This was such a powerful read. I found myself sitting with it long after.
“There is a child inside every strong man” and “someone I no longer need to run from” both really stayed with me. There is so much honesty and tenderness in the way you write about struggle, identity, and trying to find your way back to yourself.
Thank you for sharing something so vulnerable. I truly hope you keep writing.
Thank you for sharing this. I felt the truth of that space you described, the difference between falling and choosing to go quiet. It takes courage to honor your own process, especially in a world that expects us to always push forward or explain ourselves. I just wanted you to know your reflections made me pause and appreciate those quieter moments in my own life as well. I’m grateful you let us in on this part of your journey.
You found the exact seam of it - that going quiet is not the same as falling, and that neither one owes the world an explanation. That your own quieter moments came back to you while reading means more to me than any agreement could. Thank you for pausing here, and for saying so.
Thankyou for sharing Dominick I found myself asking, when we stop performing who is there? After the play is over who sweeps the stage? and is that person content enough with the play, the rubbish they put out and the stars on a cold night?
I have been sitting with your questions instead of answering them quickly, because they deserve that.
When we stop performing, who is there? I can only tell you what I found. Less than I hoped, at first. A man without his best lines, without the warm lighting, standing in a very quiet room. For a while I mistook that quiet for emptiness. It took me a long time to understand it was simply the absence of noise I had been calling myself.
And who sweeps the stage? We do, Vivien. There is nobody else. That is the hard part and also the mercy of it. The same hands that took the bows must pick up what the performance left behind. I swept for years. Some nights it felt like punishment. Now I think it was the first honest work I ever did.
Is that person content - with the play, the rubbish, the stars on a cold night? Not always. But here is what I know now that I did not know then: contentment was never going to come from the play being good. It comes from staying outside long enough, after the sweeping, to actually look up. The stars were there through every performance. I just had my back to them, facing the audience.
You asked as someone who has stood in that cold. I recognize it. I am glad we are both still looking up.
Thank you Dominic. I am glad we are both still looking up to see the stars as well. Thank you for your thoughtful reply and the recognition as a fellow traveller. Substack at it best.😊
Dominic, this is an extraordinarily vulnerable piece, and what struck me immediately was the distinction you draw between falling and disappearing quietly while continuing to function. “To function while disappearing” is such a powerful articulation of a suffering that can remain almost entirely invisible to the people around us.
I particularly appreciated your refusal to simplify alcohol into a monster that suddenly invaded your life. “It arrived like a friend.” That honesty makes the eventual recognition of its betrayal—the friend collecting its debt—all the more devastating. There is no easy villain here, only pain searching for somewhere to go.
But perhaps the most powerful movement in the piece comes with your understanding of sobriety not simply as absence, but as space: that brutal interval where there is nowhere left to run and one must finally encounter oneself without noise, performance, or escape. And from that space comes not some grand declaration of healing, but something quieter and infinitely more believable: a return.
I’m happily subscribing because I value writing that has the courage to explore the difficult territories of human experience without forcing them into neat resolutions. At The Reflective State, I too find myself drawn to the inner worlds that exist beneath what others can immediately see—the implicit behind the explicit. If curiosity ever leads you there, I’d be delighted to have you read some of my work and share your thoughts.
Very glad to have discovered your writing, Dominic. “Maybe my work is not to hate the storm. Maybe my work is to stop becoming it.” That line will stay with me. I hope you keep writing this book.
This was such a powerful read. I found myself sitting with it long after.
“There is a child inside every strong man” and “someone I no longer need to run from” both really stayed with me. There is so much honesty and tenderness in the way you write about struggle, identity, and trying to find your way back to yourself.
Thank you for sharing something so vulnerable. I truly hope you keep writing.
Thank you for sharing this. I felt the truth of that space you described, the difference between falling and choosing to go quiet. It takes courage to honor your own process, especially in a world that expects us to always push forward or explain ourselves. I just wanted you to know your reflections made me pause and appreciate those quieter moments in my own life as well. I’m grateful you let us in on this part of your journey.
Hello Sunshine,
You found the exact seam of it - that going quiet is not the same as falling, and that neither one owes the world an explanation. That your own quieter moments came back to you while reading means more to me than any agreement could. Thank you for pausing here, and for saying so.
With quiet thanks 🙏
Dominic
Thankyou for sharing Dominick I found myself asking, when we stop performing who is there? After the play is over who sweeps the stage? and is that person content enough with the play, the rubbish they put out and the stars on a cold night?
Hello Vivien,
I have been sitting with your questions instead of answering them quickly, because they deserve that.
When we stop performing, who is there? I can only tell you what I found. Less than I hoped, at first. A man without his best lines, without the warm lighting, standing in a very quiet room. For a while I mistook that quiet for emptiness. It took me a long time to understand it was simply the absence of noise I had been calling myself.
And who sweeps the stage? We do, Vivien. There is nobody else. That is the hard part and also the mercy of it. The same hands that took the bows must pick up what the performance left behind. I swept for years. Some nights it felt like punishment. Now I think it was the first honest work I ever did.
Is that person content - with the play, the rubbish, the stars on a cold night? Not always. But here is what I know now that I did not know then: contentment was never going to come from the play being good. It comes from staying outside long enough, after the sweeping, to actually look up. The stars were there through every performance. I just had my back to them, facing the audience.
You asked as someone who has stood in that cold. I recognize it. I am glad we are both still looking up.
With gratitude, Dominic
www.qualityofbecoming.com
🌺
Thank you Dominic. I am glad we are both still looking up to see the stars as well. Thank you for your thoughtful reply and the recognition as a fellow traveller. Substack at it best.😊
Dominic, this is an extraordinarily vulnerable piece, and what struck me immediately was the distinction you draw between falling and disappearing quietly while continuing to function. “To function while disappearing” is such a powerful articulation of a suffering that can remain almost entirely invisible to the people around us.
I particularly appreciated your refusal to simplify alcohol into a monster that suddenly invaded your life. “It arrived like a friend.” That honesty makes the eventual recognition of its betrayal—the friend collecting its debt—all the more devastating. There is no easy villain here, only pain searching for somewhere to go.
But perhaps the most powerful movement in the piece comes with your understanding of sobriety not simply as absence, but as space: that brutal interval where there is nowhere left to run and one must finally encounter oneself without noise, performance, or escape. And from that space comes not some grand declaration of healing, but something quieter and infinitely more believable: a return.
I’m happily subscribing because I value writing that has the courage to explore the difficult territories of human experience without forcing them into neat resolutions. At The Reflective State, I too find myself drawn to the inner worlds that exist beneath what others can immediately see—the implicit behind the explicit. If curiosity ever leads you there, I’d be delighted to have you read some of my work and share your thoughts.
Very glad to have discovered your writing, Dominic. “Maybe my work is not to hate the storm. Maybe my work is to stop becoming it.” That line will stay with me. I hope you keep writing this book.