The Quiet Recognition: Finding Frankl on a Beach in Lanzarote
That paperback sat on my shelf for over a year. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. Not a huge book, but one with a reputation that preceded it. My partner gave it to me early in our relationship, our first Christmas together. She didn't make a big deal of it, just handed it over with the quiet suggestion that I might find something in it when I got around to reading it.
Life got busy, as it does. Work, recovery, the demanding joys of fatherhood, nurturing a new relationship with the attention it deserves and the all-consuming task of building a new business from the ground up. The everyday demands that fill our days and somehow become our years. The book waited. It wasn't until we went to Lanzarote for a proper break that I finally picked it up. Between swims on white sandy beaches and walks across that strange volcanic landscape, dark grey rock formations that look like they belong on another planet, I started reading.
Perhaps it was the distance from everyday life, the expansive horizon of the ocean against that alien landscape, that created the space for recognition to occur. Away from the usual distractions, I found myself more receptive to truths I'd been carrying all along. It struck me later how similar this was to what happens in coaching - creating that intentional space where clients can step back from their daily lives and recognise truths they may already intuitively know but haven't fully articulated.
What hit me wasn't what I expected. I thought I'd be learning something new, finding some fresh perspective. Instead, I found someone describing things I already knew but hadn't been able to put into words.
Let me be absolutely clear about something: I am in no way comparing my experiences with those of a Holocaust survivor. That would be vulgar and disrespectful to the unimaginable suffering endured in the camps. But there was something in Frankl's insights about human nature and the search for meaning that transcended his specific circumstances, speaking to universal truths that resonated deeply with my own journey.
Years before meeting my partner, I'd gone through what I call "the meat grinder" of addiction. She never knew that version of me – the one ruled by fear, the one stuck in patterns that were slowly destroying everything. She only met me after I'd done the hard work of recovery, after I'd found purpose in helping others face their own challenges.
Yet somehow she knew this book would speak to me. She knew it would validate the journey I was already on.
"Those who have a 'why' to live, can bear almost any 'how'," Frankl quotes Nietzsche. I nearly dropped the book when I read that. It was exactly what I'd learned through recovery and what I try to help my clients discover – that meaning isn't a luxury, it's essential. It's what helps us endure when things get tough.
I found myself nodding along as Frankl described prisoners who, despite everything, gave away their last piece of bread to help others. "We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread," he wrote. This echoed something I'd seen in recovery circles – that even in our worst moments, service to others offers a path forward.
One evening, I was sitting on the terrace of our villa, the ocean crashing in the background. Everyone was resting between coming home from surfing and preparing to go out for dinner. My partner, my son, and her boys were all nearby. In that moment of quiet, surrounded by the family I'm building in this new chapter, reflecting on the life I am building that is full of my newfound meaning and purpose, I read about these acts of kindness in the camps. I was struck by how finding my purpose had been the thread that rebuilt my life—the very thing Frankl was describing.
The most profound part of reading this book was the validation, discovering that what I'd stumbled upon through recovery was actually a recognised path. I never knew it was a "thing," this idea that meaning could be the foundation of rebuilding a broken life. The emotional impact of seeing my experience given a name, articulated by someone who had endured far worse circumstances, was overwhelming. It was like realising all over again that there was a way out of addiction, a path ahead, the clarity and freedom of finally having a choice.
Frankl writes about this choice: "Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." This line hit me hard. It was a truth I could hold onto through anything, something I'd never had before. Something that could conquer the fear that had ruled my life for so long.
He writes, "The more one forgets himself—by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love—the more human he is." There it was – the foundation of everything I believe about transformation. Not self-improvement for its own sake, but finding meaning through connection and service.
My partner has been my biggest supporter since day one of my coaching journey. When I doubt myself, she's the one who reminds me why this work matters. I think that's why she gave me this book – not because she thought I needed to change direction, but because she saw that what I was already doing had deeper roots than perhaps even I realised. She saw this truth in me and quietly gave me the gift of recognition—an act of love that reflected what Frankl himself understood: that meaning and love are the antidotes to the fear that once consumed me, much like the prisoners Frankl described who "had lost faith in the future—his future—was doomed. With his loss of belief in the future, he also lost his spiritual hold; he let himself decline and became subject to mental and physical decay."
"Mental health is based on a certain degree of tension," Frankl wrote, "the tension between what one has already achieved and what one still ought to accomplish." Again, this wasn't new information – it was validation. It was seeing my lived experience, the philosophy that emerged from my recovery, and now guides my coaching, reflected back to me.
I haven't managed to tell my partner this (but she'll know when she reads this), but reading that book on that holiday unexpectedly hit me. Not dramatically, I didn't break down crying or have some massive epiphany. It was quieter than that. It was the feeling of being seen, of finding words for something I'd been living but hadn't fully articulated.
She never knew me in active addiction. She doesn't know firsthand how recovery transformed me. But somehow, she recognised that Frankl's words would resonate with the person I'd become. The book was her way of saying, "What you've found matters. What you're doing matters."
Another passage that stopped me: "Live as if you were living for the second time and had acted as wrongly the first time as you are about to act now." This captures something I often work on with clients, stepping back from automatic patterns, seeing their lives from a different angle. It's not about judging past mistakes but about using them as guidance for making different choices now.
In my coaching, I help people break overwhelming challenges into manageable steps. I help them find meaning even in difficulty. I believe transformation comes through consistent, intentional action, even when that action feels small. At its core, my practice helps professionals "stop performing and start living" – a distinction that echoes Frankl's insights about authentic existence versus merely going through the motions. Frankl's book didn't teach me these things; it confirmed them, giving them context and history I hadn't realised.
As I write this, that same paperback sits on my desk, dog-eared now, wrinkled from sand and sea salt. It no longer feels like an obligation unmet. Instead, it feels like an old friend, someone who understands what I've been trying to say all along.
My partner gave me more than just a book. She gave me recognition, a mirror reflecting back the meaning I'd already found. Sometimes the most valuable gift isn't something new, but the validation of what you already know to be true, and the love that sees you clearly enough to provide it.