03/03/2026
A man came to work with me because he was worried about his drinking.
Every afternoon, around the same time, the urge would arrive.
Heād be at home. His wife in another room, working. The house quiet.
And something in him would start to ache.
He believed it was a lack of willpower.
It wasnāt.
As we slowed it down, we began to see the pattern more clearly. The drinking wasnāt about alcohol. It was about soothing. It was the only way he had ever learned to soften a feeling he couldnāt name.
He grew up as an only child with a mother who was physically present but emotionally distant. There was love, but it came wrapped in criticism. The house was large. Quiet. Unsettling. He learned early how to manage alone.
In the late afternoons of his adult life, that younger part of him would resurface ā the boy who felt alone in a space too big, craving connection but unsure how to reach for it. And almost instantly, his inner critic would move in:
āYou shouldnāt feel this.ā
āYouāre weak.ā
āJust stop.ā
So he would try to escape. Then he would shame himself for escaping. The cycle tightening each time.
Escape. Shame. Repeat.
This is what most people try to fix with discipline.
But you cannot discipline a wounded child into peace.
Instead of trying to override the urge, we worked with the parts of him that were in conflict. We strengthened his compassionate adult ā the steady presence inside him who could turn toward that lonely child with warmth and understanding. Who could gently reassure the critic that it no longer needed to protect him through harshness.
Over time, something shifted.
The afternoons became quieter in a different way. The urge lost its charge because the need beneath it was finally being met.
He isnāt drinking to escape anymore.
Heās planning trips. Exploring the world. Choosing his life consciously.
When we meet the wounded places within us with compassion rather than force, change stops being a battle. It becomes a homecoming. š«