Step One: What it means to me.

My personal reflection of Step One from the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Step One and really digging into what it means—not just conceptually, but in my actual life. I wanted to share what I’ve written. This is serious for me—something I’ve spent time with, and it reflects what I’ve come to understand.

Powerlessness and unmanageability are like twin flames in recovery. For me, they define the core problem—not just around alcohol, but around life itself. Powerlessness is that total loss of control once I start drinking, and unmanageability is the chaos and breakdown that happens when I try to run the show myself.

That first admission—“We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable”—it’s the foundation. Powerlessness means I couldn’t stop drinking once I started, no matter how much I wanted to, no matter how necessary it was. Willpower was gone. My mind and body just… wouldn’t let go. Doctors called it hopeless. No human power could fix it.

Unmanageability is the wreckage I created trying to live on self-will. Fear, control, self-delusion, resentment, and ego ruled everything. It wasn’t just messy—it was soul-sick. My life wasn’t a life. I was constantly trying to orchestrate the world, like that actor trying to control the stage, and every time, it fell apart. That’s the spiritual malady. That’s what took everything from me.

Even now, sober, I still live with powerlessness and unmanageability in different forms. Trigeminal Neuralgia is the most brutal teacher of both. I can’t control when the pain hits, how bad it gets, or how long it lasts. I can’t manage my life when I’m on the floor crying because my nerves are lighting up like fire. I can’t control how my body betrays me. That kind of powerlessness forces surrender on a whole other level. It humbles me constantly.

And it hurts deeply that some of the people closest to me—my family—still refuse to acknowledge not only my pain, but my growth. My sobriety, the work I do, the way I’ve changed. None of it seems to matter to them. And that kind of dismissal creates a new kind of unmanageability: emotional chaos. I can’t manage their denial, and I can’t change what they choose to see or not see. That’s part of the surrender too.

But somehow, in all this, I’ve found something to hold onto.

I’ve discovered my purpose.

I volunteer with the Facial Pain Research Foundation, and I mentor others who are living with TN—especially those who are trying to stay sober. Regina, the director, sends every sober person who comes her way to me. I’m coming up on five years in recovery, and I’m doing it without the heavy drugs, without alcohol—just sheer willpower and connection.

I speak remotely at AA meetings all over the world, sharing my story and advocating for others with TN and addiction. I want that to grow—I want to stand behind a podium and speak everywhere. Right now, I’m building it from my blog. It’s raw, it’s honest, and it’s the most important thing I do every day. I call it Dove Recovery Art. I live off disability, and I donate everything I earn to the Facial Pain Foundation. I don’t want money. I want a cure. I want to function like a human being again. I want to take a bite of a sandwich. I want to shower without crying. I want to live a life that isn’t shaped by this pain.

And I want to fight—for others like me who are slipping through the cracks.

Something is happening. More and more people are getting TN. Just today, I joined an AA meeting I’d never attended, and four people there had it too. Four. The world is starting to notice. And I need to be part of the fight.

That’s why I keep going, even on the worst days. That’s why I get out of bed—if I can. That’s why I show up for Nicky, my service dog in training. Because I want to be of service, even when i am in a wheelchair or a bed. Because I believe I still have something to give.

That’s why prayer, meditation, inventory, amends—all of it—isn’t optional. It’s survival. It’s the only way I get free of me.

Service is what anchors me. When I step outside of myself and show up for someone else, even in the smallest way, it quiets that old, destructive voice in my head—the one that whispers I don’t matter, that I’m too much. My family has a way of making me feel like their lives would be easier if I just… wasn’t in it. And when that feeling hits, I don’t usually think about drinking—I think about disappearing entirely. That’s why I go straight to a meeting. Because in AA, people see me. They listen. They don’t treat me like a burden. They remind me I still have something to give, even on the days I feel like I’ve got nothing left. And thats where the reliance on a higher power comes in.

That’s why I’m reaching out to all of you—my sponsor, my fellowship, my friends.. as someone who understands that this program is life or death for people like me. And sometimes that powerlessness doesn’t look like a drink—it looks like a nervous system that won’t let up, or family who won’t show up, or pain that won’t back off. But the answer is still the same: surrender. Trust. Do the work. Let God in.

In the end, I can’t rely on human resources. They fail. I have to trust and rely on God. That’s what gives me the ability to match calamity with serenity. That’s what gives me power. Faith has to work 24 hours a day, or I won’t make it.

So yeah. That’s where I’m at. For me, Step One isn’t just a beginning—it’s a truth I have to live with and surrender to every day. I just wanted to share that with you.

To my Sponser: Thanks for being in my life. I really mean that.

With Love,

Dana & Nicky