My clean date is March 3, 1995. How I mark that day has changed a lot over the years.
In the beginning, I did it the way it was suggested back then — seven meetings in seven days. I’d pick up a chip, share about how I stayed clean for another year, and let everyone clap. That ritual meant everything to me. It was validation.
As work travel picked up, I couldn’t always do seven meetings in a row, but I always made sure I was in a meeting on the actual date to get my chip. The longer I stayed clean, the more something shifted. I started to understand that my recovery had less to do with me and more to do with my Gd, the program, and the company I kept. My part was actually pretty small —I didn’t use. And I took suggestions from my sponsor. That was it.
Anniversaries in Narcotics Anonymous are usually celebrated at your home group sometime soon after if not on your clean date. People show up. They say kind things about you. Someone especially close to you says even more kind things and hands you your medallion. For many years, I needed that. I needed to hear it. If I’m honest, I even remember feeling disappointed when I celebrated with someone else and the spotlight wasn’t entirely on me.
Gratefully, I’ve grown from that.
Several years ago, my sponsor forgot to come to my anniversary celebration. I realized during that meeting that something fundamental had changed in me. The only thought I had the entire time was, “I hope she’s okay.” That was it. No resentment. No embarrassment. No self-centered narrative running in the background.
I reached her later. She told me she had simply forgotten and had gone to a different meeting that night. I asked if she shared there. She said yes. I told her she was exactly where she needed to be — that someone in that room needed to hear what she and only she could say.
And I meant it with every cell in my body.
I remember thinking, Wow. The program is actually working in my life. I am learning to look past myself.
Fast forward to today — March 3, 2026.
I didn’t go to a meeting.
Instead, I spent part of the afternoon on Zoom with the first person I ever called in NA. He met me at my first meeting. We both cried as I thanked him for being willing to be the messenger Gd used to tell me that I never had to use again — one day at a time — 31 years ago.
He told stories about how the Narcotics Anonymous Basic Text came to be. The sacrifices he and others made so we could have our own literature were incredible. They wrote with their hearts. They created a framework that we could stake our lives on. After that call, I wiped my tears and went to visit an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. We were once very close. He played a significant role in the writing of our Basic Text.
Today, he lives in a memory care facility not far from me. He didn’t know who I was. Even after I told him my name. Even after I shared pieces of our history that I hoped might spark something. There were flickers — moments where I thought maybe he remembered — but they passed.
I told him that we’re all getting a little forgetful. I told him we were sharing a special moment in time, and that was enough. He agreed. It was one of the simplest and most beautiful moments I’ve ever shared with another human being.
Driving home, I thought about what recovery used to mean to me versus what it means today.
It used to be about staying clean and being recognized for it. About proving something. About surviving. Today it feels different.
Today it’s about honoring the people who sacrificed so the doors would be open when I was finally ready to walk through them. It’s about being of service. It’s about giving back what was — and still is — so freely given to me: unconditional love, acceptance, time, and the willingness to meet people exactly where they are.
This was the most meaningful clean date I’ve ever had. And the best part? It had almost nothing to do with me.
