It happened mid-Zoom.
I was in the middle of telling my therapist why I couldn’t possibly slow down, why I was spiraling, why I felt like I was going straight bonkers because my plans weren’t coming to fruition fast enough, why and why and why… and he just stopped me.
“Shane,” he said. “You’ve got to get a hold of yourself.”
And then, to make sure I understood, he said, “Get a HOLD of yourself, literally.” Then he hugged himself.
Not in a “namaste” yoga retreat way. Not in a “self-love Instagram influencer” way. He just crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and squeezed his shoulders, then looked me dead in the eye through the webcam and smiled.
It was simple. It was unexpected. And it was perfect.
The Sticky Note That Stuck
As he released his hug, (after a quick sarcastic back-and-forth inside my head) I told him to hang on a sec as I wrote it down on a Post-it and slapped it on my desk:
Get a HOLD of yourself.
It’s been there ever since. And it’s become one of those deceptively simple phrases that mean way more than the words themselves.
Because here’s the thing: when you’ve lived most of your life either running from yourself or trying to outpace your own thoughts, “getting a hold of yourself” isn’t intuitive. It’s borderline foreign. It’s certainly nowhere close to what you want to do in the heat of the mind’s battles.
We’re pros at getting a hold of other things:
● The next drink.
● The next distraction.
● The next argument to prove we’re right.
● The next task so we don’t have to feel what we’re feeling.
If you’re like me — in moments of manic panic — your eyes widen. They begin to wander from side to side. Your nostrils flare. Your chest tightens. Your breath catches in your throat as your entire being searches for a target. A scapegoat. A thing to slam. A word to scream. A fix.
But actually stopping long enough to wrap your own arms around your own body and just… hold? That’s a different skill entirely. That’s spiral-stopping, panic-squelching, self-care right there.
The Art of the Hug You Give Yourself
When my therapist first did it, I’ll be honest — my brain went straight to mockery. My inner eyes rolled because I didn’t want to be rude and actually roll my eyes.
“Oh great. I’m paying $150 an hour for this guy to tell me to hug myself like I’m in a third-grade trust circle.”
But somewhere between the eye-roll and the smirk, I realized something: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d physically comforted myself without it coming through a screen, or from a bottle, or a bong, or on a plate of something fried.
“Try it,” he said. So I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around my shoulders. Crossing my arms felt unnatural. My breath was choppy at first, but then it began to slow. The office chair creaked in the quiet. I could hear the dog’s breathing. The low hum of the refrigerator. My own heartbeat. And then — the warmth of my hands on my shoulders. A stillness came over me.
My therapist’s voice cut gently into the silence: “It’s like you’re telling that little boy inside you that everything’s gonna be okay.” I felt it. It was as if I was hugging myself back from the inside.
A self-hug isn’t magic. It doesn’t erase debt or heal trauma. But in that tiny act, something shifts. You’re telling your nervous system: I’m here. I’ve got you. You can stop bracing for a hit that isn’t coming.
And for someone whose entire life has been one long flinch, that’s revolutionary.
Why It Feels So Weird
If you’ve ever tried to comfort yourself without a substance, you know how alien it feels at first. It’s like you’re a bad actor in a bad play. This sucks and I suck at doing it, your brain mumbles.
My whole life, “self-soothing” meant pouring a drink, lighting a cigarette, hitting a bong, or otherwise distracting myself into oblivion. Constantly reaching, constantly searching. The concept of actually being with myself without trying to change how I felt was as foreign as speaking fluent dolphin.
And when you’re used to adrenaline and chaos, stillness can feel like withdrawal. The absence of crisis doesn’t feel like peace — it feels like something’s wrong.
That’s why “get a hold of yourself” hits me as both hilarious and profound. It’s not just “calm down.” It’s “anchor yourself, because the storm isn’t in the room — it’s in your head.”
Sobriety and the Flailing Stage
Here’s the dirty secret about early sobriety: you don’t feel graceful. You feel like one of those inflatable tube men outside a car dealership—arms flapping, head whipping side to side, zero stability. You’re upright, sure, but only because you’re tethered to the ground by some miracle.
Without alcohol, I had no buffer. My emotions came at me like dodgeballs in a middle school gym. In those first weeks, the flailing stage wasn’t just a phase — it was my entire personality.
There was the day I stood frozen in front of the beer aisle, hands shoved in my pockets like a kid in the candy aisle trying not to touch the candy. Every cell in my body screamed for that “just one” — which we both know is never just one. A self-hug right then might’ve reminded me that safety could come from inside, not from a can.
Or the first Friday night alone in my house with no plans, no numbing agent. Just me, a clock that wouldn’t shut up, and a brain convinced I was missing out on the party of the century. If I’d wrapped my arms around myself, maybe I could’ve convinced my nervous system I wasn’t actually alone — that the little boy inside me wasn’t being abandoned again.
Then there was my first big fight in sobriety — heart racing, vision tunneling, ready to slam a door so hard the neighbors would check for structural damage. If I’d stopped to sit and hug myself before firing off a single word, I might have saved myself an apology tour.
Half the time, I didn’t even know what I was feeling — just that it was big, it was here, and it was mine to deal with now.
When I Didn’t Get a Hold of Myself
Before sobriety, before I even knew what “getting a hold of yourself” meant, I’d stomp on the gas and aim straight for the wall. No brakes. No rest stops.
One time, a family member posted something I thought was inappropriate on social media. Drunk and self-appointed “Facebook police,” I called them out publicly. After making a spectacle of myself online, I carried the fight into text messages and managed to destroy a relationship with someone I loved. We didn’t speak for years — because they didn’t forgive my toxicity until after I got sober.
You can’t get a hold of yourself when you won’t slow down long enough to be held — especially when you hate yourself so much you wouldn’t hold you if someone paid you to.
And that’s where “getting a hold of yourself” comes in. It’s the pause button. The “don’t throw the first emotional punch” moment. The reminder that you can be the one holding you up instead of waiting for someone else to do it.
Hugging the Guy Who Made the Mess
Here’s the tricky part: it’s hard to hold yourself when you’re mad… at yourself.
It’s like being forced to comfort the roommate who just trashed the kitchen after you spent three hours cleaning it. Every instinct says, “No, you don’t deserve comfort — you deserve a lecture.”
But in recovery, if you only offer yourself comfort when you feel worthy of it, you’ll never get any. You’ll wait for perfection before you show yourself compassion, and perfection is on backorder forever.
Sometimes, you’ve got to hug the guy who made the mess — because if you don’t, he’s just going to make another one.
The Science-y Bit (Stay With Me)
Physical touch — even from yourself — can actually calm your nervous system. Your brain releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol, and signals to your body that it’s safe.
That means when you literally get a hold of yourself, you’re not just doing some cheesy self-help move — you’re chemically shifting from fight-or-flight into rest-and-digest.
And let me tell you, most of us in recovery have been living in fight-or-flight since dial-up internet was a thing.
It’s Not Just About Hugs
“Getting a hold of yourself” is bigger than the physical gesture. It’s about:
Interrupting the spiral. Stopping the thought loop before it gets traction.
Naming the thing. Saying out loud, “I’m overwhelmed” or “I’m angry” instead of just acting it out.
Choosing the next step on purpose. Not just letting your default setting (avoidance, rage, panic, escapism) drive the car.
It’s both grounding and directional — a reminder to check your own grip before grabbing at anything else.
The Humor in the Heavy
Let’s be clear: I’m not floating through life now in a state of perpetual self-hugging enlightenment. Sometimes I want to smack myself, not hug.
Sometimes I still blow right past the Post-it on my desk. Sometimes I go full disaster mode before I remember it’s even there. Sometimes the idea of hugging myself feels like the dumbest, most try-hard-y thing in the world.
But then I think about all the other things I’ve done to cope — the humiliating, reckless, costly, downright dangerous things — and suddenly wrapping my arms around myself for a few seconds feels like a pretty harmless alternative.
Plus, it helps me remember that others hold me, too. God, in His infinite grace. My kids, in their infinite love. My family, in their infinite compassion. My sober peeps, in their infinite understanding.
Sometimes “getting a hold of yourself” isn’t about white-knuckling control at all. It’s remembering that you’re already being held — by something bigger, steadier, and more loving than you. Whether you call that God, grace, Nature, the universe, or the One who knit you together before you ever took a breath, it’s the reminder that you don’t have to keep holding yourself up alone. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is loosen your grip and lean into the arms that already hold you.
For the Newcomer Who’s Flailing
If you’re reading this and you’re in early recovery, here’s the truth: you are going to have moments where you feel like you can’t stand yourself. You’ll want to crawl out of your own skin. You’ll want to pick up whatever you used to pick up just to get a break from being you.
In those moments, I hope you’ll remember this: getting a hold of yourself isn’t about pretending everything’s fine. It’s about proving to yourself you can survive feeling exactly how you feel without abandoning yourself in the process.
You’ve probably left yourself hanging a lot in life. Now’s your chance to change that.
The Post-it Test
That Post-it on my desk isn’t just decoration. It’s a checkpoint.
When I see it, I ask:
Am I actually holding myself together right now, or am I white-knuckling it until the next escape?
Am I treating myself like someone worth holding onto, or like a problem I’m trying to drop off at the curb?
If someone I loved felt how I feel right now, what would I tell them to do?
Most days, my answers aren’t perfect. But they’re honest. And that’s enough to keep me in the game.
Closing
My therapist probably doesn’t remember that Zoom session. For him, it was just another in-the-moment tool. For me, it was a hinge moment — a simple phrase that cracked something open.
Get a HOLD of yourself.
Sometimes that means literally. Sometimes it’s about slowing the spin. Sometimes it’s about refusing to run from the version of you that needs you most.
Either way, it’s about staying.
And if you can learn to stay with yourself — to hold on when you most want to let go — that’s when recovery stops being something you’re doing and starts being who you are.
I still flap in the wind sometimes — life’s gusts haven’t stopped — but now I know where my tether is. And when I feel myself starting to tip, I don’t just ride it out until the crash. I get a hold of myself… and hold on.
Shane, your perspective on sobriety is truly valued.