The pen felt heavy in John’s hand, heavier than the weight of the journal itself. He’d filled pages with a litany of failings, small indiscretions and large betrayals, all swirling together in a murky broth of regret. Step Four demanded a ruthless honesty, a stripping bare of the self, and the process felt like peeling back layers of skin, each layer revealing a deeper wound. He’d skirted around the edges before, hinting at generalized failings, but this was different. This demanded specifics. Names. Dates. The sharp sting of consequence.

He stared at the blank page, the white space mocking his hesitation. He thought of Sarah, his wife. The subtle, almost imperceptible ways he’d neglected her, prioritizing work, prioritizing himself, over the quiet needs of his partner. The unspoken resentments, the carefully avoided conversations, the simmering coldness that had crept into their once vibrant relationship. He wrote, his hand trembling, of the missed anniversaries, the forgotten birthdays, the countless evenings spent buried in paperwork instead of connecting with her. He detailed the moments he'd prioritized his own ambitions over her dreams, subtly undermining her confidence and silencing her voice. The words flowed, a torrent of guilt and self-recrimination.