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This weekend was a UFC mega-event featuring Conor McGregor vs. Dustin Poirier. As I watched, I couldn’t help but flash back to the first few months of my sobriety, when I was struggling with what it meant to truly surrender.
Part of the problem for me in early sobriety was around bad masculinity habits I’d picked up. By that, I mean… feeling feelings, admitting fear, crying, even just talking to other men on a regular basis. Some of it was silly societal stuff that I had latched onto; some was of my own making. All of it was my choice to buy into.
My sports background certainly played a part. A good 95 percent of what sports did for me was awesome and beneficial to me. Stuff like: Losing and then trying to come back, pushing through difficult physical circumstances, competition, literally getting knocked down over and over again and having to get back up… when those parts of me are aimed in the right direction, it’s fantastic. But there’s also part of jock culture that doesn't age well in the real world. Try motivating people in an office culture by screaming and threatening them and telling them “second place is first loser” and let me know how that works out for you.
So in recovery, I had to retrain my brain about the concept of surrender, trusting a higher power and relying on a sober community. I didn’t really want to do that. I didn’t want to be vulnerable, to admit I didn’t know how to live life, that I needed lots of help. Looking back now, it makes more sense. As I sunk deeper and deeper into addiction, I made sure to shrink my world smaller and smaller. Almost nobody really knew anything about me, and that was a purposeful decision.
So when I went to rehab and started going to meetings, I had about a decade of terrible contributions to most of my relationships. Even though I wasn’t drinking, I didn’t want to truly overhaul my patterns, and I didn’t know how to do that, either. For most of early sobriety, I really thought the only problem I had was drugs and alcohol. Me? I was pretty great!
I had a breakthrough plopped down in front of me one day when I read a story about the UFC, and how the image of cagefighting—no holds barred, brutal violence, etc.—actually didn’t line up with the reality of the sport. Which is that many MMA fighters have a deep appreciation for martial arts, and the concept of using violence only when necessary, and—most importantly—that it’s okay to tap out.
That hit me hard, because UFC fighters are among the baddest men and women on the planet. And yet they all find no shame in submitting to a dangerous move if they’re caught. One fighter I really liked said, “Why get your arm snapped and not be able to fight again for six months if you’re trapped? You tap out, you learn from a tough loss, and you come back the next week and try to get better.”
Right after I read that, I felt a lot better about fully committing to recovery. Any shame I felt about being weak began to fizzle out. And that’s when I started to understand that beautiful, contradictory concept of surrendering to win.
The more I leaned on others, the more I could stand on my own. The more I let people in, the more I could let myself out. It was a real spiritual experience that altered the trajectory of my recovery—I really don’t know how long I could have stayed sober if I hadn’t truly surrendered to the suggestion of getting real with people.
I still chuckle at one of the UFC’s old slogans, “As real as it gets,” because that’s how sobriety has been for me, too. The sober people I look up to most are the ones that are as real as it gets. I’ve never enjoyed tapping out more in my life!
ALCOHOLIC/ADDICT JOKE OF THE DAY
This newsletter is a place of joy and laughter about the deadly serious business of sobriety. So, as I will often do, let me close with a joke.
A group of animals go into a bar but don’t know who will pay for the drinks.
“I’ve only got a cent,” says the skunk.
“I don’t have a buck,” says the doe.
“I’m broke,” says the horse.
“My pocket is empty,” says the kangaroo.
“That’s all right,” says the giraffe. “The highballs are on me!”
(Credit: AA Grapevine, September 2000, Tom W.)
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