Last night was my daughter’s senior night for swimming and diving. She’s a team captain and she is fierce. Her little sister has talent in spades, but my oldest makes up for it with raw determination.
I was the meet announcer last night, so I had a front-row seat to watch my girl kick some butt in the lanes, then put in one of the better diving performances I’d ever seen from her. Mid-way through the meet, her coach took the mic while my wife and I took either of her arms and walked her, parade style, down the pool deck and below an arch her teammates made by holding kickboards. My baby’s eyes were not dry, nor were her mom’s or mine (though I was much more stoic about it).
These are normal, everyday occurrences for “normal folk”. For recovering alcoholics, they’re a reminder of how wonderful life is, to be able to feel the raw joy of the moment, without a bunch of baggage creating worry to drown out that Hallmark moment.
There once was a time, long ago, I couldn’t have enjoyed something like that. For one, I doubt I could have found a woman crazy enough to stick it out with my drunk butt. For another, the aforementioned “bunch of baggage” that infects and permeates anything good.
I was all smiles dodging traffic on the way to work this morning, thinking about how grateful I am to be me.
Life in recovery isn’t always great and peachy. Recovery is the only thing that makes “great and peachy” possible and regular, though. Today is a good day. I’ve thanked my HP for another day on the right side of the grass and have committed to another 24 hours of peace and contentment in recovery. This isn’t how it works. This is what happens when it’s worked.