There’s a saying that helped a younger, freshly sober me build a concept of a higher power. Anytime something fortunate or coincidental would occur, I would say to myself, “Is it odd or is it God?”

The intent was to begin attributing serendipitous moments to God’s influence in my world, building up the foundation of a regular spiritual practice to help me throughout sobriety. And for those first few years of sobriety, it worked. Mixed in with the rough days of life were moments when the world seemed guided by an unseen force, sending me little tidbits of encouragement ranging from joy to life-saving divine intervention. It’s very easy to build a connection with God when you’re giving him all the credit. Additionally, this practice allows you to review the past with a spiritual inner eye to see where you pushed when God pulled or when God caught you on your way down. You feel as if you been afforded glimpses of the big picture and the wonderful world God has for you if you stay sober and willing.

Unfortunately, this practice has a glaring blind spot that had to be addressed. My new phrase I’ve been using to guide my perspective adds an additional filter these moments must sift through:

“Is it odd, is it God, or is it just some straight up middle class white girl privilege?”

It’s been interesting revisiting old God moments with a new pair of glasses. How many times did I interpret a warning during a traffic stop as God’s intervention? “He knew that I couldn’t afford that ticket right now” or “He knew that I had to hit a different bottom” were common attributes assigned to my Higher Power back then. It’s honestly embarrassing to admit I assumed my own personal Higher Power wanted to make sure Houston PD didn’t hold me accountable to driving under the influence, or that he cleared the way for me to secure a job that required a background check. But when you don’t understand the privilege you carry, it’s very easy to chalk it all up to a loving God who wants nothing but the best for you.

I recognize today my sobriety was and is underwritten by an enormous supply of privilege and can not be lumped under the umbrella of #blessed from above. The recovery meetings I attended are full of people who look like me, have backgrounds like mine, came from the same neighborhoods as me, and shared the same cultural norms and experiences, all normalizing my choice to get sober and stay sober all these years. There has never been a language barrier between myself and recovery, even when traveling to other countries. When police officers pulled me over during my using days, they saw no need to investigate further or hold me accountable, meaning I never had to dry out in jail or have a criminal record as a result of this disease. My parents had insurance to help offset the cost of treatment. College was still an option after recovery had been established, underscoring my own chances of economic security and access to health insurance, therapy, and prescription medication. All of my sponsors have been able to relate to my everyday experiences. I have enjoyed regular access to Zoom meetings throughout this pandemic. The list goes on.

I’ll be frank: when I factor in privilege to the equation of addiction and sobriety, God’s role is drastically reduced. That’s not to say God is removed from the equation entirely, but the tally marks are not automatically going into his column anymore. You would think it would weaken my understanding of a higher power, but that has not been the case. Reserving God for the moments of true “How the fuck did this all come together?” allows for those moments of awe and gratitude to flood in. They are rare, but they are wonderful.

I think it’s important to note I’ve never had a “Burning Bush” experience when it comes to God, and rarely does a still, small voice speak up to guide me forward.

The best, most tangible way I experience a relationship with a higher power these days is through the people I meet on my path. How many times did a random run-in with a friend provide me with the exact feedback or solution I needed most? “Infinity thousand” to quote my daughter, but I’d estimate at least once a year; more often than that when I’m really back in my bullshit.

I’ll never forget the day I was panicking about my upcoming testimony to a state licensing board about the ethics violations and abuse I had experienced and witnessed while in rehab. I had to get out of my head so I went and donated blood to try to take my mind off my fears and direct my thinking to others that I could help (service work is service work, even if you get free snacks). That same day, three different friends and family members of friends called me to wish me luck and tell me how important it was to them that I was willing to stand up and speak out. The day of the hearing, my heart was racing at the thought of speaking about my experience in front of my former therapist, but she didn’t show. While we (myself and a few other former patients) had driven in the night before ahead of an ice storm, she failed plan ahead and was stuck at home due to the ice, allowing all of us rehab kids to speak freely and at ease (and yes, her license was suspended).

Now, could the random (for Texas) ice storm and the phone calls be chalked up to coincidence? Sure, but it doesn’t feel that way. Assigning it to privilege doesn’t fit either. Having such specific needs and fears met with serendipitous moments of relief to accomplish the hardest thing I have ever done is one of the closest moments I’ve had to 100% faith. I’ve flip flopped in faith the years since then but when I think about those dark days and the light brought in, I feel God’s hand right back on my shoulder. Just last week I was faced with a tough decision to stand my ground or be humble. Something stirred within me, pushing me towards humility. The result? I feel at ease today with that decision. I give that one to God.

I want you to know it’s ok to acknowledge your recovery didn’t have some of the same roadblocks that others may have. I feel more “right sized” when I account for the doors I had to unlock myself, the rooms with a door already cracked open for me, and the parts of life where no human hand could had crafted such an outcome or provided such a clear path forward. It doesn’t cheapen the value of my own sobriety, but (at least for me), it does enable me to be inspired by others’ sobriety journeys and feel grateful we both found a way out of addiction and a way to move forward. Some people truly are miracles, and I have had the wonderful privilege of witnessing those miracles in action.