“Learn from the past, prepare for the future, live in the present.”
— Thomas S. Monson
Last week, I wrote about a major shift in my recovery journey—my therapist moving on and the sudden need to continue forward without that familiar pillar of support. At the time, I felt grounded and confident in the strength I’ve built.
This week, though, something quieter surfaced. A small current of apprehension rose up when I was reminded of the upcoming time change—the clocks rolling back, mornings growing colder, evenings stretching darker. The feeling was subtle but persistent. Instead of brushing it aside, I chose to explore it.
Memories returned—not vague impressions, but sharp recollections of where I was last year at this time. In early November 2022, I had a major relapse and binge episode. More memories followed: smaller slips throughout that fall and winter, ending in a final binge as the year turned toward 2023. Each one was painful. Each one hurt me. Each one affected people I cared about. I would get up again, shaky but determined, only to slide back down when the memory of pain faded and old thoughts returned: “I can handle it this time.” Or worse, I stopped thinking altogether and tried to outrun the darkness and overwhelm.
A detailed retelling of one of those relapse episodes might be useful in a future post—for myself and for anyone struggling with alcohol. But for now, I want to return to the quote that opens this week, and to the progress I see in how I approach my thoughts and feelings today.
I felt apprehension about the future—and I confronted it.
I remembered the mistakes I refuse to repeat.
I recognized the strength I’ve earned through honesty, practice, and sustained effort.
I stayed in the present. I didn’t get lost in rumination. And that grounded me.
This clarity doesn’t mean I’m free from worry. I still feel concern about past decisions, finances, relationships, uncertainty about the future, and moments of wavering confidence in my recovery. These areas deserve attention. At the same time, I’m learning to give myself space for activities that bring calm during lonely or challenging stretches—photography, reading for pleasure, jigsaw puzzles, and time in nature. Moments of stillness help me stay centered.
The coming season—with its cold, wet, and dark—will not dim the light of my recovery.