Written by, Manuel G
Yesterday I reached 30 days without using, and today I want to celebrate that milestone.
But this time, I understand something very different: this is not the result of my willpower, my discipline, or my ability to rationalize my way out of addiction. This time I understand that I am here because I finally accepted that I cannot do this alone. I can no longer act from pride or arrogance, taking personal credit for something that requires surrender.
Meditation—something I have practiced for years—gave me an essential gift: the ability to observe myself honestly. I was able to see my defects, my emotional immaturity, and my weakness.
I saw how marijuana was slowly breaking me down—creating more anxiety, more rumination, and deeper depression. I watched myself withdrawing from my motivation and from the people I love. I saw how my arrogance and my inability to listen only worsened the core problems and pulled me into a downward spiral. At my lowest point, I remembered a quiet calling I’ve always had: to move closer to God, and to the best version of myself. I realized how far I had drifted from that person.
I began to pray. At first, my prayers were requests—asking God to fix my worldly problems. But I remembered hearing a spiritual teacher say that God is not a problem-solver. I came to understand that turning to God gives us tools for spiritual victories, not instant solutions to the external problems we create by avoiding pain.
What we are given instead is strength, clarity, and the sense that we belong to something greater than our small, fragmented selves. I’ve learned that miracles don’t erase the consequences of our actions. What changes is us.
Some of my greatest teachers were physical injuries. Losing my ability to do things I loved taught me that healing begins with acceptance, with facing pain directly, and with gratitude for what still remains. Care, patience, and humility made the suffering bearable.
Even so, it took me months of denial and depression to accept that I had to stop using marijuana.
One day, while sick and exhausted, I simply didn’t use. One day became two. Two became three. The withdrawal was hard, but I leaned more deeply into meditation and prayer—asking only for patience and strength for one more day. Those days became a week. Then I stumbled across a comment online mentioning Marijuana Anonymous. I joined my first meetings with skepticism and resistance. But something shifted. I realized this is not about willpower. It’s about connection.
That group of people—some with years of sobriety, some with zero days—was stronger than me alone. I found myself looking forward to meetings, to hearing others who wanted the same thing I did: freedom. I’ve learned that if I want lifelong sobriety, I only need to focus on the next 24 hours.
I’ve accepted that I am an addict. That I have an addictive personality. That I am spiritually sick. I neglected my spirit for years by believing only the physical and measurable mattered. But what truly heals is spiritual—intangible, unprovable, and beyond human logic.
There is deep relief in surrendering the need to understand everything. In accepting my limitations. In admitting that I cannot do this alone. Today, I see God working through the hearts and words of other addicts—through encouragement, shared stories, and simple acts of presence.
Thank you, friends. Thank you, brothers and sisters. I dedicate this 30-day celebration to all of you—to those who seek a Higher Power in their own way, and to those who find strength in walking this path together. By focusing on today, we reach a month. By staying humble, we reach a year. And maybe—one day at a time—we reach a lifetime of sobriety. In serenity. In peace.
