Detoxing from Urgency

I hate "Easy Does It." The words make my skin crawl. Slowing down feels physically uncomfortable, like withdrawal. My body is calibrated for urgency—adrenaline spikes, crisis mode, immediate action required. Calm isn't peaceful; it's excruciating.

I grew up in a home where everything was an emergency. Raised voices, slammed doors, frantic scrambling to manage the unmanageable. My nervous system learned that "normal" meant high alert. Anything less feels like negligence, like I'm not paying attention, like disaster is coming and I'm asleep at the wheel.

"Easy Does It" asks me to detox from the drug I'm most addicted to: urgency itself. High drama gives me purpose. It makes me feel necessary, alive, vigilant. When I slow down, I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know how to exist without the adrenaline rush.

Al-Anon is teaching me that urgency is just another way to stay drunk on chaos. Using the slogan isn't about being lazy—it's about recognizing that speed and intensity aren't the same as effectiveness. The discomfort is real. The detox is brutal. But so is living perpetually braced for impact.

When I notice myself rushing or manufacturing urgency, I can pause and ask: Is this actually an emergency, or am I just uncomfortable with calm? Can I deliberately slow my movements, my speech, my decisions for five minutes and notice the physical discomfort of detoxing from adrenaline? What happens if I practice "Easy Does It" even when it feels wrong?