A Recovery Program in Your Pocket.Work the steps, plan your day, and find your people…

Work the steps — alone or with a group. Plan and review your day. Talk to an old timer awake at 2 a.m., read a virtual advice column, and yes — a recovery arcade. Everything you write is sealed with your own password.

Free and open to all.

What's inside

📖 Work the steps, not just read them

Plain-language guidance for all twelve, honest reflection questions, and a private journal that saves as you type. The fourth-step inventory builder walks you through resentments, fears and relationships column by column — then the eighth and ninth step lists track who you owe and where each amend stands.

🌅 A morning plan, a nightly review

Two minutes to set the day's intention, and a step-ten review at night to keep the wreckage from rebuilding. Stirred up in the middle of the afternoon? The spot-check inventory sorts it out in four questions and drafts the amend for you.

💌 Ask Lois

An old-fashioned advice column for everything that isn't a drink — the sister who won't call, the boss who takes the credit, grief that won't lift. Warm, plain-spoken, quietly built on the same principles without ever naming them.

🫂 Fellowship, on your terms

Step-study groups with a shared board, an invite link and a one-tap cheer. A sponsor finder that scores the people you've met and helps you make the ask. A phone list and call log, because the phone weighs a thousand pounds and this makes it lighter.

🔥 One more 24, counted

Day counter, review streaks, milestone celebrations, meeting log, and goals with deadlines you actually set. Showing up keeps adding up, and here you can see it doing that.

🔐 Sealed with your password, not ours

Every word you write is encrypted with a key only your password unlocks. Not the person who runs this site, not us, not anyone with the database in their hands. Share codes show a supporter your day count and step — never a syllable you wrote.

Meet the Old Timer

The voice from the back of the room — decades sober, awake at 2 a.m., never impressed and never unkind. Pick the one you'd actually listen to.

It's almost 2am. I've got twelve days and I'm sitting in my car outside a bar.
Twelve days is real. So is that parking lot. Start the car and drive — you can want a drink the whole way home and still not have one. That's the whole trick, and you already know how to do it.
Twelve days. Do you know what those cost you? And you're still in the car, not on the stool — that's you choosing, right now, in the hardest hour there is. Turn the key. I'll stay with you the whole way home.
Engine on. Into drive. Phone to your ear before you're out of that lot — in that order, starting now. You did not earn twelve days to hand them to a barstool at two in the morning. Move.
Ah, the two a.m. parking lot. I practically had mail delivered to mine. Here's the thing nobody tells you: the car works. It goes backwards out of the space and everything. Twelve days says you've got the better idea already — go on and drive it home.
You're still in the car. What are you actually hoping is in there? Sit with that one for a minute. Then drive home and call me in the morning.

Written examples of each voice, not a live conversation — the real one answers what you say, knows which step you're on, and remembers last week. It is not a person and never claims to be, and it will always point you back to real meetings and real humans.

A letter to Lois

Dear Lois — My sister hasn't spoken to me in three years. I've written twice and heard nothing. Everyone says to let it go, but she's the only family I have left and I'm tired of being the one who tries.

Three years is a long time to keep a door open with nobody walking through it. Of course you're tired. Wanting your sister back isn't weakness, and being worn out by the reaching isn't failure — it's just what happens when love goes one direction for that long. Here's what I'd do. Write once more, and make it short. Not a case for why she's wrong, not a list of what you've done — just that you love her, the door is open, and you won't keep knocking. Then post it and stop waiting on the reply. You've said your piece; the rest is hers. And while you wait, build something that isn't her. A standing dinner with a friend, a Tuesday you look forward to. People come back on their own clock, and the ones who do tend to find you living your life rather than sitting by the phone. — Lois

A written example. Lois answers whatever you actually send her, and nothing you write to her is stored.

The Recovery Arcade

Rehearsal, not entertainment. Play the hard night through while it's only a game, and your instincts have somewhere to have already been.

1more24 Adventure

A choose-your-own-night through the moments that get people. The open bar. The text from the old crew. You pick, it plays out, and you find out what your instincts do when it's only practice.

My Side of the Street

Somebody wrongs you. You get four ways to answer and one chance to spot which one is your part. Harder than it looks, and the point lands somewhere no lecture reaches.

Urge Surfer

A craving rises, crests, and falls whether you feed it or not. Ride enough of them on a screen and the shape becomes familiar — which is the entire idea.

Day Stacker

Stack your days into a tower, one 24 at a time. Silly, honestly. Also strangely difficult to stop, which is the nicest thing anyone's said about a day counter.

The twelve steps