A couple weeks ago I passed a small milestone: two years of sobriety. I’m not going to get into the details of how long or how much I drank, or how low I had to get before I made that change. Rehashing my weakness and folly isn’t the point of this blog post. Let it suffice to say that I grew up around folks who struggled with alcohol–family, friends. My own struggle was informed by those struggles and at a certain point, I knew I reached a place where to take another drink would be losing everything I cared about. And so I stopped. I sought professional help and attended AA meetings. It was an incredible challenge, but today I sit two years and counting without a drink.

In addition to my artistic life, I also have a small public life as an advocate in our local school district. Last year I ran for the school board and didn’t win, but I continue to be active through various project and maintaining a connection to the day-to-day issues. It means a lot to me to be active in that arena. Education gave me so many opportunities. Books and music opened up avenues of exploration that have taken me to places I never imagined. I look back on 43 years of life as an artist and educator and I’m proud of the work I’ve done.

Last week a community member contacted me through social media. She voiced concerns about my alcoholism. She expressed that as a sober person of relatively recent vintage perhaps I wasn’t fit to hold a leadership role. That’s fine. I respect her opinion. She’s entitled to those concerns. Many of the points she made about alcoholism were valid. She rightly pointed out that two years isn’t a long time to be sober and that many people return to drinking even after years of sobriety. All of that’s true. I won’t dispute any of it.

What I will dispute is this: Being an alcoholic does not disqualify me from being alive or from being an active, productive member of my community, and to suggest such, especially using the language of addiction and recovery as weapons, is just north of despicable. Or maybe just south. It’s at least manipulative and predatory bullying behavior.

My status vis a vis alcohol doesn’t make me unfit for service, nor does it mean I should retreat from public life and hide myself away. In fact, I’d argue that my struggle to overcome my addiction makes me a stronger and better person than I would have been had I not engaged that struggle. The lessons I’ve learned from my struggle are myriad, but I need only look to the Serenity Prayer that closes each Alcoholics Anonymous meeting for perhaps the most important:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

I can’t change the fact that I used to drink. I can’t change the mistakes I made. I can’t change the fact that drinking will always be a part of who I am, whether I’m sober or not; it has left an indelible mark on me. I accept that.

What I can change is this moment and the next, embracing the here and now with appreciation and reverence. I can live each day knowing it’s a gift. And each day I can choose not to drink. As a teacher, that’s a lesson that can be proudly applied. As an artist, I feel it in the the breadth and depth of the mystery of human life more acutely than I could have prior to my sobriety.

All of us are recovering from something–the cancer survivor, the war veteran, the child of divorce, on and on, the examples are too numerous to list–all of us have wounds to heal, challenges to overcome. “Let he who has known no sin cast the first stone,” so the scripture goes. I’ve faced my challenges, owned up to my sins, made reparations where I could, and every day I endeavor to move one step further. Only I can know my path. Only I can learn the lessons it teaches me. But I can share those lessons and hope that they help other in some way. And there is value in sharing my journey in whatever way I can.

Ultimately, I don’t write this to defend myself. I don’t apologize for who I am or what it took to get me here. I own my recovery and make no excuses. Instead, I write this to those of us who are recovering, that is to say, all of us, no matter what we are recovering from. Don’t hide. Don’t be made to feel you are unworthy. Your story can teach. Your struggle can inform, inspire and cast healing light. Take care of yourself, but in doing so care for others. Share your damage. Share your wisdom. Don’t let anyone tell you that survival is enough. It’s not. Don’t just survive, thrive.

We all have something to give. I’m going to continue to share my damage and my hope despite the doubts others may have. Each day is a gift and that’s the gift I give in return.