Three and a half years ago, I found myself in a high school guidance counselor’s office, crying about the latest crisis with my daughter. She had totaled my van on prom night, driving drunk. Through the grace of God, no one was killed or seriously injured, but it was my wakeup call. Through the grace of this gentle counselor, I was advised to go to Al‑Anon.

Today, I spent the day reminiscing about my very first Al‑Anon home group. I came to them totally battered inside and out. For three months, I sat alone away from the table not speaking a word, week after week. I was the only minority there. I lived in a city where race relations were deplorable, the absolute worst in this country. I didn’t speak because I feared I would not be accepted and, worse yet, they would not be interested in my pain. So I became a human sponge, soaking up everything I was hearing, and running out after the meeting.

I came to Al‑Anon after my husband suggested it. I had a nagging feeling that my life was somewhat chaotic and perhaps even unmanageable, but I didn’t really think it had anything to do with alcoholism. After all, I had done quite well for myself, and the fact that my mother and brother were alcoholics didn’t have much to do with me anymore. I had recently married an alcoholic who had 15 years of sobriety and was dedicated to A.A., so I thought I was “home free.”