Every year, when people joked about Dry January, I’d laugh along.

But inside, someone was pressing a bruise I never let heal.

They'd say, “30 days without drinking! Can you imagine?”

Meanwhile, there was a time I couldn’t make it 3 days without shaking.

I used to hide bottles everywhere my wife wouldn’t look. 

When I finally crawled into my first AA meeting 22 years ago, I sat close to the door, ready to escape if anyone looked at me too long. 

My sponsor handed me a white chip and said:

“This chip isn’t for people who are strong. It’s for people who are willing.”

I was desperate, not strong.

But still, I collected chips the way some men collect scars – thirty days, ninety, six months, a year.

With the one that helped me start talking to my kids again displayed proudly on my keys, like a reminder of what was possible. 

But there was a truth I never said out loud:

Even sober, I still felt shame.

For the years I lost. For the things I forgot.

Then something happened this past January.

After yet another talk about Dry January, a young man in our AA group broke down crying:

“I just want to know how someone survives this long.”

Right after the meeting, my old sponsor, now 82 and still sharp as a tack, said:

“Mike, you don’t have to be proud of everything you did. But you should be proud you’re still here to tell it.”

He told me about Memowrite and how everyday people find their life meaning while reflecting, and in turn get a book. 

It was not fancy memoir stuff, more like structured reflection.

A personal growth journal. 

That night I decided to sit down and open the first question.

Then another. And another.

Before I knew it, I was writing about the people I hurt without meaning to.

And then the good parts came:

My first chip. My first apology that was accepted. My first sober Christmas.

It was all done through 50 simple prompts.

Those questions unlocked a lifetime I’d been too afraid to revisit.

And when I was done, I printed 12 copies of my story.

I brought them to my meeting and placed them next to the basket.

And while they all carried shame I hid, I felt like they needed to be there. 

I said, “If this helps anybody, it’s yours.”

A man who’d been sober only 5 days picked one up.

He held it against his chest and said quietly:

“Thank you. I didn’t know someone like me could make it to 68.”

And right then, I understood:

My survival wasn’t ordinary. It needed to be shared.

So if you’re reading this and thinking: “Who would care about my story?”

Write it down anyway.

Someone out there is praying for a story just like yours.

Those 50 questions helped me break decades of silence.

They might do the same for you.