Powerlessness Doesn’t Mean Helplessness

For some time, the word powerless bothered me. It sounded weak. Defeated. Like I was supposed to throw my hands up and say: “Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do.” That isn’t what Step One turned out to mean for me at all. Admitting I was powerless over alcohol didn’t mean I was helpless. It meant I finally stopped trying to win a fight I had already lost a thousand times. “I didn’t quit. I surrendered.” That became comforting for me. I could finally let go and let God. Not that I believe there is some magical man in the sky controlling every part of my life. Honestly, that idea sounds silly to me. For me, it meant I could finally rest. Accepting the things I cannot change has saved my sanity. And probably the sanity of everyone around me. 🤣 When I was drinking and drugging, I thought there had to be some combination I just hadn’t figured out yet. Only drink beer. Only smoke weed. As long as I don’t do coke. Don’t drink mixed drinks. Don’t drink during the week. Don’t drink around certain people. Only drink after a certain time. Drink less. Try harder. Have more willpower. Surely somewhere in there was a version where I could make this work. There wasn’t. That was the whole point. Eventually I had to stop negotiating with something that had already beaten me. Literally. Like a man with a bat going to town. And strangely enough, surrendering that fight was the beginning of getting my life back. That lesson didn’t end with alcohol. Unfortunately. Because apparently I enjoy trying to control plenty of other things. Traffic. Work. Other people’s opinions. Other people’s decisions. How quickly something gets done. How something should turn out. Whether or not the damn piece I’m trying to put together should fit. 😂 And naturally, what somebody else should obviously do because I can see their situation so much more clearly from over here. Parenting taught me a lot about that. As a parent, you eventually have to get used to being ignored and accepting the fact that your kids sometimes believe you know absolutely nothing. There’s a dance you have to do, or at least I had to do with my kids. I wanted to talk to them about the things that might keep them safe and out of trouble, while knowing damn well they were still going to get hurt and get into trouble sometimes. Someone once said to me: “I hope and pray that when they do get hurt or get into trouble, it’s just not that bad.” That made a lot of sense to me. I had to accept that they were going to make mistakes. Plenty of them. And sometimes I would be needed afterward to help pick up the pieces. The bottle may be gone, but the desire to manage the universe can remain remarkably healthy. My desire to manage everything has definitely waned over the years. It isn’t that I don’t care anymore. I think life has just beaten me into submission. 😂 One saying I embraced was: When the whirling dervishes whirl... Let ’em whirl. That has applied to a lot of things in my life, including my kids. That doesn’t mean I never worry. I have absolutely lain awake at night worrying. But I’ve also learned how to sleep pretty damn well when I know there is absolutely nothing I can do about something at that particular moment. That’s where Step One still matters to me. There are things I can control. My actions. My words. My effort. Whether I tell the truth. Whether I apologize. Whether I show up. Whether I drink today. There are also plenty of things I cannot control. How somebody responds. Whether they agree with me. What my adult children decide to do. What happens at work. Whether somebody likes me. Whether the guy in front of me suddenly discovers what the accelerator pedal is for. I still have some work to do on that one. Apparently I am the only person on the road going somewhere important. 🤣 The trouble starts when I confuse those two lists. I start believing that if I just explain something one more time... Push a little harder... Worry about it a little longer... Replay it another twenty-seven times in my head... Then maybe I can force the outcome I want. That is exhausting. And the really irritating part is that all that worrying often changes absolutely nothing. Worry is a thief of joy. It may not change the situation. It does a pretty good job on my blood pressure, though. Control can feel productive while accomplishing nothing. That’s one of the sneakier things I’ve learned. I can spend three hours obsessing over something and convince myself I’m “working on it.” No. Sometimes I’m just worrying professionally. 😂 Acceptance is different. Acceptance doesn’t mean I like something. It doesn’t mean I approve of it. It doesn’t mean I stop caring. It simply means I acknowledge what is actually true. This is happening. This person feels this way. This situation is what it is. I cannot change that part. Now what can I do? That question is useful. “What can I do?” Not: “How do I make everybody else do what I think they should do?” A subtle distinction. Apparently an important one. 😂 I think one of the hardest places to practice this is with the people we love. When you care about somebody, you want to protect them. You can see mistakes coming. You want to warn them. Fix it. Prevent the pain. Make the decision for them. Especially when you’ve been around long enough to recognize where a road might lead. But sometimes loving somebody means letting them have their own life. Their own choices. Their own consequences. Their own lessons. I can offer experience. I can offer help. I can tell the truth. But I cannot live somebody else’s life for them. God knows I have enough trouble managing my own. That is powerlessness too. Not indifference. Not abandonment. Just recognizing where my responsibility ends. I’ve also learned that surrender isn’t something I do once. I wish it were. That would be convenient. “Congratulations, you surrendered in 1988. This matter is now permanently resolved.” 😂 No. Sometimes I have to surrender the same thing repeatedly. Today I accept it. Tomorrow I pick it back up. Then I realize I’m miserable again and put it back down. Apparently surrender occasionally comes with a revolving door. But each time I recognize what I’m doing a little sooner. That’s progress. After all these years, Step One still isn’t about weakness to me. It’s about honesty. I am not in charge of everything. I never was. I can do my part. I can make good decisions. I can work hard. I can help when help is wanted. I can change myself. Then I have to let the rest unfold without trying to wrestle it into submission. There is tremendous freedom in that. Powerlessness doesn’t mean I can’t do anything. It means I finally know which things are mine to do. And which ones never were.