The Things They Can’t Measure
A short story for when the world goes sideways
Larry had spent the afternoon reading statements that made his eyebrows twitch.
Human rights commissioners declaring addiction wasn’t a disease but a consequence of discrimination.
Public-health officials implying recovery was unrealistic.
Academics announcing that lived experience was “anecdotal.”
In other words: another normal day in British Columbia.
By evening, he felt the spiral tightening — that familiar frustration that makes a man argue with his computer like it’s personally responsible.
So he did what he always does.
He went to his Wednesday meeting.
Fifteen people. Two hundred and fifty years of sobriety.
Someone shared about their first meeting — and their first kiss sober.
Someone else talked about forgiving themselves after forty years.
There were tears. Hugs. The quiet nods that say, I get you.
And Larry realized — again — that many of the experts who pontificate about addiction would never fully understand that room.
They lived in dashboards and policy language.
He lived in connection and meaning.
On the walk home, he imagined two rooms side by side.
Room One: The Experts
Fluorescent lights.
Neutral walls.
PowerPoints.
They discussed “population-level trends,” “socio-behavioural determinants,” and “harmonized metrics of outcome variance.”
Not one had cried with someone at 2 a.m.
Not one had walked through hell and back with another human being.
Their charts had curves, but no faces.
Their recommendations had structure, but no soul.
They had models.
They had data.
They had ideology.
They did not have life.
Room Two: Larry’s Life
A dog greeting him like a returning war hero.
A partner who loved him but one day might put a “Free to a Good Home” sign on him.
A room full of men and women who know what heartache feels like — and what hope feels like.
A belly laugh about hiding vodka behind a toilet tank.
A novel that dares to say the quiet part out loud.
He had joy.
He had belonging.
He had recovery that breathed — and reached back when others were falling.
Most of all, he had a life no bureaucracy could file under a diagnostic code.
The Realization
Standing in his driveway, watching Nena zoom like a small furry meteor, Larry said out loud:
“I have something they can’t measure, can’t manufacture, and can’t fake.”
“I don’t pretend to have all the answers. I only know what has kept me alive.”
The truth settled into his bones.
They could have the frameworks.
The committees.
The position papers.
He would keep his humanity.
The Wednesday laughter.
The gratitude.
The craft.
And when the world tried to tell him he needed to be chemically managed or ideologically corrected, Larry would do what he has always done:
He would rebel.
Politely.
Firmly.
With clarity.
And with hope.
Because he knows something the experts don’t:
A free man with joy in his heart is harder to control than a thousand position papers.
***
If this resonates, you’re invited to join my Reader’s Circle for reflections and behind-the-scenes insights at Reader’s Circle — Dr. Larry Smith