115. Living by Spiritual Principles
When people hear the phrase spiritual principles, they often think of religion, church pews, or formal rituals, but in recovery, spiritual principles mean something different. They are the guiding values that shape how we live our daily lives—honesty, humility, willingness, love, forgiveness, hope, and so many others. For someone like me, an addict in recovery, these principles are not lofty concepts tucked away in a book. They are lifelines. They are the tools that help me rebuild a life I once believed was beyond repair. I’ll be honest—when I first entered recovery, the word spiritual made me extremely uncomfortable. I thought it meant I had to believe a certain way, that I had to buy into something I wasn’t ready for, but as I sat in treatment, broken down from yet another relapse and desperate for something to hold onto, I realized that these principles weren’t about dogma at all. They were about learning how to live—really live—for the first time in years.
Take honesty. In active addiction, I lived in lies—lies to my family, my friends, my co-workers, and myself. I lied about where I was, what I was doing, and how bad it had gotten. For me, the first spiritual principle I had to embrace in recovery was the courage to be honest. To admit, out loud, that I was powerless over drugs and alcohol. That admission hurt, but it also freed me. I wasn’t hiding anymore. The thing about honesty is that once you start practicing it, it seeps into every part of your life. I had to start being honest in my relationships, even when it meant uncomfortable conversations. I had to be honest with my counselor when he asked hard questions, instead of giving half-truths to protect my pride. Most importantly, I had to be honest with myself—to stop minimizing my addiction, to stop pretending I could control it, to stop denying the damage I had done. Honesty was painful, but it was also the doorway to healing because the truth, no matter how heavy it feels at first, is always lighter than the weight of a lie.
Then there’s humility. Addiction feeds on ego. Even at my lowest, I told myself I could outsmart the disease, that I didn’t need help, that I was somehow different. Humility shattered that illusion. It showed me that I am no better or worse than anyone else, that I need guidance, and that it’s okay to lean on others who have walked this road before me. Humility softened my pride and opened my heart to real change. It taught me to listen instead of always trying to talk my way through things. It reminded me that strength doesn’t come from pretending I have all the answers, but from admitting when I don’t. I found humility in sitting in rehab groups, hearing people share stories that sounded like mine, and realizing I wasn’t unique in my struggle. I found it when I had to ask for help, not just once, but over and over again. Humility, for me, is about letting go of the illusion of control and accepting life on life’s terms. And in that surrender, I discovered something I never expected—peace.
Willingness came next for me. Willingness meant showing up even when I didn’t want to. It meant going to meetings when I was tired, listening when my counselor offered suggestions, and letting go of people and places that kept me chained to the past. Willingness doesn’t mean you’re fearless—it means you’re willing to try, even when you’re scared, and in recovery, that willingness can be the difference between life and death. For me, it started with small steps—raising my hand in a group when I didn’t feel like talking or making a phone call to someone in recovery instead of isolating. Over time, those small acts of willingness built into something bigger. They showed me that change is possible if I stay open and if I keep saying yes to the things that will help me grow.
Addiction made me selfish. Everything revolved around my next high. Recovery gave me the gift of rediscovering love—love as an action, not just a feeling. Love shows up when I listen to someone who’s struggling, when I show patience with the kids I coach on the soccer field, when I show up for my family instead of disappearing. Love also shows up when I practice compassion toward myself, forgiving the man I was in active addiction and allowing myself to grow into someone better. I used to think love was something you had to earn and that I didn’t deserve it because of all the wrong I had done. Recovery has shown me that love is freely given when we are willing to give it away first. When I sit across from another addict and share my story honestly, that’s love in action. When I show up on the field and pour into those kids, not just as a coach but as a mentor who genuinely cares, that’s love too. And maybe the greatest act of love is learning to look in the mirror without shame, to see myself as a work in progress instead of a lost cause. That kind of love heals in ways that no substance ever could.
Next, there’s forgiveness. I carried resentments like heavy stones in my pockets—for people who had hurt me, for life not being fair, and most of all, for myself. Those resentments poisoned me. Recovery taught me that forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting or excusing. It means letting go of the weight so I can move forward. Letting go of anger at others freed me, but forgiving myself was the hardest—and most healing—part of all. For a long time, I believed I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I replayed the mistakes I made and the people I hurt until the shame nearly swallowed me whole. The truth is, holding on to that guilt didn’t change the past—it only kept me chained to it. Little by little, I’ve learned that forgiveness is a daily choice. Some days it comes easier than others. Some days I have to remind myself that I am not the same man I was in active addiction, that I am working hard to live differently today. When I forgive myself, I create space for growth. When I forgive others, I free myself from carrying their actions on my back. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the scars, but it allows me to live with them in peace rather than in bitterness. And in that way, forgiveness has become one of the greatest spiritual gifts recovery has given me.
At the center of all these principles is hope. Addiction thrives on hopelessness. It whispers that you’ll never change, that you’re too far gone, that you’re destined to die this way. For years, I believed that lie. Recovery showed me that hope is stronger. Hope is what gets me out of bed each morning. Hope is what drives me to keep fighting, even when the old voices in my head try to pull me back. Hope is what tells me that no matter how far I’ve fallen, there is always a way back. Hope, for me, began as nothing more than a flicker—a fragile thought that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to die the way I was living. In treatment, I saw people who had once been as broken as I was stand tall, sober, and smiling. That gave me hope. In meetings, I heard stories from addicts who had crawled out of darker places than mine and built lives filled with purpose and joy. That gave me hope too. The beautiful thing about hope is that it grows the more you feed it. The more I surround myself with people walking this same path, the stronger my hope becomes. The more I practice these principles and see the change in myself, the more I believe that change is real and lasting. Hope is no longer just a flicker—it’s a light that guides me forward, and when I stumble, as I sometimes do, hope is the hand that reaches down and says, Get back up. You’re not done yet.
Spiritual principles saved my life. They are not abstract ideas—they are daily practices that shape who I am becoming. They are the compass that keeps me from drifting back into the storm. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, and I am still an addict in recovery, but as long as I practice honesty, humility, willingness, love, forgiveness, and hope, I have a fighting chance. And that chance means everything.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
