Tradition Six tells us, “Our Family Groups ought never endorse, finance, or lend our name to any outside enterprise, lest problems of money, property and prestige divert us from our primary spiritual aim.”
I’ve had occasion to refer to this Tradition many times while doing service work at our local Al-Anon information office. I often receive requests for Al-Anon’s endorsement from various research projects, charities, and treatment programs. These requests always pique my interest, and many appear to have merit.
As an individual, I am free to participate in any cause I support. As an Al-Anon member, I am free to send information about our fellowship to outside organizations. But I cannot consider affiliating y group with these outside enterprises, no matter how worthy they may be. Doing so could divert us from the primary spiritual aim of our program, which is to help families and friends of alcoholics recover from the effects of alcoholism.
Today’s Reminder
I come to Al-Anon to receive the spiritual benefit of the meetings, principles, and fellowship. I wish to do my part to see that we are not diverted from our primary aim.
“We must always remember why we are here, and never use the group to promote our pet projects, or our personal interests in outside causes.” ~ Twelve Steps & Twelve Traditions for Alateen
END OF QUOTE—————————————
There is a healing stillness to our rooms—one I’ve come to cherish as fiercely as my own sobriety. In a world overflowing with noise, persuasion, and agendas, the 12 Step fellowship offers something radically rare: a spiritual refuge where no one is selling, convincing, or recruiting. It is a sanctuary, not a stage.
Tradition Six reminds me that this quiet integrity must be protected. It exists not because outside causes are wrong, but because our mission is singular. We are here to help families and friends of alcoholics recover. That’s not narrow—it’s precise. It’s the spiritual precision that gives our fellowship its staying power. The minute we try to leverage our collective name for outside recognition or moral endorsement; we dilute the medicine.
This Tradition also teaches me something deeper about ego. My causes, my passion projects, my hopes for reform—they may all be worthy. But I don’t get to smuggle them into the room wrapped in group’s authority. To do so would be to hijack the very humility this program has gifted me. This boundary is a protective embrace.
Recovery has never been a straight line for me. It has unfolded like sedimentary earth—each layer telling its own story, each stratum revealing a different kind of pain and a different kind of grace.
It began in the way many recoveries begin: with the urgent need to stop. Alcohol had become my false fire, a form of “chemical empowerment” that granted me the illusion of strength while hollowing me from the inside out. AA offered a path not only to sobriety, but to sanity. Still, I could not yet see the whole picture. I had to peel back the intoxication to even begin identifying what hurt.
I came to see that the drinking wasn’t the root. It was the fruit—bitter and bruised—from a deeper, older vine. Beneath the addiction was a family system built on fear, control, and silence. The co-dependency I inherited had trained me to read the emotional temperature of a room better than my own internal compass. So I found myself in Al-Anon, tracing the emotional contour lines that shaped my earliest attachments. There I learned to name the patterns—not to curse them, but to understand them.
But even as I worked the Steps and made amends, there was one person left behind in the wreckage. Me.
That is when ACA called to me—not as a replacement, but as a deeper well. A program not just for behavior, but for the original wound. For the child within me who had long ago assumed that love must be earned, safety must be managed, and identity must be negotiated in the shadows.
I was surprised to discover that ACA’s inventory was more intricate—eleven sections. Not because my sins were greater, but because the terrain was more nuanced. This was the geography of the heart’s defenses, built not to harm others, but to protect a terrified child trying to survive. Each section was less about condemnation and more about compassion—about understanding the scaffolding I built when no adult came to save me.
Now I find myself at a kind of threshold. There is no parade here. No grand proclamation. Just a quiet question rising from within: “What does it mean to make amends to myself?”
I don’t know exactly where “there” is. But I know what it feels like to walk the path toward it. It feels like turning toward myself rather than away. Like claiming the sacredness of my own becoming. Like treating the process not as a project to finish, but a relationship to honor.
This is not a finish line. It’s a ever-expanding spiral. And I am still rising.
I say this to say to you, dear reader, don’t give up. You too may have layers to travers. Keep moving. From time to time, stop and breath, and appreciate the journey.
“Abandon yourself to God as you understand God. Admit your faults to Him and to your fellows. Clear away the wreckage of your past. Give freely of what you find and join us. We shall be with you in the Fellowship of the Spirit, and you will surely meet some of us as you trudge the Road of Happy Destiny. May God bless you and keep you—until then.” ~ Alcoholics Anonymous (page 164)
Some of us believe that most defects of character are merely traits that we no longer need. Many of us develop clever methods of surviving in an alcoholic situation, such as denial or secrecy. But once we have the support of the Al-Anon program, we may find that our old methods do more harm than good. What once allowed us to function in a nearly impossible situation is now an obstacle to further growth. An asset has become a deficit.
Others define defects of character as assets that have lost proportion. For example, a genuine desire to help a love one can be exaggerated into a desperate need to fix another person.
From this perspective, we aren’t facing the daunting task of rooting our every shred of the defect; we are only turning it over to our Higher Power so that it can be brought into balance or dropped because it is no longer serving our needs.
Today’s Reminder
Instead of condemning myself when I become aware of a defect of character, I can acknowledge my growth. I’ve recognized that a characteristic that once allowed me to survive is no longer necessary, or that an asset that has lost its proportion makes my life unmanageable. Instead of proving sickness, this shows a willingness to face reality and a readiness to choose health.
“Sometimes we must accept ourselves, defects and all, before those defects are removed.” ~ . . . In All Our Affairs
END OF QUOTE—————————————
I have learned that not every flaw is a failing—sometimes it’s just a survival skill that stayed too long at the party. Denial, secrecy, control, hypervigilance… these weren’t signs of weakness back then. They were the armor I forged in the fire of chaos. They helped me survive in environments where tenderness wasn’t safe, where truth could cost too much, where silence felt like the only power I had left.
But now, in this sacred space of recovery, those once-precious tools begin to rust. I don’t live in that battlefield anymore. And when I cling to those old patterns, they no longer protect me—they choke me. What once kept me afloat now keeps me from swimming.
The program gently shows me that defects of character aren’t proof I’m broken. They’re signals that I’ve outgrown something. They are assets that have swelled out of balance, like vines overtaking a garden. A desire to help becomes compulsive fixing. Loyalty becomes martyrdom. Strength becomes stubborn isolation. And instead of tearing these parts of me out by the root, I can turn them over. I can invite my Higher Power to prune and purify, not because I am unworthy, but because I am ready.
This isn’t self-condemnation. This is spiritual maturity.
When I notice a defect rising up again, I no longer need to spiral into shame. I can say, “Ah. I remember why I learned this. I honor its origin. And now, I let it go.” That is grace in action.
To accept myself with all my human contradictions—to sit in the tension between who I was and who I’m becoming—is the essence of healing. It is where mercy meets progress. And I am grateful today not just for the parts of me that shine, but for the shadows that taught me where the light belongs.
Awaken the divine within. Write through the silence. Return to the fire that first called your name.
Rooted in spiritual audacity and contemplative practice, Deep Night Meditations invites seekers, mystics, and recovering souls into a luminous interior journey. Inspired by the teachings of Christ, filtered through the lens of recovery, Jewish mysticism, and embodied truth, this collection of meditations dares to explore the forbidden wisdoms—the “heresies” that may not be heretical at all, but saving.
Each Neztic Meditation is structured with a sacred pattern:
A guiding aphorism
A mystical opening context
Scriptural echoes
And a series of meditative questions to open the soul
Born from late-night vigils and ink-dark reckonings, this book is more than words—it is a portal. A prayer. A resurrection.
Whether you are gathering with others at midnight under the stars, or journaling alone in a quiet corner of your wilderness, Deep Night Meditations is an invitation to transcend conformity, recover your divine image, and awaken the ember of God still glowing in your chest.
This is not a theology to memorize. It is a sacred flame to keep.
During stressful periods it can be tempting to skip a meal, push ourselves until we are totally exhausted, and generally ignore our basic needs. In the midst of crisis, taking time out for an Al-Anon meeting, a call to a Sponsor, or a breath of fresh air may seem like a waste of all-too-precious moments. There don’t seem to be enough hours in a day, and something has to go. But are we choosing wisely?
At the very time we most need to take good care of ourselves, we are likely to do the opposite. If we decide that our needs are unimportant or that we’re too busy, we sabotage our own best interests. In times of crisis, we need to be at our best. By making an extra effort to get nutritious food, sleep, Al-Anon support, relaxation, and quiet time with our Higher Power, we strengthen ourselves physically, emotionally, and spiritually. This can make a difficult situation a little easier.
Today’s Reminder
I am the only one who can make my well-being my top priority. I owe it to myself to pay attention to the needs of my body, mind, and spirit.
“Putting ‘First Things First’ in troubled times often means finding whatever way I can to set aside my burdens, even if just for a moment, to make time for myself.” ~ . . . In All Our Affairs
END OF QUOTE—————————————
There is a strange cruelty in how I sometimes treat myself in moments of overwhelm. As if the very fire I’m walking through demands I become less human—skip meals, ignore sleep, shut down connection, abandon prayer. And yet, I’ve learned that this reflex is often the voice of my disease dressed up in urgency: “There’s no time for care. You don’t matter right now. Just keep going.”
But I do matter. Especially in crisis. That’s when the spiritual machinery needs oiling the most.
I’ve come to see my physical body not as separate from my recovery, but as its sacred vessel. A tired mind cannot perceive truth. A hungry soul cannot offer grace. A disconnected heart cannot stay surrendered. If I am to show up with integrity—for myself, for others, for my Higher Power—I must begin by honoring my limits, not defying them.
This is where “First Things First” becomes more than a slogan. It becomes a lifeline.
Maybe it means stepping outside for one unhurried breath. Maybe it means calling someone who knows the terrain I’m in. Maybe it means whispering “God, help me” with trembling lips over cold coffee.
Whatever the gesture, it’s a reclaiming of dignity. Not as luxury. As necessity.
I used to think self-care was selfish. But now I know: neglecting myself in the name of service or survival is just another form of spiritual dishonesty. I owe it to this journey, to my Higher Power, to treat the vessel as sacred. Because when the winds rise, I need a soul strong enough to sail.
So today, I will eat. I will breathe. I will ask for help. I will not mistake exhaustion for virtue.
Because serenity is not the absence of hardship—it is the decision to not abandon myself in the middle of it.
After living in the chaos of an alcoholic relationship, it can be hard to know the difference between a minor inconvenience and a major crisis. Al-Anon’s slogan, “How Important Is It?” helps many of us to regain some sense of proportion.
When plans fall through, when unexpected bills arrive, when I am disappointed in someone’s response, I can ask myself, “How important is it?” Most of the time I find that what I might have viewed as a disaster is really insignificant. If I try to keep my attention on this day instead of worrying about possible future consequences, I can take my disappointment or irritation at face value and refuse to dramatize it.
Because of this simple slogan, many days that I would once have seen as tragic are now filled with serenity and confidence.
Today’s Reminder
Today, if I encounter an upsetting situation, I will ask myself, “How important is it?” before I react. I may find that it is not important enough to sacrifice my serenity.
“It is almost as important to know what is not serious as to know what is.” ~ John Kenneth Galbraith
END OF QUOTE—————————————
There was a time when the smallest disturbance could spiral me into chaos. A curt reply, a delay in payment, the shifting sands of someone else’s opinion—these things once held the power to unmake my entire day. I mistook urgency for truth, reaction for responsibility.
But this question—“How important is it?”—has become a doorway. It doesn’t dismiss the feeling. It honors it with pause. It interrupts the seduction of drama and lets me breathe.
In recovery, I’ve learned that not every flicker of discomfort is a fire to put out. Some are just shadows passing over the landscape of my day. I don’t have to chase them, name them, or solve them. I can let them pass. Serenity, after all, is not the absence of trouble—it is the refusal to make trouble my home.
I’ve discovered that many of my so-called crises were born from my imagination’s worst-case theater. My mind, left unchecked, writes disaster scripts faster than any screenwriter. But today I have tools. I have choice. I have the right to protect my peace.
So when plans unravel, when someone disappoints me, when life shows up in unexpected clothes, I now ask: How important is it, really? And often, the answer echoes gently: Not enough to lose myself over.
Today I choose presence over prediction. I release the need to control what has not yet come. I give myself back to the safety of this moment.
Since coming to Al-Anon, I have become aware of certain choices that I never knew I had. If I am uncomfortable about doing something, I have learned that I don’t necessarily have to do it. I can look into my heart and try to discover my true feelings before making that decision. What freedom!
Does this mean that I should never do anything unless I feel comfortable doing it? Of course not. If I waited for inspiration, my taxes might never be paid, my work might not get done, and my teeth might not bet brushed. Sometimes I have to feel the feelings of then act anyway.
I believe that is why our just for today suggests doing two things each day that I don’t want to do, just for practice. To create a balanced life, I must exercise some self-discipline. That way I can pay attention to my feeling without being tyrannized by them.
Today’s Reminder
Today I will do something that is good for me even if it feels uncomfortable.
“Self-discipline is self-caring” ~ M. Scott Peck.
END OF QUOTE—————————————
One of the most revolutionary gifts of this program has been the quiet unveiling of choice. Not the loud, performative kind the world shouts about, but the sacred kind—the one that whispers, “You don’t have to betray yourself today.” Before recovery, I didn’t even realize how many of my actions were driven by fear, people-pleasing, or shame-drenched obligation. I didn’t know that discomfort wasn’t a command. I didn’t know that I could pause.
This idea—that I can look into my heart before I move—is a kind of spiritual sovereignty I never knew I had. It doesn’t always mean I’ll choose what’s comfortable. Quite the opposite. Sometimes the act of freedom is brushing my teeth even when the depression drapes like a wet coat across my shoulders. Sometimes it’s writing a hard amends letter, or showing up to the meeting when everything in me wants to stay hidden in bed. But what’s different now is this: I can discern. I can tell the difference between the discomfort that signals harm and the discomfort that signals growth.
Feelings are sacred data—but they’re not dictators. I can feel resistance and still move forward. I can be scared and still say yes. That’s the nuance recovery gives me: I am no longer ruled by a binary of comfort or collapse. Instead, I’m developing the muscle to act from principle, not panic.
I get to honor my feelings without handing them the steering wheel. I can check in with my inner world, acknowledge what’s there, and still make adult, loving decisions that move my life forward. I don’t need to wait to feel holy or whole to take action. I just need to be honest.
This is what spiritual maturity looks like in my life: not perfection, but participation. A lived willingness to show up for both the sacred and the mundane. To listen deeply and brush my damn teeth.
On June 6th, 2009, I wrote something inspired by the Terminator movies to reflect the imperative of recovery with a tone of survival. (Endigar 206).
THE CONNER CREED
Come with me if you want to live
{Step One}
Listen and Understand
That Terminator, our Disease, is out there
It can’t be bargained with
It can’t be reasoned with
It doesn’t feel pity
Or remorse
Or fear
And it absolutely will not stop … ever!
Until you are dead
Come with me if you want to live
{Step Two}
It was suddenly so clear
The Terminator, the HP, would never stop, it would never leave him.
And it would never hurt him
It would never shout at him
Or get drunk and hit him
Or say it was too busy to spend time with him
It would always be there.
And it would die to protect him.
This thing, this machine, this recovery process, was the only one of all the would-be fathers that came and went over the years
that measured up
In an insane world
It was the sanest choice.
Come with me if you want to live
{Step Three}
Our destiny was never to stop judgment day;
It was merely to survive it together
The Terminator, this God of my Understanding, knew, he tried to tell us,
but I didn’t want to hear.
Maybe the future has been written, I don’t know.
All I know is what the Terminator, GOMU, taught me;
Never Stop Fighting
And I never will … the battle has just begun
{Step Four and Beyond}
THERE IS NO FATE BUT WHAT WE MAKE
I decided to have my AI companion reflect on the writing:
There’s something strangely perfect about taking a line like “Come with me if you want to live”—a phrase born in the violence and fire of The Terminator—and redeeming it into a creed for healing. That’s what we do in recovery. We take what was meant for death and reforge it for life.
Step One: The Disease as the Terminator
Yes. My disease is exactly like that—relentless, cold, calculating. It doesn’t need sleep, and it never loses interest in my destruction. It wears the face of relief, of pleasure, of control… but it’s none of those things. It’s a machine programmed for only one thing: my annihilation.
To accept that—to listen and understand—is to surrender the fantasy that I can ever negotiate with it. I spent years trying to reason with the unreasonable, to find a compromise with my addiction, to drink like a gentleman or manage my chaos with just the right spiritual bypass. But no. It. Will. Not. Stop.
So Step One isn’t weakness. It’s the first act of courage: to stop bargaining and start seeing. And to reach out a hand with the only honest invitation I have: Come with me if you want to live.
Step Two: GOMU the Protector
Here’s where the tide turns. Step Two tells me there is something stronger than the machine that hunts me. Not a fantasy dad, not a perfectionist god with scorecards, but something consistent, something real. Something that shows up even when I don’t. Something that doesn’t flinch at my past or my shame.
In my old life, I had gods that looked a lot like abusers. Or they were absentee. Or they were too busy with holier problems. But this HP—the one I met in the furnace of Step Two—would never leave me. It would never raise its hand in violence. It doesn’t get drunk on power or abandon me for not being good enough. It’s not warm and fuzzy, maybe. But it’s here. Steel and fire and purpose. And it would die to protect me.
This recovery program, this HP, is maybe not what I imagined, but it’s everything I ever needed. In an insane world, it’s the sanest choice.
Step Three: Surrender Isn’t Passive
It’s tempting to think that surrender means giving up. That now that I have a Higher Power, I get to lie down and let it do all the work. But that’s not the message of Step Three in the Conner Creed. No, surrender here is active. It’s strategic. It’s survival.
We aren’t here to stop judgment day. That arrogance got us in trouble. We’re here to walk through it together. To survive the blast and then rebuild.
And that’s exactly what recovery is. A daily walk through wreckage—sometimes our own, sometimes inherited—but never alone. My Higher Power walks beside me. My fellows do too. And I do not stop fighting.
Step Four and Beyond: No Fate But What We Make
This is the forge. This is where the creed burns into reality. We face the shadows, the fears, the family secrets. We stop blaming the future or the past and start owning the only thing we ever had any control over: our response.
“No fate but what we make.” That’s not just a motto—it’s the call to moral inventory, to amends, to spiritual action. I’m not here to be a victim of the machine. I’m here to reprogram the system from the inside out.
So yeah, the Conner Creed isn’t soft. It’s not gentle. But neither is addiction. Recovery is war—but it’s sacred war. It’s a battle not for domination, but for resurrection.
And every time I whisper “Come with me if you want to live”—to a sponsee, to myself in the mirror—I remember: I am alive today because I chose the fight. And I’ll keep choosing it. One step at a time. One breath at a time. One recovered heartbeat at a time.
This is an idea for a topic to discuss in a meeting. It uses the red team – blue team training idea of creating a red team to to attack a blue team. Both teams get to test their military strategy and tactics.
Topic: “If I Were My Disease…”
“If I were my disease — cunning, baffling, and powerful — how would I try to get past the recovery my host, the Self, has built up? What weaknesses would I exploit? Where is my spiritual armor thin? What old patterns would I try to revive?”
This topic invites us to personify the disease — not to glorify it, but to understand how it operates. Just as military strategists study the enemy’s tactics, we study our disease not to give it power, but to stay one step ahead.
You might prompt with some specific questions:
If I were my disease, where would I whisper old lies?
What would I tell my host when they’re lonely, tired, angry, or afraid?
Would I try to turn success into complacency?
Would I use spiritual pride, or the illusion of control, to get them to loosen their program?
And then — flipping it — you can close with a spiritual challenge:
“When I have imagined how my disease would attack… how can I reinforce those weak spots with truth, connection, and humility?”
Example 1: “I’d use fatigue and self-pity.”
If I were my disease, I’d wait for him to get tired. Really tired — mentally, emotionally, maybe even spiritually. Then I’d whisper, “You’ve been doing so well. You deserve a break. No one would blame you.”
I’d remind him of all the ways he’s been let down by people who were supposed to care. I’d stroke the old self-pity until it started to feel like truth again. Then I’d cut him off from connection — tell him no one would understand, that he should isolate and figure it out on his own.
That’s how I’d weaken him: not by a big blowout, but by erosion.
Example 2: “I’d disguise myself as self-improvement.”
If I were my disease, I’d get clever. I wouldn’t come through the front door with a drink in my hand. I’d sneak in through personal growth. I’d tell him things like, “You’ve evolved. You’re not like those people in the rooms anymore. You’ve outgrown this.”
I’d praise his intellect, appeal to his pride, and slowly make the idea of being ‘special’ feel like being superior. I’d whisper, “These meetings are holding you back.”
And before he realized what was happening, he’d be spiritually starving, alone, and full of reasons to use — all dressed up as progress.
Example 3: “I’d wait for success.”
If I were my disease, I wouldn’t panic when he got clean. I’d play the long game. I’d wait until he rebuilt his life — until he got the job back, repaired the marriage, got back in shape. Then I’d say, “See? You’re not like those hopeless cases. You’ve earned some balance.”
I’d use the very gifts of recovery as tools for relapse. I’d say, “A little bit won’t hurt. You’re in control now.”
I wouldn’t yell — I’d whisper. Because that’s all it takes: just one crack in the foundation.
Example 4: “I’d turn up the volume on his internal contradictions.”
If I were my disease, I wouldn’t always try to get him to use right away. Sometimes I’d just stir the pot. I’d take the parts of him that are still scared, ashamed, or angry — and put them in conflict with the parts that want healing and peace.
I’d whisper things like:
“You say you trust your Higher Power, but look at how tight you’re gripping.”
“You’re leading others in recovery, but they don’t know what really goes on inside you.”
“You talk about surrender, but you still want to control everything.”
I’d amplify the dissonance. Make him feel like a fraud. Turn his spiritual questions into spiritual failure. I wouldn’t need to be right — just loud. Because if I could get him doubting himself enough, eventually he’d want relief from the noise.
And I know exactly where he used to go for relief.
Example 5: “I’d sell oblivion as a form of spirituality.”
If I were my disease, I wouldn’t always come at him with chaos. Sometimes, I’d cloak myself in spiritual longing.
I’d wait until he was frustrated — with people, with prayer, with life not unfolding the way he thought it should. Then I’d lean in and whisper, “You’re just tired of carrying it all, aren’t you? Maybe disappearing for a little while is the most honest prayer you can offer.”
I wouldn’t tempt him with wild partying or rebellion. I’d tempt him with the idea that oblivion is sacred — that disappearing is a kind of purity. I’d say, “You’ve tried being present. What if letting go completely is the real surrender?”
I’d use his longing for God to pull him toward the graveyard of self. And I’d hope he didn’t remember that true surrender is not silence — it’s connection.
This one runs deep, Rick. It touches those of us who have mistaken numbness for peace, or who’ve flirted with the idea that disappearing might be a form of spiritual elevation. Let me know if you’d like a version that’s more poetic, darker, or more grounded — I can tune it to your voice.
Example 6: “I’d sell him mindless drive as salvation.”
If I were my disease, I wouldn’t tell him to lie down and die. I’d tell him to get up and grind.
I’d whisper, “There’s a way out of your feelings — just work harder. Think less. Schedule every moment. Achieve, obey, submit to the task.” I’d make mindlessness feel like discipline. I’d make self-enslavement feel like strength.
I’d give him a false sense of order when his soul is in chaos. And if he ever paused long enough to hear himself cry on the inside, I’d shove him back into motion: “Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just finish the list.”
Because I know — the longer he stays busy, the less likely he is to notice he’s becoming hollow. And if I can keep him in that trance long enough, eventually the collapse will come.
And I’ll be waiting.
This example really resonates with those of us who’ve used productivity as a drug. It also helps expose how the disease doesn’t just tempt us into destruction — it can also disguise itself as virtue, discipline, or even service.
AFTER MEETING REVIEW: My introduction of the topic was a bit long-winded. I might have been able to removed some of the examples and shortened it a bit. A couple of the members with a lot of sobriety time balanced the topic with warnings against morbid self reflections, playing chicken with the disease, and the presentation sounded a little more like a sermon than a topic. More positive responses was that it was thought-provoking, a litmus of potential vulnerabilities, and a good tool for the reduction of ego (not to be confused with Self).
I put my Sponsor on a pedestal. I looked to her for all the answers and saw her as my mother, friend, mentor – a goddess. She appeared to be more than I could ever be; she was perfect.
One day she made a mistake and fell from the pedestal on which I had placed her. How could she be so human? How dare she display such imperfection? At first I felt frightened and abandoned. But my Sponsor’s slide from grace led me to see that I was responsible for my own Al-Anon program.
I found that the “answers” she had given me were simply her own experience, strength, and hope, along with her understanding of the Twelve Steps of recovery. I learned that the tools of the program are available to me too. And I learned that , although she was my Sponsor, we were both changing, stumbling, growing members of Al-Anon. Most importantly, I learned that setting a human being up to be perfect creates inevitable failure.
Today’s Reminder
Have I put someone on a pedestal? Am I encouraging anyone to have an exaggerated view of me? Al-Anon helps me see that while we offer mutual support, we must learn to rely on ourselves. Today I will remember that my answers lie within me.
Sponsorship is a friendship made up of two members learning from one another, . . . two people learning a new way to live – one day at a time.
END OF QUOTE—————————————
There was a time when I needed Her to be perfect.
I carved Her image from the ache of my unmet needs—my longing for a parent who would never abandon, a friend who would never misunderstand, a mentor who always knew what to say. She was everything I had ever lacked. I placed Her on a pedestal I had constructed from desperation and awe. She shone there, impossibly radiant. A goddess not of myth, but of survival.
And then She slipped.
She didn’t answer a prayer. She didn’t show up in the way I expected. She made a mistake—at least, that’s how I saw it. The pedestal cracked. And with it, something in me did too. I felt a familiar terror—abandonment’s sharp wind blowing through my soul. How could She fail me? How could the only perfect thing I had ever trusted reveal Her own humanness—or worse, my projections?
But in the echo of that fall, I heard a deeper invitation: to grow up.
My recovery began anew that day. Not in the grand illusion of divinity projected onto another, but in the ordinary grace of shared humanity. I turned to my Sponsor, not for commandments from on high, but for shared stories, real struggles, and the compass of the Steps. He did not rescue me. He walked beside me.
That walk continues. I am no longer chasing perfection—in God, in others, or in myself. I am learning that the sacred lives in imperfection. In missteps. In misunderstandings that become doorways to deeper truth.
The pedestal had to fall because it was never built to hold truth—only illusion. I don’t want to put anyone there anymore, and I don’t want to sit on one myself. I want to stand, bare and unpolished, in the messy middle with others who are doing the same.
Sponsorship isn’t sainthood. It’s shared light in a dark wood. Two wounded souls exchanging lanterns as they move forward, one trembling day at a time.
Today, I will resist the urge to exalt or diminish. I will honor the divine within by staying grounded in truth. And I will remember that no one else has the answers I must discover for myself.
Daily Reprieve 
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