Self Can’t Get Out of Self

That’s Where Freedom Begins

Every so often in the rooms, someone says something that hits you right between the eyes, simple words that stop you cold. One of those is: “Self can’t get out of self.” At first, it sounds like a Zen riddle. But if you’ve ever been stuck in the endless loop of alcoholism, you know; it’s not a metaphor. It’s the truth because addiction isn’t just about the drinking or the drugs. It’s about the illusion that we’re in control, the obsession with our thoughts, and the insane belief that we can fix this mental illness with more of the same thinking that caused it. Booze, pills, approval, control, they all became tools in my old survival kit. But the real irony? I was trying to solve a problem with the very thing that was causing it: self-bondage.

I remember being right in the middle of it: no purpose, no peace, just existing. I was couch surfing, emotionally bankrupt, and had burned just about every bridge I had ever built. Yet, in my mind, I still believed I was in control. I was convinced that with just one more chance and a little more push, I could turn everything around. What I couldn’t see was that the very voice I was listening to, the constant chatter in the head, was what was keeping me stuck. The problem wasn’t out there; it was within my mind.

My life had become one long hustle, just a constant grind, chasing relief I could never catch. I was making decisions fueled by resentment, fear, shame, and a deep sense of not-enoughness, beliefs I didn’t even know I had. But the results spoke for themselves: constant sedation led to chaos, depression, and a growing sense of disconnection from everything and everyone. The bondage of self wasn’t some abstract concept; it was the air I breathed. It was my daily reality.

And then something happened, something I can’t take credit for, even now. I got arrested. And when I got out, for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I didn’t drink. It wasn’t because I was strong. It wasn’t because I had some breakthrough or figured anything out. It was because I showed up. I walked into the rooms of recovery, confused and raw. I followed suggestions I didn’t understand. I said yes when every part of me wanted to run. I didn’t believe it would help, but I did it anyway. And somewhere in that quiet surrender, something began to shift.

That’s when Step Two stopped being just words on a page and became real to me: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” I didn’t come to believe by studying it; I came to believe by living it. I was a few months sober, and it sure wasn’t because of my own power. That alone was the evidence I needed. It wasn’t some intellectual breakthrough; it was something I could see, feel, and recognize. It was real because it was happening.

Recovery often starts with decisions made not from belief, but from desperation. A stranger tells you to go to a meeting when you’re convinced your problem is homelessness or heartbreak. It doesn’t make sense. But something moves you to go anyway. That’s grace.

At first, you move on nothing more than hope. Then that hope begins to grow into belief. And if you stick around long enough, keep showing up, and keep taking action, that belief ripens into faith. But not faith in your old coping strategies. Not in control or self-will. This is faith in something that works despite your understanding. As Bill puts it in the Big Book on page 16: “Faith had to work twenty-four hours a day in and through us, or we perished.” That kind of faith doesn’t come from knowing; it comes from surrender.

One of my earliest sponsors nailed it: “The antidote to self is helping others.” That became my lifeline. The moment I got out of myself, by listening to someone else, making coffee, and stacking chairs, I got a glimpse of sanity. The fog lifted. That’s the paradox of Step Twelve: your spiritual awakening is proven by how you show up for others.

Most of us don’t realize how much faith we’ve placed in our thinking. We believe thoughts about next week so deeply that they hijack our experience of today. That’s faith, misplaced faith. How could a thought about next Tuesday override the reality of what I’m tasting, touching, and feeling right now? Yet it does. And that’s the trance of active alcoholism. You're on a rollercoaster, screaming through life, but your mind's in a fantasy about what might go wrong tomorrow. You miss the ride completely.

Recovery is not about behavior modification. It’s a total switch of allegiance, from the finite self to the infinite. But here’s the catch: you can’t do that yourself. Because if the problem is self, then any attempt by self to fix self deepens the trap. That’s why Step Three isn’t about trying harder or going to another meeting; it’s about a decision to turn it over.

The miracle is that the freedom doesn’t come after the effort. It comes before the delusion. The shift isn’t about adding something to who we are; it’s about letting go of what we’re not. That’s when you’re placed in a position of neutrality, safe and protected, not because you figured it out, but because you surrendered.

And once you taste that freedom, everything changes. You no longer try to get out of self. You realize you were never in it to begin with. That’s what spiritual awakening feels like, not a thunderbolt, but a quiet exhale that says, “Oh, I’m not trapped anymore, thank you, God.”

This isn’t some spiritual fluff. It’s practical liberation. It's what happens when the showrunner in your head finally steps down and something more loving takes the lead. We stop trying to get out of self, and we start living from something bigger.

You don’t need to understand it all to begin. You don’t need to believe it. Just be willing to try something different. The road of happy destiny doesn’t start at perfection; it begins at surrender. The message is clear: self can’t get out of self. But the good news?

You’re not the self. You’re the one who sees it.

I write this not as an expert, but as someone who has lived through the grip of alcoholism and found a way out—through the Twelve Steps, spiritual community, and daily practice. My hope is that these words speak to the part of you that’s searching for more: more peace, more freedom, more connection.

If this resonates with you—whether you’re in recovery, supporting someone who is, or simply exploring a deeper sense of self—I invite you to subscribe. This isn’t just a newsletter. It’s a space for real stories, shared strength, and hope passed from one soul to another.

Keep the Faith