The Quiet Slide
In late 2023, I started to slide into anxiety and depression. I ignored the signs—because I kept looking at all the amazing things I had going for me. I’m a naturally optimistic person, so brushing off the growing negativity wasn’t difficult. If life looked good on the outside, then surely I was fine… right?
Letting Everyone Down—or Stepping Up?
That fall, I became the chair of the intergroup for meetings in my city and surrounding area. It was an honour—but it came with pressure. At times, my anxiety would overwhelm me so much that I couldn’t even send out notices for our quarterly meetings. Then came the shame, the self-blame, the crushing thought that I was letting everyone down.
Ironically, I felt like the worst person for the job—but also the best, because no one else had stepped up. That gave me a weird, unsettled sense of tork.
Celebrating Milestones, Carrying Shadows
In November, I turned 50. A month later, I celebrated 25 years in OA. I shared my joy at every meeting I could get to in my city. But in the background, something quieter and heavier was growing.
By February 2024, I finally said out loud to two close friends that I thought I needed to speak to a doctor about my anxiety. I expected support. What I got were responses that left me feeling more alone than ever.
Support That Didn’t Feel Like Support
The first friend said, “Oh, that’s great.” I knew she meant it was great that I was going to get help. I really do. But she didn’t follow up. She didn’t ask what was going on or offer to hold space for me. Our conversations stayed surface-level—mostly focused on her dating life and ex. If I tried to go deeper, she’d change the subject or end the visit. Eventually, she started canceling plans and rarely returned my calls.
The other friend had a different kind of silence. I think my admission hit too close to home for her. She couldn’t be emotionally available to me in that moment—but over time, she kept reaching out. That meant something. That meant a lot.
Both of them were hurting too, I think. But their initial reactions fed my shame. I used them as an excuse to isolate even more.
Diagnosis and the Long Climb
It took another couple of months before I finally went to see a doctor. When I did, I learned I wasn’t just moderately anxious or depressed—I was severely so.
The next year was spent trying to get back on my feet, inch by inch.
A Familiar Crash, A Trusted Confession
Then June 2025 came. My anxiety took the wheel again, and I canceled our intergroup meeting at the last minute. Four days later, I sat down with a woman who considers me her sponsor to do a Step 5 and give away my inventory. I trust her. I knew she wouldn’t advise, wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t break our confidence.
As I neared the end of sharing, I admitted I still felt afraid about stepping down as chair—but that I’d keep praying on it. She gently suggested praying for willingness to delegate. The truth in that hit hard. I do spread myself too thin.
Then I confessed I was carrying shame about letting people down. Her response was quiet, profound.
“Who told you that you weren’t allowed to make a mistake?”
She said someone had once asked her that while she was giving away her inventory. And then—she smiled through tears and told me I was the one who had said it to her.
Grace, Broken Wide Open
I was stunned. I’d forgotten ever speaking those words. I had offered that grace to someone else—but I couldn’t offer it to myself.
That broke me wide open.
I had been holding myself to an unattainable standard. Not just striving, but punishing. Refusing grace. Refusing to be human.
Where I Am Now
I’m still in this. Still learning how to be gentle with myself. Still praying. Still trying to remember that stepping down doesn’t mean giving up, and that messing up doesn’t make me less.
I’m human. And it turns out—I told someone else that being human was okay.
Maybe now, I’m starting to believe it too.
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