CHALT

In recovery circles, there’s an old acronym meant to keep us in check: HALT — don’t let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. The idea is simple: when we let those states take over, we make bad decisions.

But I’ve added my own word to the list: Comfortable.

When I get too comfortable, I drift into autopilot. That’s when trouble starts. Because my “natural” state — left unchecked — is one of discontent.

And when nobody’s steering the ship, guess who shows up? My ego.
“Hey,” it says, “looks like the captain’s gone. I’ll take it from here.”

Nothing good ever happens when I slide into complacency and let my ego take the helm.

That’s when the little old lady in the checkout line suddenly feels like she’s deliberately taking forever just to test my patience. The guy who merges into my lane without signaling? Clearly an entitled jerk. And the receptionist putting me on hold must be doing her nails instead of answering the phone, right?

Because, of course, they’re all out to get me.
After all, I’m the center of the universe.

Ego.

These moments always end the same way — conflict, hurt feelings, and another amends I have to make.

So I’ve learned to keep a new reminder close:
Don’t get too Comfortable, Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.

CHALT.

It doesn’t sound as catchy as HALT, but you get the gist.

In Love There is No Judgement

I’ve always struggled with the Judeo-Christian idea of “eternal damnation.” It paints a picture of a vengeful God—a deity motivated by anger. And if anger is at the root of all fear, how could the most powerful being in the universe, the creator of all things, be driven by it? What does He have to fear?

Makes no sense.

I choose to believe in a God of justice. To me, a benevolent creator could only be perfectly just: a being who upholds order and fairness, not through punishment, but through compassion.

I sponsor many men just out of rehab and prison, and the greatest gift I can offer them is unconditional love. That doesn’t mean I excuse poor decisions or pretend mistakes didn’t happen. It means I refuse to hold their past against them. For these men, that absence of judgment is transformative—it’s often the first time in their lives they’ve experienced love without strings attached.

Because true, unconditional love can’t coexist with judgment. If it does, then it’s conditional.

Scripture backs this up. Corinthians 13:13 defines love—what it is, what it looks like. Nowhere does it include judgment.

I don’t claim to fully understand God or have life figured out. I only know this: unconditional love is the compass I choose to live by.

If It Was Easy...

Sobriety Is Hard

Nobody ever said it would be easy.

Right now, we’re trying to put a pool in at our house. The process has been a masterclass in bureaucracy. Layers of red tape, endless permits, and enough hoops to make Hercules sweat. The city seems to thrive on creating obstacles—because every obstacle comes with a fee.

But here’s the truth: no amount of complaining is going to make the process easier. I have three choices:

1. Sit back and gripe. Nothing changes, and no pool.

2. Fight every step of the way. Nothing changes, and the process becomes 100x harder.

3. Roll up my sleeves, accept the reality, and do the work. Nothing changes, but at least I’ll get the pool in the shortest possible time.

Sobriety is no different. It’s a gauntlet—full of dangers, pitfalls, and setbacks. Nothing I do can change that reality.

So, I can complain. I can fight. I can relapse. Or, I can accept the challenge, put in the work, and move forward.

Sobriety is hard.

If it were easy, everyone would do it.

A Little Goes A Long Way

I hold a black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu—along with advanced ranks in several other martial arts. Because of that, people often ask me the same question:

“What’s the best martial art for self-defense?”

My answer never changes:
“Any self-defense training—no matter how little—is better than none. Every time.”

Even minimal training in a less effective system still gives you something—a foundation to build from, a fighting chance.
No training? No chance.

The same holds true for recovery.

From time to time, I’ve sponsored people who are just going through the motions. Maybe they're there because a judge told them to be. Maybe it's to keep peace at home. Whatever the reason, they’re not in it for themselves. They recite all the right lines, nod in the right places—but anyone with real time in the program can spot the disconnect a mile away.

People ask me why I bother.
“Why waste your time with someone who’s clearly not serious?”

My response is simple:
Any recovery—no matter how little—is better than none. Every time.

Just like with self-defense, even the smallest exposure to the program might plant a seed. You never know what will stick. You never know what moment might turn the tide.

And that chance—however small—is always worth the effort.

Tradition #2

"For our group purpose there is but one ultimate authority — a loving God as He may express Himself in our group conscience. Our leaders are but trusted servants; they do not govern."

Can an atheist achieve sobriety? Short answer... yes.

I know several.

Granted, I believe it would be difficult. It was my belief in God that got me through those early days of sobriety; without that, I would have been forced to rely solely on my own inner strength to achieve sobriety. Since it was my lack of inner strength that got me here in the first place, relying on said nonexistent strength to overcome my addiction would have been a failing proposition.

That said, I am not an atheist and I have not had to walk this path, so it would be impossible for me to definitively answer the question.

If I had to answer, I'd say yes, it is possible... but a difficult road which I'd choose to avoid.

But hey, I am but a trusted servant.

I Surrender!

There’s a well-worn saying in the rooms: “Surrender doesn’t mean you’ve lost—it means you’ve joined the winning side.”

At its core, this Program is built on surrender.

Step 1: Admit we’re not in control.
Step 2: Recognize that something greater than ourselves can help.
Step 3: Hand over the wheel.
Steps 4 and 5: Take inventory and confess our flaws to that higher power.
Steps 6 and 7: Ask to be relieved of those defects.
And on it goes...

The Steps, the Serenity Prayer—everything in recovery hinges on the act of letting go.

And yet, for many, surrender is the hardest part. Relinquishing control to a force we can’t touch, see, or prove by conventional means, can feel like a monumental leap. Some are able to do it early—sometimes immediately. They surrender fully, and with that surrender, their obsession is lifted almost as if by miracle.

Others, like myself, fight it. We inch our way toward letting go, step by step, gradually peeling back the layers of control until, at last, we hand over what was never really ours to begin with. And just as gradually, the obsession begins to lift.

Then there are those who refuse altogether. They trudge the path with their baggage strapped tight, white-knuckling the process as they try to “think” their way to peace. The result is rarely sustainable. Without surrender, most relapse. Sooner or later, the burden becomes too heavy to carry alone.

Even now, I occasionally hear longtime members—ten, fifteen years into recovery—say, “I don’t believe in surrender. I believe in fighting.” And I can’t help but think, Wow. You’ve missed the point—not just of the Program, but of your relationship with God.

I don’t say that out loud, of course. What I actually say is, “Keep coming back.”

Because that’s what we do. We keep showing up. And maybe, with time, they’ll find the strength to lay it all down.

And join the winning side.

You're Not That Important

In early sobriety, I had a run-in with a meter maid outside my apartment. She slapped a ticket on my car for street sweeping. I pointed out that the sweeper had already passed before I parked. She stepped back, eyed the trail of water beneath my bumper, and said, “No, it had to go around your vehicle.”

It was a lie. Blatant. We both knew it.

I lost it—called her a few names I won’t repeat—and stormed off.

After that, things got weird. My car became a magnet for parking enforcement. Tickets started piling up. Measured tire distances. Tows. Like I’d made some secret enemies in City Hall. I was sure they were out to get me.

Eventually, I vented to my sponsor, fed up and ready to raise hell.

He smiled and said, “Nobody cares what you think.”

I blinked. “What?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not that important.”

I was stunned. Offended. How dare he?

And yet—he was right.

It took a long time for that truth to land: I’m not the center of the universe. My fear feeds my pride, which feeds my rage. It's a cycle. A trap. And it shows up everywhere.

The guy who cuts the line at Starbucks. The gym bro hogging the machine while scrolling through his  Instagram. It’s always something. Always someone. I feel the “Karen” rising in my chest, ready to lecture the world on how they’re failing me.

But then I remember: nobody cares what I think.

I’m not special.

Weird, right?