I have always liked being able to say, “I did it myself.” There’s something satisfying about figuring things out on my own. It’s the same feeling a child gets when they run into the room and proudly announce, “Look what I made!” Honestly, I still do that with my husband when I finish a painting, a craft project, or an embroidery piece. I’ve told him I’m not looking for criticism or suggestions. I just want someone to share my accomplishment.
That desire for independence followed me through sobriety, stroke recovery, and just about every challenge I’ve ever faced, but in those times it looks more like isolation. The more determined I became to figure things out by myself, the less hope I seemed to have when I didn’t make progress. As I isolated, my world became smaller and my struggles felt heavier. Independence left me carrying burdens that were never meant to be carried alone.
The Self-Taught Artist
Recently, I watched a Youtube short video from a watercolor artist. The caption said something like, “What is it like to be a self-taught artist?” and showed hundreds of failed paintings. Her point was that being self-taught means learning through trial and error.
As I watched, I immediately connected it to a project I’m working on right now. I’ve been creating Christmas ornaments from old jewelry and foam for a craft show this fall. I’ve completed a few prototypes already. One is too large. Another doesn’t have enough sparkle. Each attempt teaches me something. That’s the nature of trial and error.
The Cost of Learning the Hard Way
When I apply this independent self-taught mindset to recovery, I see the cost of failed attempts as time, days, hope, and unnecessary suffering. I thought I should be able to quit drinking on my own through sheer willpower. I thought I should be smart enough to figure it out. But that mindset kept me stuck, and it wasn’t until I joined a fellowship and started listening to other people’s stories that things began to change. I realized I wasn’t unique. I wasn’t broken in some special way. I was simply one person struggling with a problem that many others had already learned how to navigate. I stopped trying to reinvent the wheel.
The same thing happened after my stroke. I wanted desperately to figure out how to heal on my own. I minimized my symptoms and avoided asking for help. I convinced myself I’d just get better. But invisible disabilities are incredibly difficult to navigate alone.
Hope Lives in Connection
One of the greatest gifts in my recovery is willingness. Today I talk to my psychiatrist regularly, participate in support groups, and stay connected with people who understand what it’s like to live with an invisible disability. Other people see possibilities that I can’t see on my own. When I reach out, my hope increases and reminds me that I don’t have to carry everything by myself.
Healing doesn’t happen in isolation. When I pull away from people my world gets smaller, my fears get louder, and hope grows dim. When I feel like isolating, that’s my signal that I need connection the most. I need to pick up the phone, admit to another human being I’m struggling, and be willing to walk alongside others. To increase the frequency of hope in my life, I don’t look inward for the answers. I reach outward. Hope doesn’t live in isolation, but rather in connection.