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?
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