The Grace of Breaking a Chain

Transforming years of searching, loss, and reflection into a different kind of inheritance

A snapshot from the past

Earlier this year, my children’s father—my ex-husband—handed me a tattered white shoebox he’d unearthed from storage.

“I think this is yours,” he said, placing it in my hands as we were transferring our son’s gear in or out of the trunk of my car at one of our countless drop-off or pick-up routines. The box was heavier than it looked, and when I peeked inside before setting it in my car, I caught a glimpse of a hodgepodge of papers that could have easily passed as trash.

It sat in the backseat for at least a week, until I finally brought it inside, set it on the kitchen counter, opened it up, and started to finger through its contents. Old receipts, a few faded polaroids, several postcards, and various other random mementos served as a bit of a time capsule from my late teens and early twenties. I made a cup of tea, pulled up a stool typically reserved for a kid eating breakfast, and made my way through each item, one by one.

I eventually came upon a single sheet of printer paper, folded twice. As I opened it, I saw seemingly random doodles, names, and numbers—all in my own handwriting, sloppier than usual, perhaps written in a rush. Black ink pen on a simple piece of plain white printer paper.

Why had I saved this? As I studied it, I realized I was holding a snapshot from a former life and the seed of the Eight Awarenesses—the anchor of my life’s work and practice.

Grasping

The year was 1992. I was a senior in high school, and I’d spent an afternoon in the kitchen of my adolescent home, tethered to the landline, calling treatment centers out of the Yellow Pages in the local phonebook. I was trying to find some kind of support for my mom.

Maybe someone had said something, or maybe there’d been another hard night. What I do remember is the quiet urgency I felt, the sense that something was wrong and that it might somehow be my job to fix it. Friends, family, even my own conscience had started to wonder aloud if my mom drank more than the others. Each question landed as a mix of denial, defensiveness, and shame.

She’s fine. Is there something wrong with us? Wait, is there something I am supposed to be doing that I’m not? Is there something she needs that I could find for her?

Scribbled notes included: “Only six beds. One open. Needs to do a medical detox before admission” and “Expensive, but good success rate—only women.” “Southern California location; help with travel.” My teenage handwriting charted the logistics of a crisis: treatment centers, phone numbers, the faint outlines of hope, all evidence of a young person trying to find a path forward for her disappearing mother, not yet realizing how heavy it all was.

That page is a snapshot of a different self—a girl doing what she thought needed to be done, without a name for what she was holding, like so many loved ones around those on a troubling path at any stage. At the time, I didn’t have language that might help me navigate it all: habits, escapism, early signs of addiction, codependency… trauma, and neither did my mom.

Did she have an issue with alcohol or pills then? Was she just numbing habitually? Could she have stopped on her own, with the right support? Did she even want to?

A gap

The Eight Awarenesses, a dharma-informed re-craft of the Twelve Steps, came into being because of the path I’ve walked since that day. In its mysterious and perfect timing, the Universe handed me the seed of my heartfelt work—a relic from my past—just as I was completing an important written capture of my efforts.

I’ve since learned that there are countless people like my mom—and me (I had my last drink eight years ago)—quietly questioning our patterns, afraid to ask certain questions, yet postponing making significant changes because the options available feel binary, often requiring that we first be named or diagnosed in some way, often “for life.”

I believe there is a gentler path for many of us. One rooted in awareness, not identity. A path that doesn’t require a rock bottom, a diagnosis, or a surrender to begin. If we can ask ourselves the right questions—and honor the answers—we can free ourselves from a trajectory that doesn’t serve us, and open to one that does.

Time travel

If I could go back to that moment, 33 years ago, I’d do a few things:

I’d make sure I was getting good support—therapy and/or Al-Anon meetings from time to time. I’d encourage her too, to consider some mental health support of some kind.

I’d invite her to do a challenge or reset with me. She was most certainly on a troubling path, though not yet off a cliff with her habits. We could each pick a habit we wanted to shake and support each other through a 30-day break or reset. I was smoking cigarettes at the time, and I’m guessing we’d both be pretty motivated to help each other let go of what wasn’t serving us. (Today, if I were to do this with a friend or family member, I’d choose caffeine, one I am clinging to and also quietly questioning.)

I’d use the Eight Awarenesses with particular attention around #1: My life is better clear, and #2: I choose what I consume. I’d want us to together consider these during our resets, talking them through, researching our experiences, connecting as we explored.

I’d make sure we were eating and drinking clean food and water, and taking supportive supplements to the extent helpful.

I’d spend time helping us celebrate the upsides of our changes. Are we tuning into our intuition more? Is exercise more fun, consistent? Sleeping better? Do we look better as our bodies purge some of these toxins? Losing weight?

I’d play with new ways to entertain and calm ourselves that don’t involve our go-to habits: take a walk, go to the movies, dive into a memorabilia or photo preservation project, watch or read a series, pick up a new hobby.

I’d do my best to embody what I call self-grace, hand on heart. I’d do my best to hold the conviction that her path is not my path and while I can try to support her, her choices are hers, and not mine.

What actually happened

Memories from what followed that day so many years ago sit like jagged objects on the shelf in my consciousness. I can feel them, sense them from time to time—hours I can revisit, but not revise. I hear sounds or smell scents from that time and am immediately jolted back to a time of questioning, terror, resignation. I want to reach out and give that younger version of me a hug.

After calling around and learning about our options, I made an appointment with one of the local drug and alcohol treatment centers. My mom eventually agreed to go in large part due to my tearful pleading. The car ride was silent and tense. We were together in a complicated capsule of curiosity, resentment, humility, and rage.

When we arrived at the clinic, she was immediately treated like a child—baby talk, hand holding—all from the admitting nurse doing his best. Questions. Paperwork. Waiting room. More questions. Some signatures. A transfer to a smaller, private room. I could hear the cars whizzing by outside. Freedom, a window away, I could hear her thinking. She was told she’d be alone and “under observation” for 48 hours as they did tests and assessed her. Controlled food, sparse clinical setting, and no contact with people outside until next week.

I watched her, sitting there in her fabulous outfit, eyebrows up, sunglasses perched on her head, legs crossed, designer handbag at her side. When the nurse stopped talking and left the room for a few minutes, my mom looked at me and said, “Absolutely no fucking way, Cecily” and marched on her high heels out of the clinic and back to the car. I sat in still silence for a few minutes, staring at the linoleum floor, hearing the murmur of voices out in the hall, as alone as maybe I’ve ever been. Soon enough, I followed her out and took us home again.

And that was that.

And since

Over the next two decades, my once-radiant mother gradually slipped into shadow and silence, her denial a fragile form of protection. She carried her pain privately, cloaked in stories that kept her safe from the bright light of truth. In the end, it was her heart and body that bore the cost—she died at 64, of heartbreak and esophageal cancer, in a home overcrowded with relics of a life she’d withered away from, leaving behind the quiet reminder of how easily we can lose ourselves to what numbs us.

For years I tried to make sense of her decline, to separate the mother who raised me from the woman who disappeared. Now I see them as one—brilliant, flawed, and human, like me. What remains is not the tragedy of her death, but the quiet inheritance of learnings from her pain and a hope that I can “break the chain” as my son puts it—the multigenerational pattern that can confine us if we don’t set ourselves free.

And then on Mother’s Day this year, my son read me something he wrote for school, about alcohol’s effect on families. Towards the end, he read this:

“It’s not always about getting back up after you fall. Sometimes, it’s in quietly stepping away before the fall ever happens.

We don’t need more shame around drinking. What we need is more honesty. More space for people to say, ‘This isn’t working for me,’ even if no one else sees a problem. We need more stories like my mom’s. More middle ground between denial and rock bottom. More room to talk about how alcohol affects families—not just through addiction, but emotional distance, or subtle, lasting pain.”

Hand on heart.

Love.

How about you?

We’d love for you to share in the comments:

How are you breaking a chain or planting new seeds through your own journey and choices?