[Guest blog by SMART Facilitator Kelly Scullin, CPCC, SHRM-SCP]
Just like the marquee outside a theater this time of year, holidays come in every genre. Some years feel like a cozy ensemble movie—shared jokes, warm food, maybe a nap. Other years feel more like a psychological thriller starring… also you. Family tension, loneliness, grief, cravings, “oh no, that topic again,” or the weird pressure to have a very meaningful time on a very specific day. And if you’re in recovery, the holiday can feel more like a stunt sequence: an obstacle course of emotional booby traps and feats of balance while you’re carrying a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes in one hand and a gravy boat filled to the brim and precariously perched on a slippery saucer in the other.
The good news: this is not Mission Impossible. You’re not being asked to leap from a moving vehicle or diffuse a bomb before dessert. In fact, you don’t have to wait for the holiday to happen to influence how it goes. You can start by noticing the story you’re telling yourself now and making small shifts while your brain is calmer, instead of in the heat of the moment, a strategy at the heart of SMART Recovery’s cognitive-behavioral approach: How we think shapes how we feel, and how we feel shapes what we do.
When we slow down enough to notice our inner narrative, we give ourselves the chance to shift from System 1 Thinking (reactive, flooded, impulsive) to System 2 (calm, curious, intentional), outlined in Chapter 2 of the SMART Recovery Handbook. Here’s a short, science-aligned practice—think of it as a script revision—to help you do exactly that.
A Mini-Practice: “The Story I’m Telling Myself”
Grab a notebook, scrap paper, or your notes app. You’re not trying to fix anything. Just noticing what’s already happening on screen.
Step 1: What’s the story? Write a sentence or two about the story running in the background as you think about the upcoming holiday. Be honest.
It might sound like:
“I’m bracing for conflict.”
“I’m nervous about cravings.”
“I’m sad I’ll be alone.”
“I want it to go well… and I’m scared it won’t.”
Whatever shows up is fine. Think of this as identifying your opening scene, not critiquing it.
Step 2: Score your current narrative
On a scale from 1–10:
How satisfied am I that my current narrative about the holiday will support a favorable outcome for me?
1 = “a horror film”
10 = “a feel-good flick”
Write down your number.
This isn’t a critique of your holiday or your family cast. You’re simply checking the genre of the story you’re accidentally carrying into the opening scene—is it already giving “tight close-ups and ominous music,” or is it leaning closer to “gentle lighting and a hopeful montage”? In other words, you’re grading whether the story you’re carrying into the holiday is setting you up for the ending you want. Naming the tone helps you decide whether the script needs a rewrite.
Step 3: Dream up the score you want
Now—rather than trying to be “realistic” or polite—let yourself get dreamy. Fantasize a little.
If the holiday were your personal Barbieland—your ideal world with your internal conditions tuned just right—what number would you love to walk away with at the end of it? Don’t worry about whether anyone else on screen is cooperating. This isn’t about controlling other characters. This is about imagining the emotional color palette you want for your experience.
Ask yourself:
What does that version of the day feel like?
What is different in this vision?
What shifts inside you at that number?
How do you move through scenes—lighter, steadier, more amused, more anchored?
What values glow brightest in this “Director’s Cut” of your holiday—play, kindness, boundaries, courage, ease?
Who are you being when you see yourself in those scenes?
And if visualization isn’t your medium, jot down qualities instead—your internal set design:
“I respond slowly instead of reacting.”
“I tell the truth about urges.”
“I practice one small boundary and keep it simple.”
“I allow at least one moment of real connection.”
This step is not escapism. It’s your imagination doing pre-production. Your brain is rehearsing the emotional arc you want to inhabit—planting seeds of possibility long before the holiday lights come up.
Step 4: Check in with your Whole Self
What is my mind telling me?
Capture the thoughts circling your story. Minds love absolutes and dramatic monologues—this is your chance to watch them without giving them the director’s chair.
What physical sensations do I notice in my body? Where does the story land in your physical body—jaw, chest, stomach, shoulders? Is it warm or cool? Heavy or light? Tight or loose? Still or buzzy?
This is your internal score—a soundtrack that lets you know what’s rising before the big moment hits.
What emotion is present right now? Name one: relief, dread, tenderness, overwhelm, hope, sadness, anticipation. Every good movie has emotional range; so do you.
What does my Recovery Voice have to say? Call on your Recovery Voice (or whatever name for it you want—your Inner Leader, Highest Self, Internal Compass).
Ask: “What do you want me to remember?”
Let its guidance surface. Maybe it says something like…
“You can step outside and breathe.”
“You deserve to feel safe.”
“One moment at a time.”
“Your worth isn’t measured by this day.”
This Deep Place of Knowing is your quiet narrator—the one who knows how the character arc unfolds. Let whatever comes through be enough. By the time you finish these steps, you’ve already shifted genres:
from frantic action sequence to grounded drama
from reacting to observing
from chaos to clarity
from autopilot to intentional direction
You’ve slowed your thinking. You’ve acknowledged your feelings instead of outrunning them. You’ve connected with your most grounded part. From here, you can set a gentle intention, jot down a tiny plan, or gift yourself grounding statements—your pocket-sized script notes for the holiday.
System 2 thinking thrives on small, doable moves.
Mitigating Holiday Plot Twists: “Play the tape forward.”
This classic recovery technique fits the movie motif almost too perfectly. When an urge hits—emotional, behavioral, or interpersonal—pause and mentally fast-forward the tape. Don’t freeze the frame at the moment of temptation or relief. Let the scene play through:
Often, the relief in the opening scene is followed by regret or fallout in the closing credits.
“Play the tape forward” helps you choose the story that aligns with your Barbieland score instead of getting swept into a subplot you didn’t want to be part of. It’s not about scaring yourself—it’s about telling the truth about the whole plot, not just the seductive beginning.
Wobbles or Trips? It’s Not ‘The End.’
Even with preparation, humans are still… human. And honestly, the twists and imperfect scenes are often what give a story heart. If you slip into old patterns—a tense comment, an urge you didn’t expect, a boundary you didn’t hold—pause for a quick reset:
Acknowledge without judgment: “That happened. I’m human.” (Not, “It’s ruined.”)
Reorient to your value: Your values are still in wardrobe, ready for the next scene.
Take the next right tiny step: Text someone. Step outside. Drink water. Redirect. Breathe. Begin again.
Recovery is not pass/fail. It’s recalibrate and continue—more character development than climax.
Step 5: Director’s Debrief
Just like walking out of a movie theater and turning to your friend with, “Okay, what did you think?”, a simple five-minute reflection transforms one holiday into actual growth.
What went well—what am I proud of? (Even blink-and-you-miss-it wins count.)
What surprised me? (Often: “It wasn’t as bad as the trailer in my head.”)
Where did I wobble, and what helped me reset?
What will I carry forward into the next holiday or high-stress event?
What does my Recovery Voice want to say to me now? (Let it roll the credits with kindness.)
Whether your holiday is bustling, quiet, joyful, complicated, or some chaotic blend worthy of an indie film festival, you can meet it with clarity and steadiness. You get to choose your role. You get to influence the tone.
And the moment you pause to notice the story you’re telling yourself, you’re already stepping into the director’s chair:
Every scene that follows becomes a choice, not a foregone conclusion.
Every reset becomes character development, not a plot hole.
And every value you return to becomes part of the through-line that carries you forward.
In other words, you’re not at the mercy of the script you inherited—you’re revising it in real time.
This practice gives Future You someone to thank in the epilogue, when the camera pulls back, the credits roll, and the narrator (still you) says, “Look at that. I stayed with myself through the whole story.” And if you want to close the scene with a classic line—one that fits recovery, agency, and self-regard—you might offer it gently to yourself as you head into the holiday: Here’s looking at you, kid.
