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A while back, I met a man in treatment who regularly referred to himself as “a drunk.” One day I asked him, “Why do you call yourself that?”
He looked at me as though the answer was obvious.
“Because that’s what I am.”
I asked him, “Have you had a drink today?” He paused for a moment. “No.”
Then I asked, “Are you planning to drink today?” He almost looked offended.
“Hell no!”
I smiled. “Then who are you today?”
He sat quietly for a few moments before finally saying, “I…I don’t know.”
I nodded.
“Maybe that’s a better place to begin.”
I’ve thought about that conversation many times since.
As I drove home that day, I realized I’d been doing something very similar in my own life. Not with that particular label, but with plenty of others. Over the years, I’ve identified myself as a pastor, a leader, a husband, a divorced man, an alcoholic, a relapser, someone who was burned out, a recovery coach, and now an author.
Every one of those labels describes something real about my life. Some represent seasons I’m deeply grateful for. Others remind me of chapters I’d never choose to relive. All of them are part of my story. But none of them, by themselves, can fully capture who I am.
The longer I’ve been in recovery, the more I’ve come to see that labels can be both helpful and limiting. They help us make sense of our experiences. They help us find people who understand us. They even help us tell our stories. But when we hold onto them too tightly, we begin to confuse part of our story with our identity.
I don’t think this is unique to recovery. We all do it.
We call ourselves failures because something didn’t work out. We convince ourselves we’re broken because we’ve been hurt. We decide we’ll never change because we’ve struggled for so long. Over time, those descriptions stop feeling like thoughts and begin feeling like facts.
One of the Buddhist teachings that’s had the greatest impact on me is the practice of Wise Speech. Most of us think of it as something directed toward other people. Before we speak, we ask ourselves whether our words are true, helpful, and kind.
Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if those same questions belong in the conversations we have with ourselves. Are the words I’m using to describe myself true today? Are they helpful? Are they helping me move toward greater freedom? Or are they keeping me attached to an old story?
Even the language I use about my own recovery has changed over the years. Many people find great meaning in identifying themselves as alcoholics, and I respect that completely. There isn’t a right or wrong way to speak about recovery.
For me, though, I’ve found myself saying that I’m a person in recovery.
It’s a subtle difference, but it matters to me. It reminds me that recovery isn’t simply something that happened in my past. It’s the way I’m choosing to live today. It keeps my attention on the direction I’m walking instead of the place I’ve been.
Recovery didn’t ask me to erase my past.
It invited me to stop confusing my past with my identity.
Maybe that’s a question worth asking ourselves from time to time.
Who are you today?
Not yesterday. Not at your worst. Not according to the labels you’ve carried for years.
Who are you today?
Perhaps that’s a better place to begin.
