TGIF :: A Shoebox, a Memory, and the Seed of Something New
#97 || The Forgotten Origin of the Eight Awarenesses
I write about living undimmed—present and self-aware to the ways we may habitually dim ourselves and our experience through drinking, eating, snark, exercise, shopping, sex, work, drugs—even over-functioning. My writing is an invitation to get curious, deepen self-awareness, and advance our capacity to listen to ourselves.
Previous posts are here.
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A Snapshot From the Past
Earlier this year, just as I was finishing the final manuscript of my book (more on that below), my children’s father—my ex-husband—handed me a plain white shoebox he’d unearthed from storage.
“I think this is yours,” he said, placing it in my hands as we were transferring our son’s gear in or out of the trunk of my car at one of our countless drop-off or pick-up routines. The box was heavier than it looked, and when I peeked inside before setting it in the car, I caught a glimpse of a hodgepodge of papers that could have easily passed as trash.
It sat in the backseat for at least a week, until I finally took it inside, opened it up, and started to finger through its contents. Old receipts, a few faded polaroids, several postcards, and various other random mementos served as a bit of a time capsule from my late teens and early twenties.
As I filtered through its contents, I came upon a single sheet of printer paper. Unfolding it revealed seemingly random doodles, names, and numbers—all in my own handwriting, sloppier than usual though, perhaps written in a rush. Black ink pen on plain white paper. Why had a saved this? As I studied it standing there at our kitchen counter, I realized I was holding a snapshot from a former life and the seed of the Eight Awarenesses.
Grasping
The year was 1992. I was a senior in high school, and I’d spent an afternoon at the kitchen counter calling treatment centers out of the Yellow Pages in the local phonebook, trying to find some kind of support for my mom. I don’t recall what sparked the search, just that I was looking for a way to help her, help us. Maybe someone had said something? Maybe she’d—we’d—had a tough night? The occasional inquiry from friends, family, and my own conscience zeroing in on the fact that my mom seemed to drink more than the other moms always sparked a blend of denial, defensiveness, and a shadow of shame: Is there something I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not? Does she need something I can find for her?
Scribbled notes included: “Only six beds. One open. Needs to do a medical detox before admission” and “Expensive, but good success rate—only women.” My teenage handwriting documented the logistics of a crisis and a young person grasping for a path forward for my increasingly absent mother, not quite realizing the weight of it all.
That page is a snapshot of a different self—a girl doing what she thought needed to be done, without a name for what she was holding, like so many loved ones around those on a troubling path at any stage. At the time, I didn’t have language that might help me navigate it all: habits, escapism, early signs of addiction, codependency… trauma, and neither did my mom. Did she have an issue with alcohol or pills then? Was she just numbing habitually? Could she have stopped on her own, with the right support? Did she even want to?
A Gap
The Eight Awarenesses came into being because of the path I’ve walked since that day. In its mysterious and perfect timing, the Universe handed me the seed of this work—a relic from my past—just as I was trying to put a bow on top of my book for my publisher: Undimmed: The Eight Awarenesses for Freedom from Unwanted Habits.
I wrote Undimmed for people like my mom, for the version of her I have to believe was quietly questioning her patterns, afraid to ask certain questions, yet never made any meaningful changes because the options available to her were preceded by first being branded an alcoholic.
Yes, there are people with full-blown alcohol use disorder who need skilled, medical support to recover. But there are tens of millions more—80 million in the U.S. alone—who live in an earlier stage of quiet self-inquiry: aware, curious, drawn to change. When I was trying to help my mom from the kitchen counter of my childhood home, white-knuckling a landline phone to my ear, call after call, I am certain that we could have both used an alternative approach.
My book, this work, is for people like her at that stage, like me decades later—and for anyone living in the in-between. Not in crisis, not committing to recovery per se, but quietly sensing that something isn’t quite right. There is a gentler path for many of us. One rooted in awareness, not identity. A path that doesn’t require a rock bottom, a diagnosis, or a surrender to begin. If we can ask ourselves the right questions—and honor the answers—we can free ourselves from a trajectory that doesn’t serve us, and open to one that does.
Time Travel
If I could go back to that moment, 33 years ago, I’d do a few things:
I’d make sure I was getting good support—therapy and/or Al-Anon meetings from time to time. I’d encourage her too, to consider some mental health support of some kind.
I’d invite her to do a challenge or reset with me. She was most certainly on a troubling path, though not yet off a cliff with her habits. We could each pick a habit we wanted to shake and support each other through a 30-day break or reset. I was smoking cigarettes at the time, and I’m guessing we’d both be pretty motivated to help each other let go of what wasn’t serving us. (Today, if I were to do this with a friend or family member, I’d choose caffeine, one I am clinging to and also quietly questioning.)
I’d use the Eight Awarenesses with particular attention around #1: My life is better clear and #2: I choose what I consume. I’d want us to together consider these during our resets, talking them through, researching our experiences, connecting as we inevitably grew and deepened our connection as we explored.
I’d make sure we were eating and drinking clean food and water, and taking supportive supplements to the extent helpful. (Yes, including the CLR offering we launched some months ago).
I’d spend time helping us celebrate the upsides of our changes. Are we tuning into our intuition more? Is exercise more fun, consistent? Sleeping better? Do we look better as our bodies purge some of these toxins? Losing weight?
I’d play with new ways to entertain and calm ourselves that don’t involve our go-to habits: take a walk, go to the movies, dive into a memorabilia or photo preservation project, watch or read a series, pick up a new hobby.
What Actually Happened
Memories from what followed that day so many years ago sits like jagged objects on the shelf in my consciousness. I can feel them, sense them from time to time—hours I can revisit, but not revise.
I made an appointment with one of the local drug and alcohol treatment centers. My mom eventually agreed to go in large part due to my tearful pleading. The car ride was silent and tense. We were together in a complicated capsule of curiosity, resentment, humility, and rage.
When we arrived at the clinic, she was immediately treated like a child—baby talk, hand holding—all from the admitting nurse doing his best. Questions. Paperwork. Waiting room. More questions. Some signatures. A transfer to a smaller, private room. I could hear the cars whizzing by outside. Freedom, a window away, I could hear her thinking. She was told she’d be alone and “under observation” for 48 hours as they did tests and assessed her. Controlled food, sparse clinical setting, and no contact with people outside until next week.
I watched her, sitting there in her fabulous outfit, eyebrows up, sunglasses perched on her head, legs crossed, designer handbag at her side. When the nurse stopped talking and left the room for a few minutes, my mom looked at me and said “Absolutely no fucking way, Cecily” and marched on her high heels out of the clinic and back to the car. I sat in still silence for a few minutes, staring at the linoleum floor, hearing the murmur of voices out in the hall, as alone as maybe I’ve ever been. Soon enough, I followed her out and took us home again.
And that was that.
I am certain, in my core, that there are better ways to support people curious about positive change at countless moments before these.
And that, my friends, is why I am here.
Love.
🦄 Congratulations to the on their recent raise! As announced just yesterday, the company brought in $100M at a $1.1B valuation. I think we can all agree that this platform is a wonderful alternative to mega social media and I couldn’t be happier to see them fueled up to scale.
⭕️ Saturday Sangha is confirmed for tomorrow, July 19th, 2025 at 9:00 AM PT / Noon ET. We begin with a brief meditation, set a bit of context, and then open the space for shared exploration. While not about “sobriety” or “recovery,” we are all actively exploring a life without dimmers. These are beautiful hours! Thank you to those who join. Link for an invitation here.
🥚 Here’s a little Easter Egg… for you most dedicated readers who made it to the end… My book, Undimmed: The Eight Awarenesses for Freedom from Unwanted Habits is available for pre-sale on Amazon. I also have “galley copies” in hand for sharing with people writing blurbs and offering other support. Thank you, Tamara, for capturing a shot of me with it earlier this week.
wow. dude.
So powerful. I gotta be honest Cecily it breaks my heart …and Thank you b/c your work / authenticity will help many people who at a similar tender age unfortunately shoulder an enormous responsibility & role reversal with parents.