My father could hold an audience spellbound.
Whether at a family gathering, a fish fry, or a backyard barbecue, people leaned in when he began telling a story. He had a wonderful Cajun sense of humor and an uncanny ability to make ordinary events come alive. As a boy, I noticed something else: the best stories almost always came after a few drinks.
Growing up in South Louisiana, that seemed perfectly normal. In Cajun country, where Laissez les bons temps rouler—”Let the good times roll”—is a way of life, alcohol was part of nearly every celebration. I believed alcohol made my father a better storyteller.
Years later, I realized it wasn’t the alcohol that captivated people. It was my father’s warmth, humor, and gift for making others feel welcome. Alcohol merely disguised itself as the source of those gifts.
Eventually, I discovered alcohol’s power for myself. It quieted my fears, loosened my tongue, and transformed a shy young man into the confident storyteller I wanted to become. I believed the bottle had given me confidence.
Instead, it had borrowed my voice and demanded my life in return.
Looking back, I can see that alcoholism had already woven itself through five generations of my family. Both of my grandmothers died from cirrhosis of the liver, my parents eventually struggled with alcoholism, and I would later discover that I was no different.
As a teenager, however, my world revolved around athletics. I earned a football scholarship and was nationally ranked in the discus. Then, during my freshman year, a severe hip injury abruptly ended my football career. The loss shattered my identity and left me searching for something to fill the emptiness.
I found alcohol.
At first, it seemed like magic. It eased my anxiety and helped me become the person I wanted to be. In Louisiana we call such a charm gris-gris—something believed to bring good fortune. Alcohol became my personal gris-gris.
What I believed was a blessing slowly became a curse.
I would not fully understand that until I walked into my first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.
There, I encountered something far more powerful than alcohol.
I encountered stories.
Years before entering Alcoholics Anonymous myself, I attended Family Week when my father sought treatment for alcoholism. Each family member was asked not to drink. I assumed it would be easy.
It wasn’t.
Outside the therapy sessions, I found myself wanting a drink. For the first time, I realized alcohol had a stronger hold on me than I wanted to admit.
After treatment, my father was encouraged to attend AA, while the rest of the family was referred to Al-Anon. I remained in Al-Anon for several years under the guidance of a Catholic priest who was also a recovering alcoholic. He became my first sponsor and encouraged me to stop drinking. I remained abstinent for nearly three years before returning to alcohol.
By then I could no longer deceive myself. I had seen alcoholism in my family and now recognized it in myself. The question was no longer whether I had a drinking problem but whether I was willing to do something about it.
When I finally walked into my first AA meeting, I expected advice.
Instead, I heard stories.
People shared what AA calls their “experience, strength, and hope.” They spoke honestly about fear, failure, broken relationships, addiction, and recovery.
At first, I simply listened.
Then something remarkable happened.
They began telling my story.
The names, occupations, and families were different, but the loneliness, fear, shame, and longing for peace were the same. For the first time in my life, I realized I was no longer alone. I had found people who understood me because they had walked the same road.
Years later, as a psychologist, I came to understand why those meetings were so powerful. Human beings make sense of life through stories. We all carry an inner narrative that answers questions such as: Who am I? Why do I suffer? Can I change?
Addiction traps us inside a story of fear, shame, and isolation. Recovery begins when we hear someone else’s story and discover that our own story does not have to end the same way.
Psychologists call this narrative identity—the stories we believe about ourselves shape the lives we live. AA understood this long before psychology gave it a name. Every meeting invites one person to tell the truth so another person can imagine a different future.
Stories opened the door.
My sponsor taught me how to walk through it.
On my first day he asked one question: “Are you willing to go to any length to stay sober?”
When I answered yes, he said, “Call me every weekday morning at six o’clock.”
For months we began each day by discussing my thoughts, feelings, fears, resentments, and plans for the next twenty-four hours. We prayed, read the Big Book, and talked about living the Twelve Steps rather than merely understanding them. He challenged my excuses, exposed my rationalizations, and gently redirected my thinking whenever I drifted back toward self-will.
At the time, I thought he was teaching me how to stay sober.
Looking back, I realize he was helping me rewrite the story I believed about myself.
He often reminded me that sobriety was about far more than putting down the bottle. It was about becoming the person God created me to be.
His final lesson has remained with me for more than forty years:
“Recovery cannot be kept unless it is given away.”
Today I still attend meetings, sponsor others, and listen to newcomers tell their stories. Every time I hear someone share honestly, I remember that first meeting when strangers unknowingly told me my own story.
Those stories did more than help me stop drinking.
By God’s grace, they helped me become a different person.
Several years into my recovery, a Lakota friend in Alcoholics Anonymous shared a lesson that changed the way I understood both recovery and the spiritual life.
He said that most people spend their lives searching in six directions—up and down, left and right, forward and backward—hoping that something outside themselves will fill the emptiness within.
Then he smiled.
“Most people forget the seventh direction.”
“The seventh direction is inward.”
His words captured the journey I had been taking without realizing it.
For years I searched outward for peace through achievement and eventually alcohol. Each promised confidence, happiness, or security, but none satisfied the deepest hunger of the human heart. Alcohol—my Cajun gris-gris—became a false savior. It promised freedom but quietly led me into slavery.
Recovery invited me on a different journey—not merely away from alcohol, but toward truth.
Through the Twelve Steps, the stories shared in AA meetings, and the guidance of faithful sponsors, I discovered that God had never abandoned me. He had patiently waited for me to stop searching everywhere else and begin searching for Him with an open heart.
As a Catholic, I came to understand that this inward journey is ultimately a journey toward the God who dwells within us through His grace. Recovery became more than abstinence; it became a lifelong process of conversion.
My sponsor nurtured that conversion through a simple daily practice. Each morning we prayed, read a few passages from the Big Book, examined my thoughts, fears, resentments, motives, and plans for the day, and asked God for wisdom, courage, and the willingness to seek His will rather than our own. Those quiet disciplines gradually transformed the story I believed about myself. Fear gave way to trust, shame yielded to gratitude, and self-will slowly surrendered to God’s providence.
More than forty years after my last drink, I still attend meetings, sponsor others, and listen to people tell their stories. As a psychologist, I have come to believe that people live by the stories they tell themselves. As a man in recovery, I have learned that healing begins when we allow God to rewrite those stories with grace, truth, and hope.
That, for me, is the spiritual experience of recovery.
In Cajun country we still say, Laissez les bons temps rouler—”Let the good times roll.” Today those words have a different meaning. The good times no longer come from a bottle. They come from trusting God, serving others, and discovering that the greatest story I will ever tell is the one He continues to write in my life.
By Contributor: Dr. Jeff Sandoz
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Why are stories important in addiction recovery?
Stories help people recognize that they are not alone. In the article, Dr. Jeff Sandoz writes that when he first attended AA, he expected advice but instead heard people sharing their “experience, strength, and hope.” Those stories helped him see his own life differently and imagine a different future.
What does “experience, strength, and hope” mean in AA?
“Experience, strength, and hope” refers to the practice of people in recovery sharing honestly about what happened, what helped them change, and how life is different now. Dr. Sandoz describes hearing others speak about fear, failure, addiction, broken relationships, and recovery — and realizing their stories reflected his own.
How does faith play a role in recovery?
For Dr. Sandoz, recovery became more than abstinence. Through the Twelve Steps, AA meetings, sponsorship, prayer, and spiritual practice, he came to understand recovery as a lifelong process of conversion, grace, truth, and hope.
What is narrative identity, and how does it relate to recovery?
Narrative identity is the idea that the stories people believe about themselves shape the lives they live. Dr. Sandoz explains that addiction can trap people inside a story of fear, shame, and isolation, while recovery helps them discover that their story does not have to end the same way.
What role does sponsorship play in sobriety?
Sponsorship can provide structure, accountability, spiritual guidance, and honest reflection. Dr. Sandoz describes calling his sponsor every weekday morning, reading the Big Book, discussing fears and resentments, and learning to live the Twelve Steps rather than simply understand them.
What is the main message of “Stories That Save Us”?
The main message is that healing often begins when people hear the truth of someone else’s recovery story and recognize themselves in it. For Dr. Sandoz, stories, sponsorship, faith, and service helped him move from shame and alcoholism into a new life of trust, purpose, and hope.
