Addiction

Working in recovery has been the most rewarding and challenging job I’ve ever had. It’s added so much to my life and pushed me to grow in ways I never imagined. At the same time, it’s shown me exactly who I don’t want to be.

I’m far from perfect. I fall short more often than I care to admit. I can be impatient, stubborn, and occasionally convinced I’m right when I’m absolutely not. But becoming a Behavioral Health Tech has been nothing like I expected when I first applied. Some days I feel like I climbed into a time machine and got launched straight back into the 8th grade cafeteria.

The cliques are real. The gossip is real. The endless play-by-play of who isn’t doing their job is real. There are days when it feels like more energy is spent keeping score on each other than helping the people who walked through the doors looking for hope.

And if you’re not part of the “it” crowd? Don’t worry. You still get included in conversations you just won’t be there when they’re happening.

I was recently told the reason for this is because many people are still fresh in recovery. Maybe there’s some truth to that. Maybe hurt people sometimes act like hurt people. But that explanation left me with a bigger question: what exactly does recovery mean anymore?

The Twelve Steps haven’t changed. The book hasn’t changed. The directions are still written exactly the same way they were when this thing started. Yet somehow over the years we’ve become comfortable picking the steps we like and stepping right over the ones we don’t.

We want the freedom of recovery without the inventory. The peace without the amends. The fellowship without the service. The spiritual growth without the uncomfortable parts that actually produce it.

Somewhere along the way, it feels like we’ve gotten really good at quoting the program and not nearly as good at practicing it.

Because when I got sober, recovery wasn’t about who had the best job title, the biggest friend group, or the most opinions. It wasn’t about finding a new social hierarchy after putting down the drugs and alcohol.

Recovery was about learning how to live. Learning how to be honest. Learning how to sit across from another broken human being and say, “Me too.”

The AA rooms that saved my life weren’t perfect, but they were filled with something special. There was a fire in those rooms. Not the kind that burns people down! the kind that warms people up. The kind that made a newcomer feel welcome before they felt worthy. The kind that reminded people they weren’t alone.

You could walk into a meeting carrying shame, guilt, fear, and enough emotional baggage to require its own baggage claim ticket, and somehow leave feeling lighter than when you walked in.

People didn’t save my life because they had all the answers. They saved my life because they cared. They listened. They shared their experience. They loved me when I was hard to love.

Lately, though, it feels like some meetings have become more about belonging to the right crowd than belonging to the fellowship. Like we’ve traded sponsorship for social circles. Service for status. Principles for personalities.

Maybe that’s not true everywhere. Maybe it’s just what I’ve been seeing lately.

What I do know is this: I didn’t stay sober because someone impressed me. I stayed sober because someone loved me when I was hard to love. Someone listened when I had nothing worth listening to. Someone reached out their hand and expected nothing in return.

That’s the recovery I want to be part of.

Not the one keeping score.
Not the one building cliques.
Not the one deciding who’s in and who’s out.

Just people helping people stay alive long enough to find a life worth living.

And maybe that’s the question worth asking: if a scared newcomer walked into our meeting, our treatment center, or our workplace today, would they leave feeling judged or would they leave feeling hopeful?

Because that’s the recovery that was freely given to me. And that’s the recovery I hope we never stop passing on.