The Net We Build

There’s an old saying: “Leap, and the net will appear.” It sounds poetic, wise, and reassuring. It also sounds like bullshit when you’re the one standing at the edge of the cliff, staring down at nothing but air, wondering if you’re about to free-fall into oblivion.

I look around today, and it feels like the whole world is teetering on the edge. Institutions cracking, democracy fraying, a slow-creeping chaos disguised as leadership unraveling the seams of what once felt solid. The old guard dismantling protections while the rest of us brace for impact, caught between the urge to scream and the fear that no one is listening—or worse, that it wouldn’t even matter if they were. The world is unraveling. At least, that’s what it feels like. And so many people either look away or lean into the chaos, as if destruction is its own kind of power.

It’s easy, almost instinctive, to let panic rise. To clench my jaw, scroll through the latest catastrophe, and wonder if we’re all just free-falling into something irreparable. My nervous system is primed for disaster, ready to react.

But then I remember the net.

Photo by Matheus Costa on Unsplash

Before I got sober, I didn’t believe in nets. I believed in hard landings. I believed in gravity, in the cruel certainty that whatever could go wrong, eventually would. And above all else, I believed I was alone—responsible for saving myself, for keeping myself from breaking into pieces. So when the world inevitably threw its weight onto my shoulders, I reached for the one thing that softened the impact: a drink.

But then the drinking stopped working. Instead of cushioning the fall, it became the thing pushing me off the ledge. Sobriety, terrifying and uncertain, was my only way out. So one day, I leapt, sure that nothing would catch me but my own willpower. I remember believing that white knuckling my way through fear was the only way to survive, that self-reliance was my only refuge.

What I didn’t expect—what I couldn’t have expected—was that something would catch me.

At first, it wasn’t the kind of net I wanted. It didn’t look like divine intervention or immediate peace or some grand revelation. It looked like a phone call at the exact moment I needed it, an out reached hand, a bossy sponsor telling me what to do, or an old man in a leather chair at a 6:30 a.m. meeting saying, “Keep coming back.” It looked like a full moon on a beach, reminding me there was something vast and beautiful beyond my suffering. It looked like a voice in my head telling me to tell my father the truth about my sobriety when every rational part of me said it would only lead to hurt. And it looked like walking away from a relationship I knew wasn’t right because I wanted my own approval more.

Photo by Hanna Morris on Unsplash

The net was there, but it wasn’t just waiting below me, ready to catch my fall. It was within me, rising to meet me—strengthening with every prayer, every act of surrender, every step I took, and every moment I chose to trust instead of run.

In those first fragile months of sobriety, I learned that faith is not about passively waiting for a rescue. It’s not about curling into a ball, hoping someone or something will come fix the mess. Faith is action. Faith is trust. Faith is participating in something greater than myself. Faith is taking the leap and knowing the net is there.

Long-term sobriety, especially in times of trouble, is about knowing the net is woven into the fabric of your life in ways you can’t always see. And now, in a world that feels like it’s unraveling, I remind myself of this: The net will always appear—but we are also the ones who help build it.

We cannot spend every day in a state of emergency and expect to build anything lasting. Fear is not what steadies us. Panic is not what saves us. Just like in sobriety, we learn to act—not from a place of frantic desperation, but from a place of trust, wisdom, and alignment with our Creator.

This doesn’t mean inaction. Far from it. It means we act—not in a desperate attempt to control every outcome, but from a belief that this world is grace-filled and benevolent. It means we don’t get lost in the doom, but we don’t ignore the call to move, either.

If I have learned anything from both sobriety and the state of the world, it’s this: God is the net. And we are, too.

We are the ones who hold the line. We must show up for each other. We must create the safety we want to see in the world. And we must refuse to let fear be the loudest voice in the room. We are not here to free-fall into chaos. We are here to catch each other.

So if you’re feeling unsteady right now, I understand. If your nervous system is fried, if your hope feels threadbare, if you are exhausted by the weight of everything—I get it. I really do. But we are not powerless.

We can stay present without drowning in the noise. We can trust in something greater than ourselves and connect to that something so that we can take empowered action aligned with the truth of who we are.

The net appears because we trust it will. But it is also strengthened every time we choose to be part of it. So let’s keep showing up. Let’s keep steadying each other. Let’s keep holding the line.

The world may appear to be unraveling, but there are things we cannot yet see or understand. And God can use us to reweave it—one thread at a time, one act of faith at a time, and one connection at a time.

All we need to do is get quiet enough to listen—and willing enough to become part of the net that will catch us all if we take the leap.