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From Courage to Change of Sep 09:
Sometimes I sit in a meeting and I don’t know how to ask for help. I can get trapped inside my pain. Some nameless thing seems to tear at my insides. I freeze, thinking that if I don’t move, it will go away. So I don’t ask, I don’t talk, and the pain grows.
Does my face look calm? Don’t be fooled. I’m just afraid to let you see the truth. You might think I’m foolish or weak. You might reject me. So I don’t talk, and the pain remains.
But I listen. And through other people, my Higher Power does for me what I can’t do for myself. Someone in the meeting shares and expresses the very feelings I am afraid to describe. My world suddenly widens, and I feel a little safer. I am no longer alone.
Today’s Reminder
One of the miracles I have found in Al-Anon is that help often comes when I most need it. When I can’t bring myself to reach out for help, it sometimes comes to me. When I don’t know what to say, I am given the words I require. And when I share what is in my heart, I may be giving a voice to someone who cannot find his own. Today I have a Higher Power who knows my needs.
“As I walk, As I walk, The universe is walking with me.” – from the Navajo rain dance ceremony
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To withdraw or not to withdraw—that is the question. Life among humans can feel unbearably taxing, threatening, and disappointing. There’s no escaping that imagined spotlight fixed on my weaknesses, and no connection that fully satisfies my longing for something more.
I suspect others feel much the same. I also suspect that much of life is pretense—a kind of protective ritual. Whenever I encounter genuine connection in a safe space, it feels like a godsend. But inevitably, humanity finds a way to wound the inner child. And in the game of life, the safest place often seems to be the sidelines.
I know that silence can feel like safety. In my darker seasons, I’ve sat in meetings with my insides in knots and my face arranged in calm, thinking the stillness might somehow hide my storm. I’ve feared that if I spoke, I would be exposed—my weakness on full display, my worth put on trial. I’ve told myself, Just keep quiet. It will pass.
It rarely passes on its own. Pain that is swallowed whole only seems to grow heavier. But even when I can’t make my voice work, recovery has a way of finding me. I’ve sat frozen, and then someone across the circle shares a story that sounds like my story. Their words become the key I didn’t know I was holding. In that moment, the tight walls of my solitude widen, and light seeps in.
This is one of the miracles of our rooms: I don’t have to be the one speaking to be reached. My Higher Power uses the voices of others when I’ve lost my own. And when I finally dare to share my truth—halting, messy, imperfect—I sometimes see the same relief in someone else’s eyes.
Today, I am trying not to measure my recovery by how much I speak, but by how willing I am to be present—whether I’m the one carrying the message or the one being carried by it. I trust that the God of my understanding knows my needs, even when my mouth is closed and my hands are clenched.
When I cannot ask for help, I can still sit in the circle. Sometimes that’s enough for help to find me.
Daily Reprieve 
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