I walked into my first OA meeting on Sunday, December 27, 1998, carrying more than just emotional baggage—I carried skepticism. How could this work when nothing else had? It had been the second-worst Christmas in my dysfunctional family’s history, which says a lot when you can rank them by levels of dysfunction.
Beyond holiday turmoil, I carried wounds—recent abusive relationships, painful family experiences, and crippling self-esteem. The meeting was tucked away in the far corner of a hospital basement, down a long, mostly unused hallway. Being just two days after Christmas, most regular attendees were absent. The only people in the room were two men, both physically larger than me. I wanted to leave. I was scared—two men, no witnesses, nothing familiar. But I stayed. Why? Because I didn’t have a plausible lie, and, at over 300 pounds, it was clear to them that I struggled with food.
They were just as shocked to see me as I was to see them. When I relaxed a little, I could tell they were also nervous. They almost tripped over themselves asking me to return the next week, promising that most of the group was made up of women.
The meeting started. One read the format, the other read the preamble, steps, and traditions. As they took turns reading, my thoughts swirled: This is weird. Am I even in the right place? None of it made sense. I don’t even remember the topic—just a low-grade buzz in my head.
At the time, newcomers weren’t given special readings or introductions like “Our Invitation to You.” I know this because a few months later, I attended the business meeting where the newcomer format was introduced. That day, though, it was just me, two men reading words I didn’t understand, and the growing noise in my mind.
Then, suddenly, one of the men looked me straight in the eye and said, “Don’t you think the problem we have with food is the same problem that an alcoholic has with alcohol or a drug addict has with drugs?”
I don’t remember if I said anything or just nodded. But I do remember that moment. That was when I knew—I had finally come to the right place. No matter who showed up the next week, I was coming back.
Connecting with Those Who Aren’t in Recovery
That was my first lesson: how to connect with someone who isn’t in recovery. I now know that when explaining the program to newcomers, my role is to make sure they understand the problem—the allergy of the body, the mental obsession, the compulsions that make us feel powerless. I need to make a connection so they can experience that same certainty I did in that moment.
My journey began with two active addicts doing their best to share the program, even though they weren’t living it themselves. Looking back, I see why that first meeting worked:
- They were regular attendees of a strong OA group and knew people who had recovered.
- They spoke about recovery from compulsive eating.
- Though they couldn’t lead me to recovery, they pointed me in the right direction.
- They made an effort to help me feel comfortable and connected.
After that powerful realization—after knowing I was in the right place—I walked out of that meeting on a cloud. Then I got in my car, drove to a convenience store, bought all my binge foods, and ate them alone.
Grace in Recovery
Many of us eat after a powerful OA meeting when we’re not yet in recovery, and we carry shame about it. That day, bingeing was the only tool I had. I was overwhelmed—excited, scared, anxious, relieved—and food was the only thing I knew that would soothe me at that moment.
If you’re not in recovery yet and you leave a meeting feeling scared, anxious, excited, happy, sad, or overwhelmed—and then abuse food—please give yourself grace. I’m not saying it’s okay to abuse food. I’m saying it might be the only working tool you have for now.
Keep coming back. Stick around. Recovery teaches us a new way.
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