyone was waiting for everything to come crashing down, I think, or maybe that was just me. The thing was, there were plenty of consequences, affairs, divorces, recklessness and fecklessness—but none of that was enough to convince me that it was all enough.

After I got separated the first time, I spent a few weeks living with my friend Steve, on a mattress in his basement. My soon to be ex-wife was in the swanky Olde Towne condo, and I was listening to Steve and his lesbian sister argue upstairs while I tried to sleep on a mattress in a musty basement in Shirlington. Steve was a few years older than me, had served in the Army before going to law school. He taught me the appropriate usage of “AMF,”8 and a phrase I used on a very regular basis, to this day,

You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.

Steve and I would drive to work and I would still play this song. I still believed that was the road I was on. The whole time, I knew the day was coming when there would simply be no more road in front of me, no more runway, all of the options would be gone. I just didn’t know when that day was coming. To manage that very existential fear, the imminent (perhaps) loss of everything I valued, loved and held dear, I did what I knew how to do. I drank.

I believe now that the fear of imminent catastrophe is one of the many easily-observable hallmarks of alcoholics and addicts, and it certainly provides an excellent reason to drink or use. I actually do think it’s mechanical like that, that the thoughts we alcoholics generate help drive the need for the drinking. No, I’m not aware of any actual facts or science to back that up, it’s just how I think about how I think.

So, what’s different now? Well, I’m still drawn to fatalistic, catastrophic thinking, so I still do imagine how minor missteps will completely doom me eventually, but I realize that’s aberrant thinking. I recognize it now as crazy and not based on facts or science either, and I let it go. Do I want to make bank, ‘bro? I sure do. Some of the younger partners at the firm already love it when I say, “Let’s get paid, baby.”9

What’s really different? I approach every day with humility and gratitude. I’m a 62-year old recovering alcoholic and I get a chance to build a practice at a big law firm? I didn’t see that coming, for sure. But that’s the thing, I stopped trying to be big, to make my mark, to be so large as to be unavoidable, to make sure everyone knew exactly how big it was.10 I let things happen, let the game come to me.

I actually loved law school. It was maybe the happiest time of my life. I was so excited to be a young lawyer. I loved the reading and the writing, I loved being in courtrooms, I loved, loved, loved having an office. This is me, circa 1985, in my very first office, in a small law firm in Cedar Rapids, Iowa where I had landed a summer job after my first year.

I keep that on my desk at home. It reminds me of who I wanted to be, who I was, and who I was meant to be. I loved the work. I loved solving the problems. I loved helping people out of really difficult situations. I loved getting a chance to stand up in front of judges and juries and explain things on behalf of my clients. I’m also pretty good at it.

I think about being that person these days, that’s why things are different. I’m learning to take my time, to slow down and to let things take as long as they need to. I don’t feel the same frantic push to make it big, to build something for other people to see. “Easy Does It,” means exactly that, letting things happen, taking my grubby fingers off the scale, not pushing everything so hard all the time, not always trying to gain the extra yard. That, in turn, flows from self-acceptance. The sense that I am enough.

You see, a song like “Big Time,” can only be an anthem for someone who believes they aren’t enough. It’s a world where the only thing that matters is that others can see the gleaming beautiful thing you’re building and envy it from afar. That was an empty, lonely desolate world for me, and the only way I could trudge through it was with my trusty sidekick Kim Crawford.

I sit 45 stories up and watch the weather swirl over midtown. I love the way the lights gleam at night and the foggy days, when the tops of the nearby buildings disappear are my favorite. I feel safe, happy, getting to do something I love with free and pretty good coffee always available. The mistake I made all of those years was confusing the Big Time with My time. When I walk through that big empty lobby, I still get that burst of excitement about getting to play at this level. What’s really different? What I believe about myself. Here’s what this 62 year-old recovering alcoholic finally figured out:

It’s my time, baby.

Happy Friday.

I’m grateful for investing in two different pairs of comfortable sneakers to help protect my feet during long distance runs. I’m grateful for taking in the relatively pleasant weather we’re having before the super chill arrives this weekend. I’m grateful for the veternarian we have in Denver administering solid care to Harper. I’m grateful for a meeting where we talked about the 12 Concepts, something still quite foreign to me, and how money plays into AA’s survival. I’m grateful for letting anger pass through rather than be held onto for no good reason. I’m grateful for the sea of marshmallows floating in my hot chocolate. I’m grateful for thinking about the impact people who have passed continue to have on me, even in ways I don’t yet realize. I’m grateful for a conversation that reminded me of just how tirelessly my parents worked, often in quite thankless circumstances, to provide for me as they did. I’m grateful for the opportunities I have to embrace a healthier lifestyle, both physically and mentally. I’m grateful for driving teaching me how to better practice serenity.

One of my favorite shows in recent memory is on Apple TV+ called “Central Park“. It’s a wonderfully irreverent adult animation musical comedy set in NYC’s most famous park with voice talent that includes Leslie Odom Jr. and Kristen Bell. Of the many great songs in the show, the one that has stuck with me the most is also from one of the series’ best episodes called “The Shadow” (S2, Ep.6). The musical number is “A Moment Forever Ago”.

I bring this up because the song has been on various playlists of mine since I first heard it in 2021. Like any impactful song, it seeps in and out of my mind at random moments, whether what I’m experiencing is related to the lyrics or I simply want to hum a pleasing tune to myself. All this is to say I never dug into the creators behind the song. My assumption was it must be Henry Winkler singing because he does the character’s speaking voice, but that is as far as I got into my “research”.

Seemingly unrelated I remember reading on some pop culture site about a young, Tony-aware winning Broadway actor named Gavin Creel who passed away from a rare type of cancer last Fall. I thought to myself that’s quite sad. Like me he was a NYC gay guy in his 40s (well, I will be in a little over a week) so we perhaps may have crossed paths or have had mutual connections. Fundamentally speaking I had no real relationship to his work and the only thing I knew about him was this tragedy from a random Internet source.

Or so I thought. When I was rewatching the Central Park episode the other day, I decided to hop onto IMDB and discovered it was Gavin Creel who provided the vocals for this lovely little number. The immediate rush of surprise and sadness hit me. Making the connection between song and singer touched me deeply. Here was someone who tragically passed away, will never produce any more new work, but his impact continues to touch my life in a small, but beautiful way. At that moment I was very moved by everything I had learnt. I felt strangely connected to someone I’ll never meet.

Now there is a way I tie this back into AA. I was rereading the multiple Forewords of the Big Book over the weekend with my sponsee, learning about the history behind how our Program has grown. During our meeting I had to take a mental step back. Here are words written in the 1930s penetrating the minds of two South Asian kids whose families were not only on the other side of the world when this text was published, but also our country wasn’t even an independent one at the time. Still the content of recovery somehow found us. Its impact, at least for me, is as overwhelmingly meaningful and current as it was for folks who read it back then. Its message continues to evolve in interesting ways as my own sobriety changes with time.

When I reflect on it, AA overall is an amazing entity. The stories we share take on lives of their own after we send them out into the ether at meetings, over coffee, on Zoom – hoping they linger in the minds of other alcoholics, hoping some wisdom is conveyed to help at least one person in the throes of addiction survive another day. I’m humbled thinking about how beautifully interconnected we are inside and outside these rooms. Whether by discovering that the voice behind a song I love is no longer here or by reading about alcoholics in the 1930s who strived to make this Program a reality during those formative years, it’s amazing how we manage to survive in such a wonderfully disaggregated, yet unified way.

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I’m grateful for an excellent Saturday. I’m grateful for feeling free. I’m grateful for a pretty sunrise and an early morning. I’m grateful for finally seeing what was in front of me. I’m grateful for cozy socks and a fire in the fireplace. I’m grateful to be sober today.

LAST WEEK ON TFLMS:

song of the week:

TFLMS Weekend: Where Sobriety Isn’t Just a Consequence…

(last weekend)

I’m grateful for a Friday morning. I’m grateful for a super busy week and very grateful for a chance to recharge. I’m grateful for wifi on navy ships. I’m grateful for seeing what can be. I’m grateful for finally seeing what was. I’m grateful to be sober today.

Mystery ?? Button

song of the week:

I’m just going to say that I had a very hard time selecting a song of the week. Part of the blame goes to a very, very hectic week, which can prevent the proper sloshing around of silly ideas and odd memories that result in this on a weekly basis. Anyway, I spared everyone the 19-minute Egyptian palace-themed music video, which features surprisingly little music.

This is very much a DC song for me. Even when I listen to it now, I can be transported to any of a zillion days between 2011 and 2018 when I was walking to or from my favorite haunts on what I called the “P Street Corridor,” tucked between the Logan Circle and DuPont Circle neighborhoods. There was my main and favorite spot, Logan Tavern, a very basic, very good dive bar called “Stoney’s” and my least favorite of this alcoholic trifecta, “The Commissary.” Logan Tavern and The Commissary were owned by the same people, yet the difference in the food quality was pretty significant. I think part of the reason I really dislike The Commissary is because that’s where I did my morning drinking.

When I think about all of the terrible, dispiriting stuff that happened during that time, it was falling into the routine of morning drinking that was maybe the most soul-killing. Waking up with raging withdrawal symptoms, pulling on clothes and doing a very cursory brush of the teeth and hair and then I was out the door and headed to The Commissary. They opened at 8am and I was usually there around 7:55am most weekdays.1

I’d order my little carafe of sauvignon blanc, chat semi-amiably with the odd political consultant who was often my bar mate on these mornings and matched my glasses of wine with Bloody Marys, yet proclaimed most mornings that he was not an alcoholic, nor did he have a problem, he just liked to drink in the mornings.

I hated it.

Every one of those mornings felt like abject defeat to me. I like to make distinctions between my flavor of alcoholism and the folks who drink perfume, but there I was gulping down sauvignon blanc with my pancakes. I was probably at my most sober during these breakfasts, I’d been abstaining from alcohol for maybe 8-10 hours at that point. Maybe part of the reason I hated those mornings so much was that I was acutely aware of how I was wasting my life, I hadn’t gotten to the magical third stop on the Kim Crawford train, where none of that mattered anymore.

I know the official phrase of AA is “One Day at a Time,” but I think I got sober one morning at a time. Before and after my descent, mornings were a time of excitement and renewal and maybe the time I felt most myself. I’ve never been a good sleeper, I’ve been plagued with insomnia, racing thoughts and an inability to get the hamsters off the f***ing wheel since I was about ten. Mornings felt like a reprieve from the tossing and turning, the anxiety, ruminations and self-remonstrations that marked my Sixth Grade nights.

When I got my Des Moines Register paper route, I not only had a reprieve from my sleepless bed jail, but I got to go outside by myself in the pre-dawn light and best of all, put some cash in a certain pre-adolescent pocket. I loved those mornings because of how I felt: capable, independent, brave (I was 10), kind of bad-ass, to be honest.2 When I think back to those early, dark mornings, me carrying the 36 newspapers that comprised my weekday route, humming to myself as I sloshed through the dewy grass, leaving the cuffs of my jeans sodden and heavy against my ankles.

Those mornings at The Commissary were about as far from that as you could get.

When I moved to New York in 2020, with about a year of white-knuckle sobriety in my wake, and a very, very uncertain set of future prospects. I didn’t really know many people here, it was the pandemic, so that made for even more isolation. Those first mornings, trying to discern my future from the inky black that engulfed me, were pretty terrifying. I felt completely rudderless and alone. I was estranged from most of the people who had formerly cared for me and thought that if something happened to me, it would be quite a while before anyone found out, much less missed me.

Those dark mornings didn’t just feel dark, they were lonely, demoralizing and frightening. Those dark mornings were devoid not just of light, but of hope. Into this dark abyss, my sponsor made the “suggestion” that I try a daily gratitude list, and you know that tired story by now. To cut to the chase: I finally got sober.

One gratitude list at a time, one morning at a time.

Even during a super busy week, where I’m juggling pretty much everything and even compiling the to-do list is a significant effort, my mornings are completely different. I wake up with no alarm most days around 5:30, sometimes earlier, and from the moment my eyes open I’m aware of something, something I didn’t have in the olden days:

The feeling that things are okay.

I don’t necessarily leap out of bed singing “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”3 I don’t need to. I wake up in a place I love, with views of the beautiful city I now call home. As I pad down the hall to the kitchen to begin the sacred coffee rituals, I feel content and happy and calm. Nothing stupendous is happening or is scheduled to happen. I just finally found a way of living that produces peace and love and calm in place of chaos and fear.

I sit in the dark and drink coffee and think about where I am and how lucky I am to be here. I think about where I had to go, where I took other people, and let the feelings of regret and shame dissipate in the growing morning light. I feel optimistic in the mornings, I feel capable and strong in the mornings. I feel most open to possibility in the morning. I feel most myself in the morning.

I was very happy to see an old friend the other morning.

I was drinking coffee the other morning, aimlessly looking out the window and there was the Red-Tailed Hawk again. He flew right past my window and took up a very brief perch. Do you want to know where?

On the Pirate Balcony, of course.

I was trying to get a picture of him, beautiful, strong, nearly full-grown, perched on the railing directly above the camp chair that is the seating option on the Pirate Balcony. But as soon as I came around the corner, he was off in a graceful arc headed towards 88th street. I don’t know if it was just a nostalgia-based trip to the old stomping grounds, or whether he’s been here all winter. It was just good to see that he’d made it another year. I realized I’d made it another year, too.

It’s funny to read that post, I was about to embark on the great adventure that was 2024 and as I sit here in early 2025, I’m mostly just grateful for another year, for growing stronger, for living the life I was meant to live, being the person I was supposed to be, and letting this beautiful world spin around me.

It’s possible that was my last chance last sighting of the hawk. He’s building a life mostly out of my view and at some point he’ll probably secure his own territory somewhere else. I don’t think the hawk spends very much time thinking about me, maybe there’s a memory of feeling the sun on his wings on the pirate balcony but that’s probably about it, as far as connection goes.

It’s just seeing the hawk turn those lazy circles in the sky, knowing that he’s biding his time, living just as he’s supposed to and waiting for what will eventually unfold in front of him that gives me a sense of optimism about my own life. To be honest, there is very, very little certainty in my life and my future is very, very much unwritten. I supposed I could feel afraid, on my own and building a new life in my 60s. But I see the hawk making his way in his own way and I realize there’s so much beauty in that.

I realize that’s what I get to do, too.

Mornings are a gift, that’s really how I feel. It’s my chance to quietly revel in the life I’ve built, in the life I’m building. It’s where I feel the ease and strength that comes with just being oneself. It’s on those quiet dark mornings that I realize I’m exactly where I need to be and things are unfolding just as they will, moment-to-moment.

I have a feeling I’m not going to see the hawk again. That’s okay. It means he’s going on to bigger and better things, the things that are meant for him. Watching him fly away, I realized the very same thing was true for me.

Happy Friday

I’m grateful for a meeting topic oriented around the phrase “sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly” and the resulting shares. I’m grateful for the fellow who was very vulnerable about where he’s at, reminding me how dangerous and how immediate our alcoholism is at any given time. I’m grateful for the greater levels of patience this Program has taught me to practice. I’m grateful for a super fun and tough run in the snow storm, especially cherishing the moments the sun peeked out to beautifully light the ground like a sea of tiny crystals. I’m grateful for the ever evolving, ever expanding definition of my Higher Power. I’m grateful for the fellow who has been sincerely proactive around getting me to open up, be social, and step outside my comfort zone. I’m grateful for my home keeping me warm and comfortable. I’m grateful for a podcast making me recall the awesomeness of The Lion King’s Circle of Life, particularly the intro which elicits such joy in me. I’m grateful for a sponsee who is already helping me without even knowing it.

Over the past week I got connected with a new sponsee who has been in my orbit for several years. We attended the same meeting and over time discovered that we had a fair amount in common. He finally reached out asking if I’d be willing to take him through the Steps. Of course I agreed.

After our initial conversation, I started ruminating on what the process was like for me slowly getting integrated into this Program. I think the operative word is “slowly” here because the moments I tried to fast track my recovery the results were hollow. “I wish you Slow-Briety” is a cute phrase I’d heard early on that has resonated more deeply with each passing year. The whole “design for living” concept as it pertains to AA is not something that suggests an endpoint to me. It’s a day in, day out practice that yields results through diligent, sincere, daily work.

When I first entered the rooms a big change for me was understanding how to stop judging and comparing my story, my pain, and my transgressions with others. By mentally separating I often found excuses to check out of everything that was shared, further reinforcing my self-proclaimed belief of being an alcoholic unicorn. Honestly it took a while for me to update my proclivities. I’ve been an innately guarded individual for most of my life. Isolating was a preservation tactic because it meant others couldn’t hurt me and therefore I wouldn’t feel bad about myself – even more than I already did. However pushing myself to keep going to meetings, accumulating powerful examples of people being super honest and vulnerable about their lives, taught me how to disassemble those walls I’d constructed. Even if I wasn’t always actively listening to every share or qualification, having the din of AA in my ear meant something was getting through by osmosis. Eventually it was easier to find points of identification with every story. Even if it was the tiniest of commonalities, I developed the muscle around connecting with others, which in turn rebuilt my capacity for deeper, genuine empathy.

Returning to the “design for living” concept, it took a little while for me to realize it’s found primarily in working the 12 Steps. Post-relapse when I restarted the Steps, I finally began doing them for me. Not as homework to get praise from my Sponsor. Not as a way to impress others on how guru-like I sounded. The work was for an audience of one and only I knew whether what I was saying or writing down was fully true. The Steps have become an indelible framework for how I analyze most everything in life these days. If I am honest in leveraging them, then their impact is undeniable. This past weekend I finished Step 5 with my Denver sponsor, who left saying I should now sit for an hour and meditate on what transpired. The old me would’ve been like I have too many chores to complete or I need to move on to XYZ thing to get my day moving. Ultimately my emotionally sober voice took over saying the only person I was hurting by not taking his advice is myself. So I did sit alone for an hour after and reflect on my Step 5, which unsurprisingly gave me the lightness I was seeking. Holding myself accountable to doing the Step work, even when nobody’s around, is a huge shift for me from only a few years back.

I’ve written about this frequently, but adopting healthy routines has been another slow and steady process. At first I didn’t realize that what I was doing, like running in the park, was even related to my sobriety. Then as time went on I started codifying in my mind what those healthy practices are. I discovered when I didn’t engage in them I felt queasy. Thankfully I was clear-headed enough to tie them back to my Program, knowing these activities were a part of protecting my peace. In doing that I realized I needed to be disciplined about them. Doing the math, I know by going through these routines my soul is nurtured.

One of the last points I’ll outline here around my “Slow-Briety” journey is being kind to myself by finding ways to take care of myself. It started off with small acts like lighting a candle and realizing how impactful odor can be to boosting my mood. Then it gradually transformed into bigger actions like setting boundaries. Boundaries with family in particular that had been in certain ways detrimental to my serenity. Nowadays self-care has focused on letting my inner critic voice speak in gentler, more constructive ways. Not simply reinforcing “Sean, you’re bad for doing XYZ“, but reframing the language to, “Well that was a misstep, which happens, so how can you learn and do better moving forward?”. Quickly being able to perform that shift with my inner critic’s tone ensures I’m not lingering in a dark place. Whereas before if even one harsh thought entered my mind it’d be a domino effect of retreading unrelated, super old negative memories reinforcing how bad, how unworthy a person I am. Today that process is less dramatic and more optimistically pragmatic.

I’m grateful that initial conversation with my sponsee sparked my reflection on how I got to where I am right now. Indeed putting myself in the shoes of someone still early in their recovery is reinvigorating. It reinforces old principles I’ve learnt, but have perhaps been lax on implementing, and it opens me up in new ways that I never realized I needed. It all is such a gift. I definitely wish him, myself, and everyone a beautiful journey in “Slow-Briety”.

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I’m so grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful for my family and my friends, for our home and our pup. I’m grateful to have 3 beautiful years sober, for my sponsor, AA and the steps. I’m grateful for heat on a super cold day, for reconnecting, for patience, tolerance and understanding. I’m grateful for a new era, and for all of the people walking into 2025 with me.

Good morning my friends (: I hope everyone had a lovely weekend and happy 2025 🪩💃🏻

I am writing this from bed on Sunday because during our regularly scheduled programming I will be doing something scary and to be disclosed at a later date. But don’t worry, yall have been through one of these with me so I promise it’s nothing bad and you’ll hear about it soon. I’m just under the impression that the world revolves around me and would hate for someone who I don’t want to read this to take the time to come on to Substack and find my posts because I mentioned that I write here one time like 6 months ago. 

^ Even without a drink I am indeed still a coo coo bird. Anyway, I am prioritizing myself tomorrow and I’m crazy anxious but have also been working on remembering that it’s all honestly out of my hands I just have to show up. 

And speaking of showing up, many of you may know that I am not a new year resolutions kind of gal. I feel like the word resolutions has this weird ‘how long is this really going to last’ undertone that I don’t love. So every year I do goals and intentions. 

Last year’s list was pretty long & included the typical “be healthier” “save money”…resolutions I know I know. So this year I kept it a little simple: 

• To live slower & be more present

• Call T (my sponsor) at least 3 times a week

• Get back into step work

• Find ways to be happier / focus less on the negative

• Less resentment

• More prayer

• More AA

• Enjoy life more

Overall I think these boil down to more gratitude. More little things, more enjoying the sunshine on my face and the small connections I make and the way the weeds grow in the concrete cracks. Somewhere along the way in 2024 I forgot to be grateful for every little thing I have because life got really big and that’s okay. But I’m remembering now. I’m centering again on what is the most important to me and I already feel better. Like I’m on the right path again. 

So if you’ve made it this far you’ve already seen my yearly vision board above and I’m choosing the theme of my 2025 to be small steps everyday. 

May we all take a small step today, whatever we need that small step to be. 

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Xx 

Jane 

I’m grateful for a lovely, quiet weekend. I’m grateful for getting caught up and rested up. I’m grateful for a cold, dark morning and a fire in the fireplace. I’m grateful for new chances and discoveries. I’m grateful to be sober today.

LAST WEEK ON TFLMS:

song of the week:

TFLMS Weekend: Where Sobriety Isn’t Just a Consequence…

(last weekend)

I’m grateful for a new year. I’m grateful for year-end deals. I’m grateful for unexpected adventures. I’m grateful for an open heart and a pirate-y outlook. I’m grateful for the life I get to lead. I’m grateful to be sober today.

Mystery ?? Button

song of the week:

I think if I were to do the work, the numbers would reveal that I’ve listened to this song more than any other over the last ten years. By a pretty wide margin. When I lived in DC for all of those years, a denizen of the bars in the P Street/Logan Circle neighborhood (Shaw, too and also probably Petworth), this song would be on repeat as I kind of drunkenly bopped around the neighborhood(s) looking for adventure and that next drink. Those things were inextricably linked for me back then. Getting that drink was the actually the thing that was connected to everything in my life.

It’s the first Friday of 2025 and things are feeling pretty good over here at Pirate HQ. I had this grand plan for this semi-holiday week that involved lots of relaxation coupled with checking off an unlikely number of projects, taking advantage of what promised to be a quiet week at the law firm. Well, a pesky naming rights deal that took until last night at 10 to get done, had an impact on my plan.1 But, it’s all good, very good, in fact. It’s been almost exactly a year since I got the chance to join said law firm, and I know everyone gets tired of hearing this, but when I let things work out the way they’re supposed to, instead of how I think they should go, well, things work out the way they’re supposed to.

I could try and do the happy, slappy thing where I talk about finding gratitude for even the shitty things, put a creepy/happy clown face on tragedy, but I’m going to take a slightly different tack: This approach works better because you really don’t have that much choice. I spent a lot of 2023 trying to find the next gig and it was not an easy process, we’ll just leave it there. I had lots of ideas that I pursued very diligently, put my full persuasive powers on display, and it took me roughly nowhere.

Things changed when stopped trying to evaluate how I would feel about the outcome, and focused instead on what I was feeling at the moment and expressing that authentically. This sounds pretty basic, I know, but the thing is that us alcoholics don’t really have a great or very accurate sense of ourselves. That’s a big part of the reason this alcoholic became one, the false belief that I wasn’t funny enough or smart enough or appealing enough to be enough for anyone. When I discovered alcohol, it was like standing on the prow of a ship and spying a vast undiscovered land for the first time. I had found the missing piece—the thing that made my life manageable and made me palatable to the world at large.

Well, maybe not always so palatable. There were a lot of years I would have told you that I liked the SOTW for the music only, that the lyrics had nothing to do with it. I’m sorry to say that I’ve put more than one person through the realization expressed in this song. I’m just going to say that my 5th Step and 8th Step and 9th Step, well, those are pretty long lists and kind of daunting endeavors. Being somebody else’s guy was something of a common denominator.

I’m going to tell you from personal experience, this is a dangerous song to have on a playlist that is not completely private.

There might have been a fairly epic Ex- vs. Next situation a number of years ago, where both parties discovered that you could follow people’s non-private playlists on Spotify and both parties knowing my proclivity for expressing myself through music, decided to do just that. It was then discovered that you could see who else was following said playlists and then stalk their social media posts to see whether they were posting links to said songs with either hopeful sunrise-type pictures or bare branches in winter.

This hypothetical situation might have escalated fairly rapidly and might have generated lots of wtf-type comments in texts, emails and even phone calls. I guess there might have been a view that having this song on a playlist was expressing a deep but smirking view of myself. I would scoff and say super-inflammatory things like, “Lighten up, it’s just a song.”

Like I ever think that way.

For the record, I was in rehab again during this hypothetical episode and, at some level, it did provide a much needed distraction from the nonsense that attended being forced to repeat rehab again. In rehab terms, I was the kid who had to repeat the 4th grade at least three times. That sounds terribly callous when I look back on it, but it’s emblematic of where I was and who I was back then. I think my worldview was summed up this way:

No one got access to the real me, that was kept strictly locked-up, even from myself. I’d get involved in a relationship and begin playing the part that I thought was appropriate and that would often work shockingly well, for a while. However, playing whatever role I thought was necessary for the sustenance of this particular relationship would start to chafe. I’d start to feel resentful and unseen and start to blame my relationship counter-party for not being more insightful or intuitive.

That was usually enough to change the trajectory of the relationship; From an orbit that was circling the globe with surprising little friction and stunning views, to one that started to dip down into the flame-producing gravity until the whole thing just ceased to be, burned to a cinder. Alcoholism is a malady that afflicts the capacity for self-honesty. I began drinking as a consequence of a lie I told myself: That I wasn’t ever going to be able to manage the world without it, that the change wrought on me by drinking was necessary preparation for interaction with the world at large.

Later on, alcohol supplied the lies without even really needing to be asked. Alcohol let me say “f*** it,” to just about everyone and everything, whenever necessary. Alcohol let me ignore the consequences of my behavior, let me pretend that nothing really mattered or could affect me. Alcohol created a cocoon where I didn’t have to care about the world or anyone else, a place where I could safely hide. Of course, it wasn’t so safe for everyone else. Their experience was nothing short of bewildering: Falling for someone, things seeming effortless and fantastic and then suddenly nothing’s quite right, doubt and uncertainty replace the weightless feelings and then comes the sudden, blindsiding crash. The moment when they realized I wasn’t really their guy.

I’ve done a couple of 8th and 9th Steps and have started on another one. I know there are people who believe you can knock the Steps out in 30 or 60 or 90 days, and if works for people, that’s very cool. For myself, five years in, I find that I’m still coming to understand what I did and why, and still coming to understand the consequences for everyone else. I know I have perfectionist tendencies that lead me to procrastinate, but I do think that what I owe people and myself as part of that process is some understanding of what happened and why. Not like this:

I tell people that the ultimate beneficiary of the 8th and 9th Step is the alcoholic. I don’t think it’s necessarily connected to being forgiven or absolved; I think the value comes in the self truth-telling and acceptance. A proper 8th and 9th Step requires being honest with oneself about what really happened and why. I don’t think you can seek to make amends to someone else until you’ve taken yourself to the woodshed and had your own “come to Jesus” moment.

The other consequence of conducting a self-honest 8th and 9th Step is discovering the true nature of love. Maybe the rest of you know all of this, but I was an alcoholic since I was 15 or 16 and I have a lot of catching up to do. It turns out that the essence of love, the thing at the very bottom, is acceptance. I wrote this last week and have been thinking about it since:

I see those magical people, and my grandfather is the leader of that particular pack, as the people who helped me find the person I was meant to be. The way they did this?

They were themselves and they accepted and loved me for who I was.

The most damaging lie I told myself was that people couldn’t love me for who I was, that it was necessary to divine what they wanted and play that part, instead of just being myself. Unfortunately, that’s not a path to a sustainable, happy life. I had to learn that the hard way and too many times. What I’ve finally learned over the last five years is that acceptance, along with gratitude (they are linked) is an unbelievably potent force. It’s acceptance and gratitude that is at the bottom of real love, I believe.

I’m glad it’s 2025. I typically don’t relish odd-numbered years, but this somehow feels different. It’s possible I’m living in a bit of a cocoon these days (the word keeps coming out of my mouth), but it’s very different than the alcoholic faux cocoon I once inhabited. That was more of an escape vehicle, something I could jump in and speed away from the scene of a crime or a heartbreak. These days, I’m trusting the process, believing in myself, accepting myself for who I am, accepting others on the same basis and letting whatever it is that is supposed to happen, finally happen.

I’m hopeful, happy, hungry and ready to get after it this year. I have no idea what the year has in store for me, but I know this, I’m my own person these days. I finally have a sense for who I am and what I’m supposed to be doing and it’s completely liberating. I spent a lot of wasted years trying to be somebody else’s guy. You know the song I can’t stop listening to these days and how it ends.

I’ve done a lot of foolish things, 
that I didn’t really mean, 
I could be a broken man, 
but here I am, 
with the future in my hands

Happy Friday.

I’m grateful for ordering Indian takeout just for me, which ensured I could make everything extra extra spicy. I’m grateful for a wonderfully calm last day of 2024. I’m grateful for how Harper reacted to the two new stuffed squeaker toys he got. I’m grateful for how much I’ve experimented with my running routes over the past week, it has made exercising feel more invigorating. I’m grateful for spending time writing long-form, an activity that feels daunting when I start, but ends up being incredibly rewarding once I finish. I’m grateful for leading a meeting twice in one day and hearing some pithy and poignant shares from several fellows. I’m grateful for reflecting on “Seeking Guidance”, page 55 of “As Bill Sees It”, which I found to be chock full of practical advice about how I should tackle quagmires in my life. I’m grateful for ending another year sober.

I’ve recently had the privilege of leading meetings a little more often than usual thanks to December being my anniversary month. Honestly I am not the most adept public speaker. I find the attention quite uncomfortable and the words coming out of my mouth during qualifications overly ornate. That being said it feels positive having these opportunities as they encourage me to pause and reflect on how sobriety is progressing. Having an external trigger pushing me to dig internally is always a welcome boon.

In my latest little anniversary spiel one phrase I said in particular during the meeting seemed to resonate. In fact an old-timer harped on it afterwards, which gave me further validation. Don’t leave “until it clicks” was what I shared. It being AA of course. I like thinking about the phrase fairly regularly, especially as it pertains to my journey post-relapse.

I joined AA in February 2021, remained sober till November of that year, had a few weeks where I went back out, and returned for (hopefully) the last time on December 7, 2021. The months between February and November were kind of a whirlwind. I was meeting more new people than I had in a long while. I was getting presented a ton of information about how I needed to totally change everything about me. In retrospect it almost feels inevitable that I relapsed. I was very likely overwhelmed so I began treating AA as a homework assignment. I knew how to do homework. In school I was good at it. So I did AA while at meetings, in conversations with my sponsor or another fellow, but afterwards I checked back into doing life the usual, directionless way when I was away from those sober spaces.

By the time I relapsed I thankfully had a small, but amazing network of sober people who showed me nothing short of kindness and generosity upon my return. I hadn’t had this reaction to my drinking ever. That new development along with feeling utterly fatigued from drinking – both physically and mentally – ensured I found the grace to return. This time however I wanted to do AA for me, regardless of the “grade” others might prescribe.

So I stayed. I don’t know why or exactly when, but the language of the Big Book started to feel less antiquated and bland and more current and vibrant. The open-ended, “choose-your-own-adventure” definition of what a Higher Power means wasn’t daunting anymore, but rather liberating and exciting. The discovery of certain harmful behavioral patterns I had practiced throughout my life were realities to no longer run away from or ignore, but instead to understand and work on reforming. Eventually enough time passed such that AA concepts simply started clicking. It started clicking around things well beyond my obsession with drinking. When I felt anger at a stranger for walking too slowly on the sidewalk, I tapped in to AA. When it was too cold outside and I didn’t feel like going on my daily run, I tapped into AA. When conversations with my parents were veering into unhealthy territory, I tapped into AA. When deciding on whether to move to Denver or remain in NYC, I tapped into AA. AA became integrated into my life and my life started clicking. By clicking I definitely don’t mean I was going from one success to another, it simply means I was collecting emotionally sober life experiences that served as vital proof points around how I can reengage with the world without finding ways to implode.

I realize “Until It Clicks” is analogous to another phrase we use, “Don’t Leave Before The Miracle Happens”. Both are great. I simply find “Clicks” is personally less pressure-inducing when it comes to acknowledging changes whereas “Miracle” leads me to believe only huge events can be transformational. Whatever the phrasing though, I’m excited for a New Year approaching. 2024 proved to be quite momentous for a plethora of reasons, not the least of which involved moving to a new city, making a house a home, and finding a brand new sober community. I’m confident 2025 will bring with it a whole host of new sober experiences, many of which I hope will teach me how to keep on clicking.

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I am so grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful for doing service, for sharing my experience and for being able to help others. I’m grateful for a beautiful day today and time outside. I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned, for being loved and supported and for AA. I’m grateful for music, comfy hoodies, coffee, our home and for this big beautiful life I have.

Gooood afternoon my friends! Been a while since I’ve said that (; 

Despite the time of day I hope everyone had a lovely weekend as per usual AND that everyone had a beautiful holiday (: 

I am a little delayed here today because I got to see a dear friend of mine and speak at an IOP which was just what I needed to shift into 2025. Whenever I speak at an IOP, or a rehab or an institution I always out qualify myself in my head because I myself have never been to any kind of treatment or institution or jail. I was pushed into AA by a power greater than myself and while I have never done any of the above mentioned things (yet) we all share the same disease. We’ve all felt the same feelings and THAT is why I am qualified. 

And it was such a nice meeting where I got to be more candid than usual and answer some questions and remember what it is I love so much about this program. 

A family member said to me on Christmas Eve that she’s so happy for me because so many beautiful things have happened to me this year. And oh my god did that hit me like a ton of bricks. She’s right – so many beautiful things DID happen this year. We moved, we grew closer to some really great friends, we got a puppy. We stayed sober for another whole year and that is really fucking beautiful. 

I have been so lost in all the negative, all of the life on life’s terms which has really sucked that I totally forgot to acknowledge that this year has been huge. 

So with three years upon me I’d just like to say thank you to this community who has bared with me through a whole year of sob stories. To my family who has never stopped loving me. To my friends who have never stopped supporting me. To my partner who has never stopped listening to me. And to my sponsor who has never stopped guiding me. 

This year my defects got the best of me. But awareness sometimes is the best solution. I am so grateful to see another year sober surrounded by the people I love with the chance to help another person stay sober every single day. The beauty of this program is one thing that is not lost on me but what I can do in 2025 is focus more on the beauty and less on the pain. 

So here’s to 2025. Wishing everyone love, health and strong sobriety and I will talk to you guys next year. 

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xx  

Jane