I almost didn’t write this one.
A month from today, my memoir will be released — and I’m noticing something I didn’t fully anticipate.
Not fear exactly. Not regret. Just the quiet vulnerability of knowing people will soon read a very honest account of my life.
If you’d prefer to watch this reflection instead of read it, the YouTube video is linked at the bottom.
Not dramatic fear.
Not second thoughts.
Just the subtle urge to manage.
The impulse to explain certain parts in advance.
To soften an edge.
To make sure I’m understood.
For much of my life, managing the image was second nature. Staying guarded felt safer. Presenting the version of myself that seemed most acceptable felt wise.
I’ve written before about how easy it is to stay guarded and call it wisdom. In When Your Life Doesn’t Follow a Straight Line, I touched on that instinct to control the narrative when things feel uncertain.
But real growth never happened there.
Growth began in recovery rooms built on three simple principles: honesty, open-mindedness, and willingness.
Simple words. Hard practice.
Vulnerability did not come naturally to me. It often felt awkward. Uncomfortable. Sometimes even unnatural.
And yet, it was the only place growth ever really took root.
Writing this memoir was part of that practice. Not performing transformation. Not trying to impress. Just telling the truth as clearly as I could. The writing itself was healthy for me.
Now the practice shifts.
Can I release something personal without trying to control how it’s received?
Can I stay grounded and let it be what it is?
If you’re carrying something tender right now — a hard conversation, a step forward, a truth you’re learning to speak — I hope you’ll be gentle with yourself.
Honesty.
Open-mindedness.
Willingness.
That’s still the path for me.
If reflections like this are helpful, you can subscribe to receive them each Sunday morning.
If you’re curious about the memoir — the story, the themes, and the March 20 release — you can find a quiet overview at AwakeningWithDon.com. It’s simply part of the ongoing work.
But here’s the question I’m sitting with:
What would one small act of vulnerability look like today — even if it feels like new territory?
