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The Everyday Miracle
The word miracle is often reserved for things that defy logic or natural law—burning bushes, parting seas, or sudden, divine healings. But look closer. The definition of a miracle is “a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences.”
By that measure, what is more mirac
The word miracle is often reserved for things that defy logic or natural law—burning bushes, parting seas, or sudden, divine healings. But look closer. The definition of a miracle is “a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences.”
By that measure, what is more miraculous than this: a room full of alcoholics and addicts—people who once couldn’t go an hour without using—now showing up sober, holding space for each other, listening without interrupting, and offering support instead of shame?
That’s not just unlikely. That’s extraordinary. Because addiction is a disease that isolates. It cuts off the head from the heart, the person from the people, and the soul from the self. It breeds silence, secrecy, and self-destruction. Left untreated, it devours everything. And yet… here we are.
A circle of chairs. A few battered coffee cups. Some half-folded meeting schedules. And people—raw, real, trembling, and trying—showing up anyway.
Sharing the ugliest parts of their story not to shock or impress, but to heal. To stay sober. To help someone else find the strength to make it one more day. No one levitates. No halos appear.
But something shifts in the room. Eyes that were once hollow now hold light. Hands that once stole or struck are now open to help. Laughter rings out where shame once sat heavy.
This is not magic. And it might not be divine intervention. But it is sacred. It’s the sacredness of people doing what should be impossible: getting better together. Holding each other accountable and holding each other up.
Telling the truth even when it hurts. Saying, “Me too,” instead of “What’s wrong with you?” Recovery is a miracle not because it happens all at once, but because it happens at all. And maybe the most beautiful part is this:
You don’t have to believe in a Higher Power to believe in each other. You don’t need a burning bush when someone hands you a phone list and says, Call me if it gets bad.
You don’t need to walk on water when you’ve learned to sit still through a craving. If you're looking for a miracle, don't look up. Look across the table.
Not All Cravings Are Created Equal
Not all cravings are created equal. The urge for cake passes. The craving for heroin can feel like drowning. One is a whisper. The other is a scream with teeth. When the brain is dysregulated, when trauma has left deep tracks in your nervous system, a craving can become a full-body emergency. It hijacks memory, overwhelms thought, and
Not all cravings are created equal. The urge for cake passes. The craving for heroin can feel like drowning. One is a whisper. The other is a scream with teeth. When the brain is dysregulated, when trauma has left deep tracks in your nervous system, a craving can become a full-body emergency. It hijacks memory, overwhelms thought, and drowns reason. We must stop trivializing this.
Telling someone in early recovery to “just ride it out” without tools is like telling a drowning person to “just breathe.” The Science of Craving: Fire in the Wires Cravings: The Brain’s False Alarms Cravings aren’t just thoughts—they’re biochemical storms. When you're hit with one, your brain isn’t asking—it’s demanding. And behind that demand is a tangled web of neural circuitry, dopamine, memory, emotion, and stress. But what if we could slow it down—name it, frame it, and survive it? Section 1: Dopamine and Desire Cravings ride on the rails of dopamine, the brain’s reward chemical. But dopamine isn’t pleasure—
it’s anticipation. It’s the “go get it” neurochemical that surges when your brain senses something familiar and desirable. In addiction, that system becomes hijacked. The sight of a bottle, a street corner, a phone call, even a song can light up the reward center like a Christmas tree. Scientific Detail: The mesolimbic pathway, especially the ventral tegmental area (VTA) and nucleus accumbens, flood with dopamine when cues trigger craving. This process is strengthened through cue-induced sensitization—the brain becomes hypersensitive to triggers, and the craving gets louder with repetition, not weaker. Section 2: The Hijacked
Brain Addiction trains the brain to prioritize the substance over survival. In a craving, the prefrontal cortex (your reasoning center) is offline or overwhelmed. The amygdala, the brain’s emotional fire alarm, screams, “We need this to feel okay.” It doesn’t care that you’ve been clean 6 months. It just remembers what worked once to stop the pain.
Stress makes it worse. Cortisol amplifies cravings by increasing dopamine sensitivity and reducing impulse control. The result? A full-body siren that tells you using is relief—even when that’s a lie. Clinical translation: Cravings are not about willpower. They are conditioned, stress-fueled neurological loops.
Treating them means building new circuits—not just gritting your teeth. “You Can’t Reason with a Fire Alarm” When a craving hits, it doesn’t knock. It kicks the door in. And just like a fire alarm, it doesn’t care if there’s really a fire—only that it thinks something dangerous is happening.
This is what it can feel like:
• A pounding in your chest
• A buzzing in your skin
• A voice in your head saying “Do it. Just do it. One won’t matter.”
• The memory of relief rushing in like a promise
• The ability to care about consequences?
Gone. Shut off like a light. Cravings aren’t logical. They’re survival wiring gone haywire. That’s not weakness. That’s the body trying to save itself the only way it used to know how. The mistake isn’t feeling it. The mistake is believing it.
RECLAIMING POWER: A CALL TO ACTION
You don’t fight a craving by arguing with it. You outlast it. You name it. You wait it out. A craving is a wave, not a prophecy. And no matter how high it swells—it breaks. Always.
Here’s how to take your power back: Name the Craving “This is my brain firing old circuits. I’m not broken—I’m rewiring.” Interrupt the Loop Change your body. Stand up. Breathe through your nose. Splash cold water on your face. Get present in your body. Talk It Out (Not In) Call someone. Say out loud: “I’m craving. And I don’t want to act on it.” Words are grounding. Cravings live in silence. Wait 20 Minutes
Research shows that most cravings peak and pass in under 30 minutes. Set a timer. Move through it like a boxer in a round—breathe, guard up, stay standing. Reclaim the Win You didn’t “just not use.”
You re-trained your brain. That’s no small thing. That’s neuroplasticity in real time. Final Reframe: “This craving is not a command. It’s an echo. And I don’t live in that old house anymore.”
The Two Hungers
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way.
The Two Hungers: Feeding What Truly Sustains Us “There is only one thing that makes human beings profoundly bitter: to have spent their lives in response to the Little Hunger, and never to have answered the Great Hunger.” —Michael Meade
The Little Hunger The Little Hunger is the hunger for food, comfort, shelter, attention, sex, securit
The Two Hungers: Feeding What Truly Sustains Us “There is only one thing that makes human beings profoundly bitter: to have spent their lives in response to the Little Hunger, and never to have answered the Great Hunger.” —Michael Meade
The Little Hunger The Little Hunger is the hunger for food, comfort, shelter, attention, sex, security, and stimulation. These are the things that keep our bodies alive and our egos soothed. They are not evil or bad — they’re part of being human. We need them. But they are temporary by nature.
They can be satisfied and then rise again. They exist in cycles: I eat, I am full, I grow hungry again.
In addition, we often lived almost exclusively from this place, chasing the next high, the next fix, the next numbing moment.
Our nervous systems were on fire, our emotions unregulated, and our spirits hollowed out. We tried to feed the soul with the food of the body, and it never worked. So we just kept feeding. What we didn’t know then — and what recovery helps us learn — is that not all hunger is physical.
Not all longing can be answered with pleasure or relief. Some of its points point to something deeper. The Great Hunger
The Great Hunger is the hunger for meaning — the longing to feel that our life matters. It is the cry of the soul for connection, purpose, truth, and depth.
This hunger cannot be satisfied by the material world alone. It speaks when we are still. It rises when we suffer and wonder why.
It whispers to us in the dark moments and asks questions like: - What am I here for? - Is there more to me than this? - Can I heal and give something back?
In recovery, we begin to recognize that this deeper hunger has been with us all along — underneath the chaos, the craving, the running. It was never just about using. It was about trying to fill a God-sized hole with human-sized comforts.
When we begin to feed the Great Hunger — with spiritual practice, with service, with connection, with creating beauty and telling truth — something shifts. We move from merely surviving to truly living.
Addiction: Starving the Soul, Stuffing the Body Addiction was a betrayal of the Great Hunger. It was like trying to fill a canyon with spoonfuls of sand. No matter how much we consumed, it was never enough.
Recovery is about learning the difference — discerning what kind of hunger we are feeling — and choosing to feed the one that leads to life. -
Sometimes I don’t need a distraction. I need a moment of quiet.
- Sometimes I don’t need a drink. I need to be held.
- Sometimes I don’t need another scroll, another snack, another escape.
I need to remember who I am.
We can honor the Little Hunger without betraying the Great Hunger. We can learn to say: I will feed my spirit today. Reflection Question Which hunger am I feeding most often — the Little or the Great?
Journal Prompts - What does my 'Little Hunger' look like? What are the patterns or comforts I reach for when I’m overwhelmed?
- What is my 'Great Hunger'? If I listen deeply, what does my soul truly long for?
- Can I remember a time when I tried to satisfy a spiritual need with a material fix? What was the result?
- What feeds my spirit, truly and deeply? (Examples: nature, art, prayer, honesty, helping others)
- How can I begin today to feed the Great Hunger, even just a little?
- What would a 'Great Hunger day' look like for me?
How could I design a single day around what my soul needs?
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way.
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way.
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way.
We spend half our lives chasing a finish line that was never meant to be crossed.
We hustle for healing, strive for serenity, sprint toward some imagined moment
where everything finally feels right—when the house is quiet, the bills are paid, the shame is gone, and the ghosts are at rest. We say,
“I’ll be happy when…” as if joy is something
We spend half our lives chasing a finish line that was never meant to be crossed.
We hustle for healing, strive for serenity, sprint toward some imagined moment
where everything finally feels right—when the house is quiet, the bills are paid, the shame is gone, and the ghosts are at rest. We say,
“I’ll be happy when…” as if joy is something out there, stashed behind the next achievement or hiding in the arms of someone who understands us completely.
But Thich Nhat Hanh, in his still and spacious way, flips the whole script.
He reminds us that happiness isn’t at the end of the trail—it is the trail.
It’s not a trophy for the healed, it’s the rhythm of our steps as we become. It’s the soft breath before the coffee. The glance from your child. The weight of the world
lightened for just one moment by a shared laugh or a kind word. It’s in the practice, not the prize.
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way. We stop
gripping life like it owes us something.
We learn to open our hands. To walk the
road like it holy, not because it’s smooth, but because we’re walking it awake.
This quote calls us to presence, not performance.
To process, not to perfection.
To joy, not just relief.
If we’re always clawing forward, we miss the sacred miracle of now.
And if we wait for the pain to end before we let ourselves smile, we’ll die waiting.
So today, let’s walk like happiness is already under our feet.
Let’s breathe like peace lives in our lungs.
Let’s love like this moment, not the next, is the only one we were ever promised.
Because maybe that’s the truth: happiness isn’t something we earn by surviving life. It’s something we practice while living it.
Journaling Prompt
Where have I been chasing happiness instead of living it?
What moments of quiet joy can I notice today?
Success is not achieved by winning all the time
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way.
Success is not achieved by winning all the time
"Real success comes when we rise
after we fall. l am grateful for my victories, but l am especially grateful for my osses, because they only made me work harder. No one starts out on top. You have to work your way up. Some mountains are higher than others, some roads steeper than the next.
There are hardships and setbacks, but you can Iet
"Real success comes when we rise
after we fall. l am grateful for my victories, but l am especially grateful for my osses, because they only made me work harder. No one starts out on top. You have to work your way up. Some mountains are higher than others, some roads steeper than the next.
There are hardships and setbacks, but you can Iet them stop you.
Even on the steepest road, you must not turn back. You must keep going up. ln
order to reach the top of the mountain, you have to climb every rock."
- Muhammad AIi
Recovery Message:
Real transformation doesn't come from perfection—it comes from persistence.
Setbacks, slips, relapses, and failures are the end—they;re part of the climb. Like
Ali said, “You have to climb every rock.”
Recovery is not about starting on top, it's about staying in the fight even when you're down. It’s built on resilience, not
reputation. Every fall can become a foothold if you learn from it and keep
climbing.
Journal Prompts Inspired by the Quote:
What have I learned from my past losses, relapses, or setbacks?
How did they make me stronger or more determined?
Where in my life am I expecting to start on top?
What would it mean to accept
that I’m still climbing?
Describe a time when you wanted to turn back on the ‘steepest road.’
What helped
you keep going—or what might help next time?
What does it mean to ‘climb every rock’ in your recovery?
What rocks are in front
of you right now?
List the ‘mountains’ you’ve already climbed in recovery.
What did it take to reach
each summit?
Ali says he’s grateful for his losses.
What loss or failure in your life are you
beginning to see as a teacher instead of just pain?
Kintsugi as a Metaphor for Addiction Recovery
In recovery—real, soul-deep recovery—we learn this the hard way.
Success is not achieved by winning all the time
Kintsugi is the ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pottery using lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Rather than hiding the cracks, it highlights them—making them a beautiful, integral part of the piece’s story. And that, my friend, is recovery.
Here’s how Kintsugi mirrors the journey through addiction:
1. The Shatt
Kintsugi is the ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pottery using lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Rather than hiding the cracks, it highlights them—making them a beautiful, integral part of the piece’s story. And that, my friend, is recovery.
Here’s how Kintsugi mirrors the journey through addiction:
1. The Shattering: Addiction as the Breaking Point
Addiction doesn’t politely knock on the door; it kicks it off the hinges. It cracks the soul, splinters relationships, and reduces identity to fragments. Like a shattered bowl, the person feels useless, discarded, unfixable. But here's the truth: the break isn’t the end—it’s the beginning of something sacred.
2. Honoring the Cracks: Radical Acceptance
Kintsugi doesn’t pretend the bowl was never broken. Similarly, recovery requires you to look your pain in the eye. No shame, no cover-ups. The scars—relapses, rock bottoms, lost years—are not erased. They’re embraced. They become the roadmap back home.
3. Gold as Grace: The Recovery Process
What fills the cracks? In Kintsugi, it’s precious metal. In recovery, it’s just as valuable: honesty, community, humility, truth, service, connection, spirituality. These are the gold threads that stitch us back together. Recovery doesn’t return you to who you were—it creates someone stronger, wiser, more whole than before.
4. Each Piece Unique: No One Path
Every Kintsugi repair is one-of-a-kind. No two bowls ever break the same, and no two recoveries do either. The journey might include 12 steps, therapy, faith, trauma work, medication, sweat, tears—or all of the above. But each story, no matter how jagged, has beauty baked into its particular shape.
5. The Bowl Is More Valuable After It's Broken
Here’s the soul-shaking twist: a Kintsugi bowl is worth more after it’s been broken and repaired. Recovery doesn’t just restore—it transforms. You become not “as good as new,” but better than ever—a living testimony that healing is not only possible, it’s powerful.
6. Fragile and Strong: Holding Both Truths
The bowl will always have cracks. You’ll always carry the memory of what you’ve been through. But those golden lines? They don’t just hold you together—they make you shine.
Journal Prompts Based on Kintsugi:
- What are some of the "cracks" or wounds I’ve tried to hide?
- What are the golds of my recovery—values, truths, or experiences—that are helping hold me together?
- How would my story change if I saw my scars as sacred instead of shameful?
- What beauty has come because of my brokenness, not in spite of it?
- What pieces of my past am I still afraid to reclaim and honor?
- If my recovery were a Kintsugi bowl, what would it look like? What would it tell the world?
ODYSSEUS AND THE SIRENS: A STORY OF ADDICTION, WILLPOWER, AND SELF-CONTROL
- Page 1: The Calm Before the Craving The sea was calm, the men rowing in rhythm, but beneath the surface lay danger.
Not from monsters or storms, but from a song. Odysseus knew it was coming. The Sirens—creatures whose voices didn’t kill with claws, but with comfort. With false promises. With music that slid into the bones and whispered: "T
- Page 1: The Calm Before the Craving The sea was calm, the men rowing in rhythm, but beneath the surface lay danger.
Not from monsters or storms, but from a song. Odysseus knew it was coming. The Sirens—creatures whose voices didn’t kill with claws, but with comfort. With false promises. With music that slid into the bones and whispered: "This is what you've been searching for. Just give in. Let go".
He’d heard stories. Sailors who leapt from boats, desperate to follow that song.
Sailors who never came back. And Odysseus—no stranger to temptation—knew this: he could not out-muscle desire. He would not win this fight with pride.
Page 2: The Plan of Self-Control
So he made a plan. Not later, not mid-craving—now, while he was clear.
He told his crew: “Plug your ears with wax. Row. Don’t look back. Don’t listen to
me if I scream.”“And you?” they asked.
“Tie me to the mast,” he said. “Tight. So tight I can’t betray myself.”
He didn’t trust his willpower. He trusted his preparation. This wasn’t weakness. It was wisdom. He didn’t expect to be strong when it mattered—he planned for when he wouldn’t be. That’s the difference between relapse and recovery.
Page 3: The Sirens and the Craving
They entered the waters of the Sirens.
And the song began. It wasn’t just sound—it was seduction. It was a voice inside him that said, “Come home. Just this once. You’ve earned it. You can turn around after.” It was every craving that ever promised comfort.
Every lie that ever dressed itself as relief.
Odysseus screamed. Begged. Raged. He demanded release. But the ropes held. And that saved his life.
Page 4: The Burn of Survival
The cravings passed. Not because he was stronger than them—but because he couldn’t act on them. His arms bled from the rope-burns, but his soul was still intact. That is recovery: sometimes we make it through not by being invincible, but by being immobilized when it matters.
By surrendering our pride in exchange for a plan. Willpower says, “I’ll be fine.”
Self-control says, “Here’s my strategy when I’m not.”
Page 5: Reflection for the Addict and the Alchemist Odysseus lived to tell the tale.
He didn’t white-knuckle his way through the craving. He didn’t outsmart it in the
moment. He made decisions in the light to protect himself from the dark.
In recovery, we do the same.
- We tie ourselves to meetings.
- We tell our sponsors the truth.
- We delete numbers.
- We build systems, not fantasies.
- Not because we don’t feel the pull.
- But because we do.
- We are not weak because we need boundaries.
- We are wise because we build them.
- And we are free not when the song stops calling,
- but when we know we don’t have to answer.
Therapeutic Prompt (Optional Page 6)
Journal:
What are the “Sirens” in your life—what whispers to you when you’re tired,
lonely, angry, or scared?
What does your version of “being tied to the mast” look like? Meetings,
phone calls, structure?
Have you relied too heavily on willpower in the past? What might it look
like to switch to self-control through planning?
Rising Above The Ashes
🕊️ The Phoenix and Addiction: A Deep Symbolism Breakdown
1. Destruction is Part of the Cycle: The Phoenix must burn before it can be reborn. In addiction, the person often must face a total collapse — emotional, physical, spiritual — before healing begins. "The fire isn't the end — it's the doorway." In this way, addiction mirror
🕊️ The Phoenix and Addiction: A Deep Symbolism Breakdown
1. Destruction is Part of the Cycle: The Phoenix must burn before it can be reborn. In addiction, the person often must face a total collapse — emotional, physical, spiritual — before healing begins. "The fire isn't the end — it's the doorway." In this way, addiction mirrors the Phoenix: devastation isn’t failure. It is the natural ending of an unsustainable cycle.
2. Pain Transforms, Not Just Destroys: The Phoenix is not simply burned to ash — it is transformed. Addiction, when survived and recovered from, doesn't just leave someone the same — it reshapes identity, resilience, empathy, and purpose. “When you look into the abyss, it looks back at you.” "From ashes, a different kind of strength emerges — one that can never be taken away."
3. Self-Destruction with the Seed of Renewal: The Phoenix does not die because it is weak; it dies because that death is woven into its nature. Likewise, addiction often grows from human needs for relief, belonging, escape — natural things — but they turn toxic. Still, within even the wreckage of addiction is the capacity for rebirth. "Hidden inside ruin is the DNA of resurrection."
4. The Ashes Are Sacred: In many Phoenix myths, the ashes are not discarded — they are honored or guarded. In recovery, the painful past isn’t erased. It becomes sacred. It is the evidence of survival, and it becomes the foundation on which new life is built. "Every scar is sacred ground where a new self was born."
5. Rebirth Is Not a Return — It’s an Evolution: The Phoenix doesn't come back the same — it’s new, stronger, wiser. Similarly, addiction recovery isn’t about going back to who you were before. It’s about becoming someone who could not have existed without surviving it. "You don't come back to who you were; you become someone the fire could not destroy."
What's On The Other Side of Addiction
What's On The Other Side of Addiction
1. The Fire and the Ashes
- What part of my old life needed to burn away so something new could grow?
- When I look at the ashes of my past, what treasures can I find hidden there?
2. Flight Lessons
- What fears still clip my wings as I try to rise?
- What small victories have already proven I am stronger than I realized?
3. Sacred Scars
- What scar (emo
1. The Fire and the Ashes
- What part of my old life needed to burn away so something new could grow?
- When I look at the ashes of my past, what treasures can I find hidden there?
2. Flight Lessons
- What fears still clip my wings as I try to rise?
- What small victories have already proven I am stronger than I realized?
3. Sacred Scars
- What scar (emotional, physical, spiritual) am I learning to see as sacred rather than shameful?
- How has my pain shaped my empathy for others?
4. The Nest and the New Beginning
- If I were building a nest for my new life, what would I weave into it? (habits, people, dreams, values)
- What needs to stay behind — what can’t come with me as I rise?
5. The Compass and the Flame
- Today, where is my "true north" — the deepest desire guiding my recovery?
- How do I stay connected to it when the fires of old patterns call to me?
6. Ashes Are Not the End
- When in my life did I believe I was finished — but somehow kept going?
- What would it mean if my lowest moments were actually the soil of my greatest becoming?
7. The Phoenix in Me
- If I imagined myself as a Phoenix, what would my colors look like? What would my rebirth feel like? What would I leave behind in the ashes?
Hope In Recovery
What's On The Other Side of Addiction
"You don't come back to who you were; you become someone the fire could not destroy."
When You Least Expect It
When You Least Expect It
There’s a story we pass around — not in textbooks, but in coffee-stained rooms, between broken people learning how to heal.
It starts with a man in a hole.
He cries out. The priest walks by and offers a prayer.
The doctor tosses a prescription.
The therapist talks from the edge.
But none of them climb in.
Then one day, a man — an old-timer
There’s a story we pass around — not in textbooks, but in coffee-stained rooms, between broken people learning how to heal.
It starts with a man in a hole.
He cries out. The priest walks by and offers a prayer.
The doctor tosses a prescription.
The therapist talks from the edge.
But none of them climb in.
Then one day, a man — an old-timer — jumps in.
And when the guy in the hole panics, he says, “What the hell did you do that for? Now we’re both stuck!”
The old-timer smiles and says,
“I’ve been here before. I know the way out.”
That’s the "hole story".
It’s not about fixing people.
It’s about joining them.
In recovery, we don’t rescue — we remember.
We remember the darkness, the ache, the way out. And then we pass it on.
Because everyone’s got a hole —
loneliness, shame, grief, addiction.
What matters is whether they’ve got someone willing to sit beside them long enough to remind them they’re not alone.This work — the deep, messy, sacred work of recovery —
isn’t heroic.
It’s human.
It says:
You don’t scare me.
You’re not too broken.
And no, you don’t have to climb out today.
But I’ll be right here — until you’re ready.
And when you finally climb out —
you don’t forget the way.
Because one day, it’ll be your turn
to jump in.