“Hi, my name is Dan, and I’m an addict.”

You have to say this before you say anything else in a meeting of Narcotics Anonymous. Last night, I had my first taste of such a meeting. We sat together in a big smoky room. We laughed together, we mourned relapse, we became a body of people united under a common struggle.

Now before you start flooding my phone with concerned voicemails, I should say that, no, I’m not a drug addict. I have never used illegal drugs, and with God’s protection, I never will. At this NA meeting, I did not have to say, “Hi, my name is Dan, and I’m an addict.” I was an outside guest sitting in the middle of a room full of people who have experienced something I don’t understand. They go through an unimaginable amount of struggle for self-control and stability. They usually fail at this battle over and over again. Many of them never gain control.

Regardless, this gathering was a place of incredible hope. Truly, the energy in the room was amazing. Even though I felt out of place coming into the room, I knew from the glances of understanding and gentle smiles, I was welcome here. No one spoke to me or told me I was welcome. I just felt it. No one was sizing me up or questioning my motivation for being there. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been in a situation where I felt more accepted. It was like I was being told through so many ways: you are okay.

Part of the welcoming nature of the meeting was the sheer diversity in the room. To my right was an African-American woman dressed nicely like she just came from work. Further to my right was a young white guy with a rock band T-shirt on. There was a biker dude with a pony tail and suspenders. There was a white woman showing all the signs of prostitution. There was a Latino man showing all the signs of homosexuality. There was an old black guy who looked like he had just slept last night on the street, and there was a young white guy in khakis and a nice shirt, cell phone clipped on his belt. No matter who you are, you could walk into this room and find someone like you.

And this was the amazing thing: every person in this slice of humanity started off by saying, “Hey, my name is John/Sheryl/Doug/Jeff/Melinda/Larry/Frank, and I’m an addict.” Each time they spoke those words, the sound went into my ears, past my brain, and landed on the canvas of my soul. How powerful to admit such a thing! I cannot fathom the courage it takes to admit chemical addiction – to yourself, and furthermore, to a room full of people.