Spirituality, Humility and Me

As I write this story, I think back to what I was doing thirty-five years ago today. On that day—October 7th—a friend drove me to my first AA meeting. I was a beaten-down, empty shell of a person, and out of answers. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired, and I finally admitted that I needed help. That morning was the last time I said those dreaded words about my drinking: “I did it again.” In that moment, something in me surrendered, even if it was not perfect or complete. It was the best I could do.

I remember walking into that meeting room like it was yesterday. I was completely on edge. I was hyper vigilant as I kept my eyes down and made my way to a seat near the front of the hall. I felt exposed, flooded with fear, and unsure of everything except that my life was not working. To avoid looking at anyone, I stared at the Twelve Steps banner hanging on the wall. That was the first time I read them. Seeing the word “God” in several steps instantly brought back my old sense of dread. My first thought was, “Too much God for me. This will not work.”

My relationship with God had been strained since I was a young boy. What I knew of God came from childhood experiences, disappointments, trauma, violence, shame, and feeling  abandoned.

I grew up convinced that God had no interest in me. Out of fear and pride, I decided I didn’t need Him either. At the time, this felt like strength. Today, I know it was self-centered fear disguised as independence and resilience.

Eventually, I decided to take a closer look at what spirituality could mean for me. I joined twelve-step study groups, listened at meetings, read more, and tried to stay open—even though I still danced around the God issue. What struck me was that nobody tried to shame me or convince me of anything. They simply shared their experience and offered an invitation: “Keep searching. You’ll find your own understanding.”

What I discovered over time was simple but  profound: spirituality is not about rituals or doctrines. It is a way of living. It is the gradual uncovering of my better self—the part rooted in truth, courage, compassion, forgiveness, justice, and humility. These values live inside me, and they are awakened when I quiet the noise, look inward, and stay in the present. My sponsor put it best: “Getting sober is an inside job.” I did not understand it then, but I do now.

I also learned that these values are the way God teaches me. They are His way of inviting me into a life that is fuller, peaceful, and more honest. When I began to walk this path—even in small steps—my desire to drink faded away. The God I ran from for so many years turned out to be gentle and forgiving, not punishing. His will was not something scary; it was simply doing the next right thing with a willing heart.

For this alcoholic, spirituality is about an inner experience that allows me to encounter God each day. I become more aware of God’s presence and the opportunity to align my life with God’s will. Slowly, I realized that the sacred was not far away. It was right here, woven into daily life. No wonder spiritual people told me, “God is closer than you think.”

This is an encounter with the living God. We get to see and do his work through others, and if we choose, we too become a channel of God’s grace. Like the prayer of Saint Francis says, “Make me an instrument of your peace.” And when I say yes—when we choose to trust, to love, to forgive—we begin to notice a certain peace. Not the shallow peace of comfort or ease, but a deeper calm that roots itself in the soul. This peace is the quiet confirmation that we are moving in harmony with God, even if the path remains unknown.

But the biggest obstacle to spirituality, the one that nearly kept me from ever finding it—was pride.

Pride told me I could manage my drinking. Pride told me I did not need help. Pride told me I was right and everyone else had it wrong. Pride convinced me that vulnerability was weakness and that taking risks to improve myself might be dangerous. Sometimes pride made me feel worthless and unlovable; other times it made me feel superior and entitled. Pride is tricky, it changes masks depending on what it needs to protect. But underneath every version of pride is fear.

If humility opens the door to spiritual life, pride is what keeps it slammed shut.

In recovery, pride almost killed me. Whenever I listened to pride, I drifted away from meetings, sponsors, honesty, and growth. I picked up some resentments, too. Pride pushed me back into isolation and self-reliance—two of the most dangerous places for this alcoholic to live. Pride blocked the sunlight of the spirit and made me restless, irritable, and discontented. It kept telling me, “You’ve got this.” And every time I believed it, I landed in the same lonely, miserable place.

What I have learned is that pride and humility can’t coexist. When pride takes over, there is no room for God, no room for truth, and no room for others. But when I let humility in—even just a crack—something shifts. I have become teachable again. I can admit mistakes, ask for help, and let go of the need to be right. That’s when recovery deepens. Humility is not thinking less of myself; it is seeing myself honestly—no more, no less—and becoming willing to do God’s will. Pride says, “I will.” Humility says, “thy will.”

Pride feeds my ego, but humility feeds my soul. And it is my soul that needs to stay sober.

Bill W. put it beautifully: “Perfect humility is doing the will of God.” It took me years to understand that. Now, each morning, I ask my Higher Power to help me stay open to His will, not mine. It is a simple request, but it changes everything.

The closer we grow to God, the more we realize that His will is the deepest fulfillment of who we are. It is the opening of the unique life He intended when He created us. To follow God’s will is not to lose ourselves but to become our truest selves. Inner spiritual life is the space where this discovery takes place.

-Tim B.