answering her phone, so I decided to stick around and wait for another 10 minutes. I remember sitting there, reflecting on the meeting, feeling a quiet mix of contentment and hope, kind of like being wrapped in a warm hug. Then my phone buzzed. It was a message from a fellow asking me if I could help with a call-out to see a girl who had reached out for help.

I didn’t hesitate. Something in me just said: “Go.” Coffee can wait. I messaged my friend to reschedule and said something important had come up. Not long after, two fellows picked me up, and we were on our way to the girl’s address.

When I look back now, I realise that my first act of service in Alcoholics Anonymous came before I even understood what service truly was, or what a Twelfth Step call even meant. It was nine days after my relapse, my first and, touch wood, my only one. I remember the exact number of days because I was counting them with a kind of desperate determination; they still felt hard–earned and uncertain, so I clung to each one like a milestone.

That’s when I learned it was a Twelfth Step call. I didn’t know much about what that meant in practice. I’d heard the phrase in meetings, but I had no idea I’d be involved in one so soon, especially not nine days after a relapse. I felt a little bit nervous and uncertain. What exactly were we walking into? Would she even open the door? What state would she be in? How was I supposed to help? What did I have to offer?

The truth is, before the relapse, I hadn’t been working the program the way I needed to. I was showing up, but not really. Half–arsed is the only way to describe it: going to the odd meeting, but not often enough; sitting at the back and avoiding sharing; not building connections; and, worst of all, not asking for help when I was struggling. I’d kid myself into believing that I was doing enough but deep down I knew I wasn’t. Then came the relapse. It shook me. Something had to change. This time, I was going to throw everything I had at staying sober. The alternative wasn’t fathomable.

But underneath all that uncertainty, there was something else, a feeling of willingness. For once, I wasn’t thinking about myself. I wasn’t trying to protect my ego or avoid discomfort. I just wanted to show up, for her, and maybe even for me. As we drove, the two fellows with me gently reassured me. They shared what little background information they had about the girl we were about to visit. They also reminded me of something I’d later come to understand as a cornerstone of service in AA: we’re not there to “save” anyone. We’re not professionals. We’re just alcoholics showing up for another alcoholic, sharing experience, strength and hope. I didn’t have any magic words. I couldn’t promise her anything. But I could be present. I could be honest. I could be kind. And sometimes, that’s enough.

So, I started showing up properly. I went to more in person meetings, I shared even when I didn’t want to, I reached out to others and allowed myself to ask for help. That particular day, I’d just been to the lunchtime meeting at Damien Hall, one of those meetings that gives you exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

Afterwards, I hopped on the 61 bus heading to Holland Village to meet a friend for coffee and a much-needed catch-up. My friend was late and wasn’t

When we arrived, the door opened, and we were let in. We sat with her in her living room, four strangers, really, but

bound by a shared understanding of what it feels like to be lost, broken and afraid. After a bit of time, it felt right to share. My story is not sugar–coated and I didn’t want to scare her, but I also knew that pretending everything had been smooth or simple wouldn’t help. So, I told her the truth. I shared a little of what it had been like for me, how far I’d fallen, how hard I’d tried to ‘white knuckle it’ and do it ‘my way’ before it all unravelled. I told her about the relapse and how, just nine days earlier, I was only just holding it together. And I told her that, despite all of that, here I was, sober today.I didn’t have any magic words. I couldn’t promise her anything. But I could be present. I could be honest. I could be kind. And sometimes, that’s enough.

After we left her place, I sat with a strange mix of feelings. I’d done something that felt meaningful, but instead of walking away proud or clear- headed, I felt… guilty. Selfish, even. Because the truth is, I wasn’t just there for her, I was there for me, too. I needed that experience. I needed to show up for someone else to get out of my own head, to remember why I’m doing this. And in a way, it felt like I’d gained more from the call than she had. Was that selfish? I wrestled with that question, but I’ve come to understand that service isn’t about self-sacrifice in the way I once thought it was. It’s not about swooping in to save someone or trying to deliver an instant fix, because there are no instant fixes. It’s about presence. It’s about saying, “I’ve been there too. You’re not alone.” And when I do that, I don’t just offer hope, I receive it.

I don’t know what impact that visit had on her. But I know what impact it had on me. It anchored me in my recovery in a way no meeting or reading or step work had up to that point. It reminded me that service isn’t about perfection or performance. It’s about willingness. It’s about connection. Above all, it reminded me that sometimes, when we help carry someone else’s message, we end up hearing our own a little more clearly.