All You Need is Love

I’ve come to believe that human beings require love for survival.

Not in the poetic sense. Not as a luxury. As a necessity.

When love is absent, something begins to die inside us. We call it loneliness. We call it depression. We call it despair. Whatever name we give it, the result is the same: a growing sense of separation from each other, from ourselves, and from God.

Love is the very heartbeat of the universe.

The Apostle Paul understood this. In Corinthians 13, he doesn't simply tell us to love—he defines it. Love is patient. Love is kind. It is not proud, self-seeking, boastful, or easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. In other words, love is less about emotion and more about action. It is a way of being.

When I look honestly at my own shortcomings, I find they almost always stem from one place: selfishness.

Every resentment I've ever carried was rooted in my belief that I deserved better treatment. Every grudge was born from wounded pride. Every act of impatience came from wanting my needs met before someone else's. Strip away the details and the common denominator is usually me.

The opposite of love is not hatred.

The opposite of love is selfishness.

Hatred, anger, bitterness, jealousy, greed—all of them are expressions of a life centered on self. Love, by contrast, moves outward. It considers others. It sacrifices. It serves.

This isn't a uniquely Christian idea. Nearly every great philosopher, spiritual teacher, and holy person throughout history arrived at the same conclusion: put others first and yourself last. Different words, same truth.

That's why I believe all things that spring from genuine love are holy. Compassion, forgiveness, mercy, generosity, patience—these things elevate us. They bring peace. They heal wounds. They draw us closer to one another.

Likewise, the things that resist love tend to leave destruction in their wake.

When Christ was asked to summarize the entirety of the law, He reduced it to two simple commands: Love God. Love your neighbor.

Everything else was commentary.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that this is the whole game. We complicate it with doctrines, politics, arguments, and opinions, but the truth remains remarkably simple.

It is what fuels the universe.

It is the answer to the question, "Why are we here?"

Above all else, love.

Apologies

In my twenties, I was a lost, scared child who lashed out at everything and everyone--a fearful, broken creature, clawing my way through the darkness. If you crossed my path in those years--

I'm sorry.

In my thirties, I wasn't much better. I found sobriety at 33, but it took years for me to get back on my feet and learn what it meant to be a real man, a true friend, an honorable partner, and a decent member of society. I still didn't get it right for some time.

If I hurt you during those healing years--

I'm sorry.

Things began to come together in my 40's. I began to put the pieces together and really understand what it meant to be an adult. The grief and shame from my former years hit hard. I spent a lot of time taking stock, beating myself up for the pain I caused to those I loved. I wanted so much to tell them--

I'm sorry.

Now in my 50's, I've come to terms with life. I've healed from the guilt and forgiven myself. I haven't forgotten my past, I've learned from it. Never to repeat it. I've grown to love myself and who I've become.

So, if you knew me back then, before I grew up--I believed things I don't believe anymore, I did things I don't do anymore. 

I'm learning and growing, as we all should.

And I'd just like to say--

I'm sorry.

Good News/Bad News

There’s an old saying in the rooms:
“Welcome to recovery. The good news is you get your emotions back. The bad news is… you get your emotions back.”

Turns out, feeling again isn’t always the victory it sounds like.

For a lot of us, emotions were the problem long before the substances. Trauma, shame, anger, fear—they stack up early, and somewhere along the line we discover a solution: numb it. Drink enough, use enough, and the volume drops. The noise goes quiet.

That’s why I drank.

Not because I heard voices—but because my head was loud. Self-doubt, resentment, anger, regret, low self-worth… all of these emotions swirling together into a kind of white noise I couldn’t shut off. Alcohol didn’t fix it. It just muted it long enough to get through the day and pass out at night.

But here’s the catch: when you numb your emotions, you don’t process them. And when you don’t process them, you don’t grow.

Arrested development isn't just a TV show. It's a psychological condition that occurs when we fail to address our emotions for an extended period of time.

If you start drinking at 17 and get sober at 35, there’s a good chance you’re still operating with a 17-year-old’s emotional wiring. The body ages. The life moves on. But inside? You’re stuck where the growth stopped.

That can be a rude awakening when you finally climb aboard the sobriety wagon later in life.

The good news is, it’s not permanent. It just means there’s work to do.

That’s where the steps come in. They give us a framework—not just for staying sober, but for learning how to live. How to take responsibility. How to deal with conflict. How to sit with discomfort without running from it. In short, how to grow up emotionally.

Do I have it mastered? Not even close.

If you ask my wife, she’ll probably confirm there’s still some catching up to do.

But hey... progress, not perfection!

Freedom of Choice

Sobriety is a choice.

So is the work that comes after it.

We talk about God removing our defects, but in my experience, that’s not how it plays out. What He offers is the strength—the clarity—to change. The rest is on us. One decision at a time. One moment at a time.

Every day, we make dozens of small choices without thinking twice. We get up, brush our teeth, shower, fix our hair, shave, put on makeup, choose something decent to wear. None of it is mandatory. We could roll out of bed, throw on whatever’s on the floor, and call it a day.

But we don’t.

Because we care how we present ourselves. We want the outside to reflect something intentional—put together, respectable, in control.

So why not apply that same discipline to the inside?

Because there’s no instant payoff.

The external shift is immediate. You clean up, you look better. Done. The internal work doesn’t work that way. It’s slow. Repetitive. Sometimes invisible. You make the right choice today, and nothing seems to change. You make it again tomorrow… still nothing. It can feel like pushing against stone.

But here’s the difference:

The outside transformation fades by the end of the day.

The inside one, if you stick with it, lasts forever.

Surrender!

Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith. Certainty is.

Faith lives in the space before proof. It’s the quiet decision to trust something you haven’t yet tested. I can have faith that a chair I’ve never sat in will hold my weight—but the moment I sit down, faith disappears. It’s replaced by certainty. By fact.

Sobriety worked the same way for me.

Early on, I wasn’t certain the program would work. I hadn’t lived it yet. All I had was faith—that if I showed up, if I did the work, if I followed the steps, something might change. I believed the obsession could be lifted, even though it hadn’t been. Not yet.

I hear people share that the obsession vanished the moment they worked Step One. That wasn’t my experience. Mine was slower. Harder. More human.

What I’ve learned is this: the lifting of the obsession is often proportional to one’s ability to surrender.

And surrender is brutal.

Handing control over to a power you can’t see, hear, touch, or prove doesn’t come naturally—especially when you’ve spent your whole life gripping the wheel. But when I look back honestly, my best efforts at control led me into the rocks. Over and over again.

So I had to ask myself a simple question: what if I let go?

What’s the worst that could happen? I crash again? That’s familiar territory.

But what’s the best that could happen?

God shows up.
The obsession loosens its grip.
And I get my life back.

Choose Your Hard

An old friend reached out to me recently. He said he was ready—ready to work the steps, ready to change his life.

There was just one problem.

He wasn’t clean.

He explained that he was “weaning” himself off heroin with methamphetamine. Yes—meth. As if swapping gasoline for a house fire somehow counts as harm reduction. Apparently, this was his version of a "meth-maintenance" plan.

I told him I’d work with him, no hesitation. But there was a line I wouldn’t cross: he’d have to be off all mind-impairing substances before we could begin. No shortcuts. No chemical loopholes.

“I want to,” he said. “I really do. But detox is so hard.”

He’s right. Detox is hard. There’s no sugarcoating it.

But so is addiction.

Here’s the difference: detox is hard for a while—until you get to the other side. Addiction is hard forever—until it takes everything, including your life.

Addiction is hard. Detox is hard.

Choose your hard.

Center of the Universe

My new mantra: People aren’t against me. They’re for themselves.

Most of the conflict in my life is born from a simple, familiar lie—the belief that someone has deliberately disrespected me, when in truth, their behavior has nothing to do with me at all.

When some dude cuts me off on the freeway, it isn’t personal. He isn’t thinking, I’m going to ruin this guy’s day. He isn’t thinking about me—period. His face is buried in his phone, he notices his exit too late, and instead of driving on and accepting the inconvenience, he swerves across four lanes and nearly takes me out.

I honk. He returns the favor with a hand gesture suggesting I am “number one.”

But he isn’t trying to inconvenience me. He's trying to convenience himself and I happen to be in the way.

Same with the little old lady who darts ahead of me in the grocery line, only to pull out a checkbook and a stack of coupons. She isn’t plotting to waste my time. She’s not thinking about me at all. She’s simply trying to shave a few minutes off her own wait at the expense of everyone else. My existence never entered the equation.

I have to remind myself that we live in a society of people who are largely self-absorbed and inwardly focused—often oblivious to the ripple effects of their actions. Not malicious. Not personal. Just human, selfishly chasing minor conveniences at the expense of self awareness or consideration for others.

They aren’t against me.

They’re for themselves.

And it's not personal... until I make it so.

Wanna Fight?

I recently earned my black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu—something I’ve worked toward for years. What’s funny is that the deeper I’ve gone into the world of fighting, the less I’ve actually wanted to fight.

It sounds counterintuitive, but it’s true:
The more you train as a fighter, the less interested you become in physical confrontation.

Why?

Because real fighting—outside the mat—is almost always born from ego-driven anger. And the root of anger, when we boil it down, is fear. Fear of being disrespected. Fear of being embarrassed. Fear of feeling small, weak, or vulnerable.

But training dissolves that fear.
Hour after hour on the mats teaches you where your limits actually are. It strips away the insecurity that fuels aggression. When you’re comfortable being tested—when you’ve been choked, arm-barred, smashed, and still come back smiling—your ego quiets down. Suddenly, there’s no need to “prove” anything.

No fear, no anger.
No anger, no need to fight.

And as strange as it may sound, this applies just as much off the mat.

The resentments we carry in life are simply anger we’ve decided to hold onto. They’re rooted in the same fears: fear of being wronged, overlooked, dismissed, or unloved. In recovery, the steps guide us toward confronting those fears directly—dragging them into the light so they can’t control us anymore.

Once the fear is addressed, the anger evaporates.

And with the anger gone, we finally get to breathe. We get to walk through the world lighter, calmer, less reactive.
We get to be free.

My black belt in sobriety has made me a better human being—one who doesn’t have to fight at all.

Regrets, I've had a few.

Someone once asked me, “If you could go back and change one thing in your life, what would it be?”

For years, that question haunted me. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people I care about. And like a lot of us, I’ve carried the quiet fear that my worst choices define me.

We say good people do bad things — but does that make them bad? And if bad people occasionally do good, does that suddenly make them good?

What I’ve come to understand is simple: being human means falling short. The dividing line isn’t perfection; it’s desire.

A good person wants to change. They feel their impact, seek to repair damage, and aim to grow. A bad person doesn’t. It’s not about spotless behavior — it’s about willingness.

Science tells us that every 7–10 years, our cells regenerate. Physically, we become someone new. Sobriety says something similar: after working the steps, we’re spiritually renewed — reborn into a life with intention and clarity.

Ironically, I can forgive anyone who asks… but not myself.

But I’m learning. I’m a good person who did some bad things — and that good person deserves grace, too.

So what would I change if I could go back?
Nothing. I deeply regret my mistakes, but I value the growth they inspired. My missteps carved the path to the man I am today.

And I like who I have become.

Jesus Take the Wheel!

A close friend of mine has been experiencing some alarming heart symptoms lately — shortness of breath, chest tightness, fatigue. In other words, bad news.

He refuses to see a doctor.

His reasoning? “God’s in control. If it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go.”

Eh... what?

If I’m barreling down the freeway at 80 miles per hour, I don’t take my hands off the wheel and say, “Well, if God wants me to avoid the cliff, he’ll turn the wheel. If not, I guess it’s his will that I die in a fiery explosion.”

Absurd.

We can’t project our denial and fear onto God, then expect Him to shoulder the blame when things go wrong. That’s not faith — that’s avoidance.

Free will means we’re responsible for our choices and the direction of our lives. If we refuse to course-correct and end up in a ditch, that’s not divine intervention — that’s us ignoring the guardrails.

God doesn’t take the wheel instead of us; He takes it when we’ve lost control entirely. When the car’s already spinning through the air, when there’s nothing left for us to do but brace for impact — that’s when grace might intervene.

Until then, it’s on us to steer.

Faith doesn’t mean letting go of responsibility. It means gripping the wheel with both hands, taking full control, and trusting that if — and when — it all goes sideways, God’s got the rest covered.

Paul & Me

The Apostle Paul once said (and I’m paraphrasing), “I know what I’m supposed to do, but I don’t do it. I do the things I shouldn’t do, and I don’t do the things I should.”

For most of my life, I assumed he was talking about holiness — about failing to pray enough, missing a tithe, working on the Sabbath, neglecting scripture. In other words, I thought Paul was beating himself up for not living a perfectly pious life.

Only recently did I realize that wasn’t it at all. Paul wasn’t talking about religious ritual — he was talking about love. About Christ’s greatest commandment: Love God. Love each other.

I’ve written before about how my default setting is discontentment. When I feel wronged, I naturally lean toward bitterness and resentment. I know I’m called to offer love and grace, yet time and again I fall back into anger and revenge. There’s a momentary satisfaction in “getting even,” but it never lasts. In the end, it only leaves regret.

What’s funny is that I’ve never once regretted choosing kindness. Every time I’ve responded to cruelty with compassion, I’ve walked away lighter. When I manage to quiet my ego and lead with love, I win — every single time.

Every act of love or hate, no matter how small, adds up. If I bank love, I become love. If I bank hate, I become hate.

Paul understood this too. He knew what brought him peace: love, kindness, patience. And he knew what robbed him of it: anger, bitterness, resentment. Yet even he found himself choosing the latter more often than he wanted.

In recovery, we call this progress, not perfection — learning, one decision at a time, to choose love over ego, grace over resentment, peace over pride.

Turns out Paul and I have a lot in common.

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?

How Do You Eat an Elephant?

One bite at a time.

So often we look at the big picture and become overwhelmed with the size of the task in front of us, then get frustrated and give up before we even begin.

My problem is that I'm always trying to eat the entire elephant in one sitting rather than taking it one bite at a time.

I don't have to be sober for the rest of my life, I just have to be sober today. 

I don't have to make the hard amends, I just have to do the ones I can do and worry about the rest later.

I don't have to change the world, I just have to change my little corner of it.

I don't have to be perfect, I just have to be a little bit better today than I was yesterday. 

Inches turn into miles.

Progress, not perfection.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

That's something my mother used to say... "Garbage in, garbage out."

The meaning is simple: We can absolutely be corrupted by our life choices. What you put into your mind is what you'll get out. 

I've discovered that I can't watch road rage or Ukraine war videos anymore. My "Id" (the primitive "reptile" part of my brain) doesn't know how to differentiate between footage and actual events. That is to say, when I watch real warfare on YouTube, my lizard brain assumes that I'm actually there, in the action, losing buddies and fighting for my life.

I soon discovered that letting that kind of negativity into my head was affecting my moods. I was growing increasingly angry and depressed. When I analyzed what was happening, it became clear that I needed to eliminate the negative input in order to redirect my moods.

I had to explore the things that were effecting my psyche and bringing me down. Recognizing the cause of negative behaviors was the first step toward changing myself and becoming a better person.

The change didn't happen in an instant. It took work.

The same goes for forgiveness. Saying "I forgive you" can sometimes work for little indiscretions, but not as easy for the big ones.

I once had a sponsee who was struggling with the 9th Step. He couldn't bring himself to make amends to his uncle who had molested him as a child. Who could blame him? He thought he had to apologize in order to make amends.

I explained to him that amends wasn't about apologizing, it was about doing whatever it takes to forgive yourself and/or the other person for past wrongs. Often times, this forgiveness requires an apology, but not always.

The key is to realize that forgiveness doesn't happen all at once with the wave of a magic wand-- it takes time and patience. The greater the grievance, the longer and more difficult the process of forgiveness.

Forgiveness is a choice--to forgive doesn't mean we forget.

We don't heal to forgive, we forgive to heal. It is one of the most important steps toward changing our lives for the better. 

If we wait until we feel like forgiving, we'll never do it.