If you decide to join a sobriety movement that began in mid 1930s, divorce proceedings will begin. Addiction requires being self-centered in thinking and thus acting. Even so, debate remains whether humans really do behave based on clear thinking. Hence the phrase when going rogue, what was she thinking? Great news is that sobriety requires being other-centered or how can my behavior, based on altruistic thinking, be harmonious today. Hopefully even of service for anyone on my day's path.

One antidote to selfish manipulations is quiet time—a sort of talking to the clouds above, or clear blue sky, or springy soil at your feet, or a cool breeze. Addiction folks in these moments aim to be less self-centered for a few minutes, seeking a higher wisdom than that. Works well, too. After requesting contact with this energy, then listening follows. And in that calm arena is when the divorce papers are filed.

Because the prayer/meditation gig is a time when we “direct our thinking especially asking that it be divorced from self-pity, dishonest or self-seeking motives” (86). That line arrives from the Big Book, a reliable text for recovering from life-taking addiction. Some people call the cloud, sky, soil, or breeze a name like God and others claim god is an acronym for good orderly direction. Prayer and meditation bring these types of gods to a recovery life. Continuing great news is that “in this quiet inner place you can start to trust—or just for now, act as if you trust—your inner self.” Stephanie S. Covington writes these words in A Woman's Way Through the Twelve Steps (2024).

Despite a decade working at cultivating conscious contact with god, my truer healing from prior harms was on delay. Certainly not an intentional dishonesty in my thinking and behaving. Yet truest healing is the recovery gig. That's our job. And I wasn't showing up to work 100 percent. Sexual and emotional abuse earlier in my life and later on, too, given extreme addictive states I experienced and encountered in my adult decades—20s through 30s. What was so disconcerting was how I brought my own erratic and hurtful behavior to others. I couldn't see how earlier life impacted my behavior today or how wider American culture had woven a self-impression that was not mine. Eventually I have seen the connections and strive each day to live in harmony with myself and thus others.

Reason being is that healing alchemy mixes persistence, luck, discipline, grace, and work. And given my life's serendipity stars shining so brightly clear on many full moon night skies, I am now appreciating one peaceful day after the next in, not the twilight, but the healed zone (great tv show though). I will be seeking solace the rest of my days—because that means living especially honest after the divorce proceedings.

Recovery often means that we get back essential beauty gifted from the start. Once the foundation of healing continues and intuitive respect for self and others happens throughout the day, then often laughter returns. A tell-tale sign health is in balance. A chuckle I often share when seeing in the mirror how my female body changes the older I get: a flesh roll here, a wrinkle over there, a few gray hairs, and gravity's sag on my face, arms, and belly. Yet I feel beautiful and recovery simply keeps reminding me how fortunate I am in all ways. In so many efforts, I am reclaiming my body for I heart-felt know and thus decide an absolute say on how I experience the world through her. We call this emotional sobriety.

Two strategies to occupy emotional sobriety are effective for a recovery woman living her truth. First, the world has offenses but staying centered means we “cease fighting anything or anyone.” Which is not to say being a doormat to offensive behavior is okay. Rather that when upset, why not apply a gentle pause moment and regather. Can I let this one go? Might I keep peace of mind better if I consciously admit that the “grouch and the brainstorm are not for us.” I apply these two popular recovery phrases often.

Second strategy is to ask does this really need saying and does this need saying by me? Answers to the last two questions are yes and yes. So discourse follows, yet not a fight or grouch or brainstorm. Simply sharing to say the real deal from my pov. Healthy dynamic to claim essay space for recovery processes or sharing my experience, strength, and hope.

Reclaiming confidence in my wondrous body has brought surprises—for example, quirky elements are intriguing me. Some readers might bicker, yet why do we overlook the arm pit? I like arm pits. In a recent novel I am finishing, one main character Gretchen Arroyo ponders how lesbian philosophy and communication can signify via arm pits. In other words, free from American society's phallus-centric, which is the tits and ass worldview, then a woman's entire body has merit. Who knew? (Good time to advertise: Sweet Spot follows five lesbian women deciding on a San Francisco gold bullion heist to disrupt life ennui; available soon-soon we hope at a bookstore near you.)

On a practical level, arms pits are warm and cozy. More than a few times I recall storing a film canister (remember tangible film in photo print days?) in my arm pit. A partner and I were trying to get her pregnant and I kept the sperm warm in my arm pit. Quite perfect travel spot. Turkey baster also helped accomplish our goal, a healthy daughter born nine months later.

And arm pits carry knowledge. When I'm especially running around—those moments can be organic to any life—I can sense a stress or a fear or a worry or an over drawn checking account or countless life delay and distress when one of my arms elevates and I catch a whiff. In Sweet Spot (warning: novel plugs will happen) I describe smelling fear as copper pennies afire. Yet I can also smell serenity and she wafts an earthy puff, maybe how the air fills after lightly toasting sour dough bread? Or when arm pit hairs are longer, sweat globules cling and dispense a distinct pungency—the t-shirt you thought for sure wearing twice is a practical go, having skipped laundry schedule, and turns out, alas, no. When an arm pit wafts that scent, a soap bubble fest in my esteemed arm pit, a cheapo razor, and voila—aromatics restored to beautiful.

Taking the long winding (long winded, you say?) road here matters to me because in my teens and early 20s I often thought I smelled bad. Internalizing that I was bad—still coming out as gay, shame on home dynamics—equated to what a stink I had made of my life. And through misogyny at home and in public, I was learning that as a young woman my patriarchal duty was to make sure that I smelled good. The feint whiff of blame I could detect in the social vapors; women are mercurial and odorous especially in a woman's private zone.

The prevalent and rabid message is that a vagina smells strong, meaning offensive and a woman needs to tend to herself. These early self-perception doubts added more than a few years to my addiction days. Saying as a truth having lived inside myriad lesbian forays, I have never reacted to a woman's vagina as smelling offensive—even if quite distinct because the smell is her and I value who she is, all of her.

Which is why I am quite upset about the Secret deodorant ads—and is the point I have been attempting to reach with some context and pit stops along the way (pun points accruing). The first break that I request we all be given culturally is language. An armpit, elbow, vagina, knee, penis, shin, earlobe, and spine are all wholly organic. We live in these respect zones and that is no secret. The word private makes little sense then—unless you are trying to hide a social power imbalance? You are not, right? Smells are no secret either which makes naming a product Secret a manipulative power move on consumers—female ones who believe, whether conscious or not, that smelling strong is to disappoint patriarchy.

Why the marketing pressure on women to maintain our hygiene with Secret—meaning hide yourself in Secret? Good thank-god news is that Secret has a deodorant for a woman's private. We have roll ons, sprays, and creams for pits, intimate areas and feet and more all thanks to Secret. A doctor wears her stethoscope and a knowing smile. Conspiratorial that look since we all know women can smell pungent, what a modern save, revolution be told how Secret has invented three products to keep her self-loathing to a minimum.

So when misogyny absolutely stinks up her day, she will smell sweet inside a sexist (use a spray), advertising (apply roll on), and systemic culture (creams work). The Peach & Vanilla Blossom advertise as apropos for pits, privates, under boobs, feet, and more. A vagina is private and a breast is a boob. Could we take language on a return into the holistic respect zone?

The second dynamic to owning our lives more holy is the question of time. We can reframe this idea. A modern life has every chance for longevity. The choices are there: recovery over drunk, steady over manic, philanthropic over miserly, and education over blissful ignorance. Given systemic structures clearly not so true globally for every woman. For the sake of grace, let's say that in your one long healthy life, a thousand serenity moments probably occur. Chances are good.

And these don't require relying on a 72-hour deodorant. That premise is that we Americans are too manic in life to slow down, smell the roses, and recall we haven't focused on hygiene in three entire 24-hours. Ever happen? The advertising industry sells product counting on that we do forget ourselves, our lives, our priorities, and our dreams. Credit be given to ourselves that so many live quite present in the here and now. Is there any other moment besides this one?

Secret deodorant promises “The Secret to 72HR Whole Body Freshness.” If we don't recognize how likely we are to forget basic life routines, thank-god again we have experts to show the way. For credibility 4/5 gynecologists would recommend is what the print ad states. Anybody's guess what is required that “would” encourage these gynecologists to recommend Secret. Monetary incentives perhaps.

Being other-centered requires that I begin with self-care first. Ultimate blessing for being good to myself is a loving relationship with my body. I want to smell good—for myself and for others. No secret there. A bar of Ivory soap still costs $1.50 and lathered well can reach all fantastic areas of me so that a smell sprucing might bring an extra spring in my step. I cannot possibly imagine any scenario where I would go three days (!) on a wish and a hope that however many prayers I float, smelling good “would” last this long. Gynecologists don't need to conduct clinical studies to prove this.

One large $15 bottle of peppermint or citrus soap lasts me a month. I dilute the original into several bottles that I carry with me everywhere. Several times during the day, I apply. Takes me a few seconds. And I feel great after. Recovery tenets like “easy does it” and “first things first” can even apply to how I smell. Recovery has given me the ability to love the lesbian woman who I am. Life smells pretty healthy these moments, one day at a time. Smells like freedom.

Research note:

Check out https://jeankilbourne.com for an author devoting her entire decades-long career to social health—that is, how advertising marketed to women impacts lives that link to addiction, violence, and eating disorders.