Coming Back to Acceptance

There is a passage our boys read every morning in group. Some days it fades into the background. On other mornings, we return to it later in the discussion because it sits at the center of whatever struggle the day is bringing.

The passage comes from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It reads:

"Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation—some fact of my life—unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world by mistake. Until I could accept my alcoholism, I could not stay sober; unless I accept life completely on life's terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and my attitudes."

The words are familiar now. The boys have heard them so many times. Sometimes they nod along. Sometimes they barely notice. But when we circle back to it later, it is usually because something in the room has made it feel personal.

Acceptance once felt too small for something so big. I like to be in control. There is a running joke in my house that has a little too much truth in it. There are two ways to do things. Mom's way and the wrong way.

For a long time, that passage felt impossible. Too neat. Too simple for something that had turned my world upside down. It felt like it belonged to a life that was calmer than mine.

I thought acceptance was something you arrived at. A moment you crossed into and stayed there. I kept waiting for it to stick.

I used to believe that if I stayed vigilant enough, if I anticipated every possible outcome, if I thought through every scenario in advance, I could somehow protect everyone I love. I thought I could outwork addiction. Outthink it. Outmaneuver it.

I am not a good sleeper. Nights are when my mind works the hardest. I replay conversations. Rewrite moments. Build long lists of what I should have done differently. I solve problems that are not mine to solve. And instead of resting, I get up and start working on all of it. Emails. Projects. Organizing. Fixing. By the end of the day, I am completely exhausted from trying to manage everything.

Slowly, I started to understand what the reading was really saying.

When I am disturbed, it is usually because I am fighting something I cannot control. A timeline. A situation we never asked for. A reality I never would have chosen. The suffering grows in the fight.

Acceptance is not pretending everything is fine. It is telling the truth about what is.

This is happening. This hurts. This is not what I planned.

When my loved one began their recovery journey, I lived in the future. In the what ifs. In the stories my mind created. What acceptance gave me was a way back to right now.

Right now, this is where we are. Right now, this is what I can do.

Some days acceptance looks like trusting professionals. Some days it looks like holding boundaries. Some days it looks like crying in the shower. Some days it looks like noticing small wins I used to miss.

It is quiet work. It does not announce itself.

Recently, during a parent group meeting, we were talking about holiday visits home. As each mom shared, something stood out to me. Almost every person described a visit that went really well. They handled hard moments. They stayed present. They showed up with love.

And then, almost every single one followed it with the same thing.

"But I wish I had handled this one part differently."

They were focusing on the one moment they wished they could redo. Not the hundreds of moments they handled with patience and grace. As I listened, the theme became clear. We are so quick to minimize what we do right. So quick to criticize ourselves. So slow to offer the same compassion we give everyone else.

It felt like another version of the same lesson.

Acceptance of our kids. Acceptance of the situation. Acceptance of ourselves.

The boys read that passage every morning. Some days it sounds like noise. Some days it becomes a lifeline. That feels true for parents too.

Acceptance did not fix everything in my life. But it is changing me. When I stop fighting reality, I become more patient. With my loved one. With myself. With the timeline.

Peace did not come because everything was resolved. It came when I stopped insisting life follow my script.

If you are walking beside recovery, acceptance does not mean you stop caring. It means you stop drowning in what you cannot change.

You are allowed to hope. You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to rest.

Acceptance is not something you do once. It is what you come back to when everything in you wants to fight.

The boys need that passage every morning. Not because they haven't heard it enough. Because they need it again.

So do I.