Ok, if you've been following this series, we've been comparing the 5 Stages of Grief to the journey of chemsex recovery. Again, I'll remind you that the process outlined here is the world according to Dallas; there are no official peer-reviewed studies to back this up. However, if you've been following and see yourself in the examples, my work is done.
My intent is not to offer a prescribed series of stages, but to help facilitate articulating how you might be feeling and to offer some direction. My intentions are pure, I want to assure you.
We have walked the whole road together. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. The four stages that I propose each man in chemsex recovery has to move through, in his own time, in his own order, sometimes circling back, sometimes camping out, and ALWAYS moving toward their healing.
And now we are at the last one.
Acceptance.
If you don't go any further, I want you to really absorb this: Acceptance is not a destination; it's a state of being.
Acceptance is a daily orientation. It is the practice of inhabiting your new life instead of mourning the old one. It is the moment, repeated thousands of times, when you stop fighting and surrender to what is.
Let us go into it carefully.
THE ROOT OF THE WORD
The Latin origins of the word acceptance mean to "bring something close to oneself, to hold it close." I'm not gonna break it down for you, so Google it if you want the full picture.
So, acceptance is an action word. It is the deliberate act of taking something toward yourself. Of opening your arms and pulling something in that you might otherwise have pushed away.
Literally, acceptance means to do this again and again. It is not a one-time motion. It is a practice. A discipline. A way of living.
Acceptance is the practice of taking toward yourself the parts of yourself you have been pushing away.
THE PARTS YOU REJECTED
So, there's been a part of you who you're grieving through this entire process. That part of you has died. You distanced yourself from him and the things he said, did, and was aroused by while under the influence.
But acceptance, in its root meaning, asks something different of you now.
Acceptance asks you to take him back.
Not to become him again. Not to invite him back into the driver's seat. Not to let him run the show.
To love him.
The part of you that lied.
The part of you that enjoyed it.
The part of you that hurt people.
The part of you that wanted to use.
The part of you that, even now, sometimes misses it.
The part of you that picked up the pipe the first time.
The part of you that kept picking it up after you knew.
The part of you that did things in those rooms that you have never told anyone.
All of those parts.
You have been rejecting them. You have been pushing them away. You have been treating them like a previous tenant who trashed the apartment, someone you are glad to be rid of, someone you would never invite back in.
But those parts are not a previous tenant. Those parts are you. They have always been you. And as long as you keep them at arm's length, treating them as an aberration, an enemy, a stain, they will continue to operate in the basement of your life without your awareness.
They will surface in moments of stress. They will whisper in moments of loneliness. They will find ways to be heard. (For more on this, see my podcast about Shadow Work)
The way home is not to keep pushing. The way home is acceptare. To take them toward you. To bring them close. To love them anyway.
WHAT THIS LOOKS LIKE IN PRACTICE
This does not mean celebrating what happened. It does not mean approving of what you did. It does not mean rewriting the harm into something it was not.
It means standing in front of the mirror and including everything when you look.
The man who hurt people. He is you. Love him anyway.
The man who lied. He is you. Love him anyway.
The man who chose the pipe over his family. He is you. Love him anyway.
The man who did things in those rooms that he still cannot name out loud. He is you. Love him anyway.
The man who, in spite of all the work, still sometimes feels the pull on a Friday night. He is you. Love him anyway.
The man who enjoyed it. This is often the hardest one. The man who, in the middle of all the destruction, had moments of pleasure, connection, ecstasy, and belonging that were real.
He is you. Love him anyway.
Loving these parts does not mean letting them drive. It means letting them sit in the room with you. It means stopping the war you have been waging against yourself in the name of recovery.
WHY THIS MATTERS
Men who skip this part of acceptance build recoveries that look beautiful on the outside and remain brittle on the inside.
They have done all the right things. They have processed denial. They have moved through anger. They have closed the door on bargaining. They have sat in depression. They have arrived at what looks like acceptance.
But underneath, they are still at war with the man they were. They have not pulled him toward them. They have only pushed him further away.
This is why some men, years into recovery, suddenly relapse with no apparent trigger. The exiled parts of them, the ones they refused to love, eventually demand to be heard. And the only voice those parts know how to use is the voice of using.
If you love them now, while you are chemsex-free, while you have the tools, while you have support, they do not need to scream later.
They can sit with you.
They can be part of you.
They can be integrated into the man you are becoming instead of haunting him.
The man you were in the scene is not your enemy. He was a man in pain who found a temporary solution that became a prison. He is not someone to defeat. He is someone to pull toward you, to take into your arms, to love until he no longer needs to fight for your attention.
That is what acceptare actually asks.
That is the practice of taking yourself, all of yourself, toward yourself.
That is acceptance.
HOW ACCEPTANCE SHOWED UP FOR ME
I do not have a single dramatic story for this stage. That is part of what makes it hard to write about.
The other stages had thresholds. Eviction. Jail. The moment I knew I was being arrested. The moment I sat in the cell and the weight finally landed.
Acceptance was different. Acceptance happened in pieces. It happened in mornings.
It happened in the morning I woke up and realized I had not thought about Tina in three days. Not because I had been working hard at not thinking about her, but because my mind had quietly turned its attention to other things. Books I wanted to read. A workout I was looking forward to. A friend I was excited to see.
It happened in the afternoon I drove past a place where I used to use and felt a flicker of recognition without a flicker of pull. The place was just a place. The version of me who had been there was not me anymore.
It happened in the evening I was alone in my apartment and the loneliness came, the way it always comes for men in this work, and I noticed that the loneliness was not asking me to use. The loneliness was just asking to be witnessed. I sat with it. I made tea. I wrote in my journal. I went to bed. And in the morning, I was still here.
It happened in the conversation with my mother, where I heard her voice and registered, with something close to wonder, that I was the man she had been praying for. I had become him. The man she had hoped existed underneath all the chaos was actually here, in this body, on this phone call, telling her I loved her without the performance that used to coat my voice.
These were not dramatic moments. They were small. They accumulated.
That is what acceptance looks like. Not a single dramatic ending. A thousand small affirmations of the new life. Each one quietly proving that the old self is gone, and the new self is real.
THE 2.0 VERSION OF YOU
In the opening newsletter I introduced you to the 2.0 version of yourself. The man you are becoming. The man on the other side of the grief.
Acceptance is the stage where you stop talking about him and start being him.
This is the work of the rest of your life. And it begins with a clear picture.
Who is the 2.0 version of you?
How does he wake up in the morning. What does he reach for. Does he reach for his phone, or does he sit with his coffee. Does he scroll, or does he stretch. Does he check the apps that used to feed his hunger, or has he deleted them and felt the freedom of having no notifications waiting.
How does he move through his day. Does he take his time. Does he eat real food. Does he look at the men around him without immediately calculating whether they want him or whether he wants them. Does he move his body. Does he work with focus instead of frenzy. Does he keep his word.
How does he spend his evenings. Does he have a practice for the long hours. Does he read. Does he cook. Does he call someone he loves. Does he go to bed when he is tired, instead of staying up trying to find a feeling that the night used to provide.
How does he handle the longing. Because the longing comes back. Even after years. It comes back. He does not pretend it does not exist. He does not panic when it shows up. He acknowledges it. He asks it what it wants. He gives it what it actually needs, which is almost never the substance, but almost always some form of connection, presence, or rest.
How does he handle the loneliness. Because the loneliness is the most consistent companion of the man in this stage. He has built tools for it. He calls a friend. He goes to a meeting or a group. He writes. He walks. He lets himself feel it without it becoming a crisis. He has learned that loneliness is not a sign that something is wrong. It is just a feeling. He can be with it.
How does he handle rejection. Because the new life is not free of rejection. The men he wants will not always want him back. The opportunities he reaches for will not all open. The vision he has for his life will not always materialize on his timeline. He has developed the capacity to be disappointed without disappearing. To grieve a small loss without using it as evidence that he should give up.
How does he handle joy. This one is underrated. The chemsex life had its own version of joy, and the new life is going to ask you to develop a different one. A slower one. A more sustainable one. The 2.0 version of you can sit in a moment of joy without needing to escalate it, document it, share it, or protect it. He can let it be what it is and then let it pass, knowing more is coming.
This man is not a fantasy. He is real. He is the one you are becoming. Every day in acceptance is another day of growing into him.
ACCEPTANCE IS NOT FORGIVENESS
I want to be careful here, because some teachings about acceptance get tangled up with forgiveness, and the two are not the same thing.
Acceptance is not forgiving yourself for what you did. Acceptance is not forgiving the people who hurt you. Acceptance is not absolving anyone of anything.
Forgiveness may come, in its own time, through its own work. Or it may not. You may forgive some people and not others. You may forgive yourself for some things and not for others.
What acceptance asks of you is to let go of past stories and change the narrative so it isn't defining you. Who you are today, or even in this very second, doesn't have to be a reflection of your past. It can reflect the future through the vision of who you're becoming.
Acceptance is taking steps forward toward your best and highest potential until you look nothing like the man you were.
You do not have to be okay with any of it. You do not have to bless it. You do not have to find the silver lining or the spiritual lesson or the redemptive frame.
You just stop being that man. Period.
How did you show up while in active use? Inconsistent? Volatile? Unresponsive to texts/calls? Unreliable? Chasing instant gratification?
Now, how can you show up in recovery? The simple answer is to do the complete opposite of all of those behaviors.
THE LONG ARC OF THIS STAGE
Acceptance is not the end of grief. I need to say that clearly, because the structure of the five stages can make it sound like acceptance closes the book.
It does not.
Grief comes back in waves.
It comes back on anniversaries.
It comes back when you smell a particular cologne.
It comes back when a song plays in a coffee shop.
It comes back when you see a man on the street who reminds you of someone from before.
It comes back in the slow afternoons, in the quiet evenings, in the moments when your guard is down.
Acceptance does not mean the grief is over. Acceptance is when the past has lost its meaning.
You do not panic. You do not interpret the return of grief as evidence that you have not done the work. You do not assume that because you are feeling this way, something is wrong with your recovery.
You let the grief have its visit. You acknowledge it. You sit with it for as long as it needs to be there. You let yourself remember, and feel, and weep if weeping comes. And then, when the visit is complete, you return to your life.
CLOSING
This is the end of the series, but it is not the end of the work.
The five stages of grief are not a road you walk once. They are a spiral you keep returning to, at different elevations, throughout the recovery journey.
You will hit denial again, in some new form, about some new layer. You will move through anger again. You will catch yourself bargaining. You will sit with depression. You will return to acceptance.
Each time you go through the spiral, you go through it faster. Each time, you go through it with more skill. Each time, you come out a little more whole.
That is what this work is. Not a one-time graduation. A practice. A discipline. A way of being a man in the world who has lived what you have lived and is still standing.
You are doing it. You are not behind. You are not too late. You are not too damaged. You are right on time for the life you are growing into.
The grief is real. The losses are real. The man you were has really died.
Now, you can pull that part of you close, embrace him, and drop the shame from the past. Pulling these parts close to you is deep integration. You are becoming whole. That is acceptance.
Keep going. The man you are becoming is worth every step.
Love you, Dallas
JOURNAL PROMPTS
Who is the 2.0 version of me? Describe him in detail. Not aspirationally. Specifically. How does he move, speak, spend his time, treat his body, choose his people?
What is one specific thing he does in the morning that the old version of me did not do? What is one specific thing he does in the evening?
How does he handle loneliness? Rejection? Joy? Boredom? Longing? Be specific about the tools he reaches for in each one.
What memory from the scene can I now remember without reaching? What memory still has pull, and what would it take to release the pull?
What is becoming possible in my life now that was not possible six months ago? Be honest with myself about the growth, even if it is small.
What am I now able to offer other men that I was not able to offer before? How might my grief, fully processed, become a gift to someone behind me on this road?
EXERCISE: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF YOUR 2.0 SELF
This is your final exercise in the series. Take it seriously. The men who do this exercise carefully and then live what they wrote tend to step fully into the new life. The men who skip it tend to drift.
Set aside an hour. Notebook, pen, quiet space.
You are going to write a day in the life of the 2.0 version of yourself. Not someday in the future. A specific Tuesday in the near future. Three months from now, or six, or a year. Pick a date.
Start with the night before. How does he go to bed. What time. What is the last thing he does before sleep. What is on his nightstand. Does he read. Does he meditate. Does he say a prayer.
Then write the morning. What time does he wake up. What is the first thing he reaches for. Is it his phone, or something else. What does he see when he opens his eyes. What does his bedroom look like. Has he made the choices about his space that reflect who he is becoming.
Walk through the morning routine. Coffee or tea. Food or no food. Movement or no movement. Shower. Dressing. What does he wear. What does that say about him.
Move into his work. What is he doing for work now. Is it work he chose. Is he good at it. Does he keep his word in it. Does he take breaks. Does he eat lunch. Does he hydrate.
Take him through the afternoon. Does he move his body. Does he go for a walk. Does he see a friend. Does he take a nap if he needs one. Does he have a coaching session, a therapy session, a meeting.
Take him into the evening. How does he end the workday. What does he do with his evenings. Does he cook. Does he go out. With whom. Where. What is the texture of his social life now.
Take him into the night. Is he alone. Is he with a partner. Is he with friends. What does intimacy look like for him now. What does pleasure look like. What does rest look like.
Then write one paragraph about how he feels when he goes to bed. Not euphoric. Not high. Just at peace. Just present. Just here.
When you are done, read it slowly. Mark one or two small things from that day that you can begin to live tomorrow. Not all of it. One or two.
Then go live them.
This is how the 2.0 version of you becomes real. Not through visualization alone. Through visualization plus action. One small piece at a time. Until the man you are describing on the page becomes the man you see in the mirror.
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