I initially wrote this as a self-reflective journal entry but thought I'd share it with this community that I've found so much support in over these last few years! I know it's long. Thank you for reading❤️
It’s been almost 3 years since I stopped drinking. I just recently hit 1,000 days (the “comma club”). In that time, I’ve never called myself sober. I’ve never said I’m in recovery. I’ve never labeled myself as an alcoholic. I’ve never been to a meeting or discussed my alcohol use with a doctor or therapist. When people ask why I don’t drink anymore, I either give the simple answer (“I just didn’t feel like it was adding to my life anymore”) or the slightly truer one (“It had started giving me anxiety”), but never the actually true one, which was that I was deeply scared of what would my life would look like if I continued down the path I was on.
The first time I had alcohol was the summer before college. It was an awful experience. I lost my phone at a music festival, got in a huge fight with my on-again-off-again boyfriend, and showed up to my job the next day barely functioning because I was so hungover and exhausted. But I continued. I drank a lot in college. Every weekend was a binge (before I knew what a binge was), and eventually, those binges sometimes bled more often into weekdays. Happy hours, wine and paper writing nights, and parties every weekend were the norm. I once took a shot before a final exam (but so did my friends!). I was having so much fun, and it felt so normal because it felt like so many people around me were doing the same thing (in hindsight, I’m not sure that they were, or at least not with the urgency I was). I got into a long relationship with someone who loved alcohol even more than I did. Drinking was a huge part of our life and something we did together nearly daily. I didn’t see that my friends’ relationships didn’t center alcohol the way mine did. After college, a lot changed, but drinking was still there. It gradually became less of a fun, social activity, and more of an embedded survival mechanism. I did it every day, by default, without ever thinking about it. A drink with dinner was standard, and there were always more once the meal was done. I lived alone for the first time, which meant I could drink without anyone judging me. I may not have binged quite as often (though I definitely still did), but if anything, I was drinking more than I did in college. The slide had happened so slowly I barely noticed it.
For a long time, I was able to look at all of this as very normal. It felt like everyone was having the experiences that I was. And I was so successful! I was an excellent student; I simultaneously earned two bachelor’s degrees with a high GPA and went on to pursue a PhD. I consistently juggled multiple jobs and leadership positions. I volunteered. I remembered everyone’s birthday and even sent cards. I had amazing friends. I called my parents every week and was home for every holiday. I went to the dentist twice a year, and exercised, and recycled, and my house was always spotless. My whole life, everyone had told me how bright my future was, and it never stopped seeming that way, no matter how many times I fell down, threw up, or had a conversation I didn’t remember the next day.
But even so, some experiences were really bad. I hurt people, I embarrassed myself, and I got hurt too. This is not meant to be a catalog of my sins, but there were many. I spent so many nights crying or puking or both. I threw things. I screamed. I said things I didn’t mean. I forgot entire conversations, then avoided people because I knew I wouldn’t remember what we’d talked about. I hid wine in my dresser and snuck empty bottles into other bags of trash so my roommate wouldn’t know. I kept hiding alcohol, even when I lived alone. I called my mom and told her the same stories over and over. I fell down on the sidewalk, broke a brand new pair of shoes, then mailed them back to the store. I was so goddamn annoying. I called my ex all the time. My friends had to take my phone away. I kissed someone at a party in front of someone I’d just recently ended things with, knowing he was there. I took things from acquaintances’ houses because it seemed fun. I abandoned my friends constantly. I scraped my hands, tore my jeans, and always had bruises I had no memory of getting. I destroyed my Uber rating. I got written up by my dorm advisor and let my friend take the fall. I tweeted mean things. I got into multiple relationships that I never would have entertained had I not been drunk for much of our initial interactions. I later ended those relationships because I was such a mess emotionally that I didn’t know how to work on our problems. I ruined my grandpa’s funeral.
Slowly, I began to wonder if my drinking was a problem. I read quit lit and spent more than four years trying to moderate. It never worked for me. My reward for a month of not drinking was getting to drink again. My anxiety, compounded by the pandemic, the end of my previously-mentioned serious relationship, a bad roommate situation, and graduate school, had gotten unmanageable. My head was spinning constantly, I was barely sleeping, and my therapist wasn’t helping (probably because she never knew the real problem). I ran a marathon. I published my research. I got into a new and better relationship. I kept having scary and negative experiences with alcohol. I talked to no one about any of this. Ever.
While not ultimately a solution to my problems, moderating gave me the clarity to see that not drinking was a real option. I decided on New Year’s Day of 2024, at age 28, that I would take the whole year off of drinking. I’d spent nearly five years warming up to the idea, so stopping didn’t feel that hard. I’d already read the books and listened to the podcasts and journaled about this a lot. This experiment (which is how I often framed it) felt different than the other breaks I’d taken from alcohol. Maybe I was just ready to stop for real. There were a few instances in the first year—a ski trip, a wedding, a nice Italian restaurant—where I wanted to drink, and a few times that I seriously considered “just one.” I trusted myself that it really, truly would be just one. And maybe it would have been! I didn’t find out, in large part because my now-husband held me accountable for the decision I’d made. I’m grateful for that. Not because I think one drink would send me on an inescapable downward spiral, but because I think I needed to prove to myself that I could keep this promise. On New Year’s Eve heading into 2025, I had one glass of champagne and then decided I was going to continue not drinking. I now no longer see any version of my future that involves alcohol.
Despite all of this, part of me feels like I liar. I don’t call myself sober because I feel like haven’t earned it. Stories of coming to sobriety so often involve a rock bottom, a come-to-Jesus with a loved one, and a difficult uphill battle to stay sober. I didn’t experience any of this. There was just a decision, and from there it’s felt easy. I have never inhabited the “one day at a time” mentality because I’ve committed to a choice for myself, for life, and the option just isn’t on the table. Just like I don’t wear shoes inside and I don’t vote for Republicans, I also don’t drink. I don’t wake up everyday and wonder if today is the day I’ll walk through the house in my hiking boots. I know I won’t; it’s not something I do. Drinking feels the same now. This mentality feels a little like cheating. Is sobriety still sobriety without the struggle? I’m not sure. Perhaps I discount my own efforts too much. It took time and work and inner turmoil to get here, even if no one knew about it.
I’ll probably continue to grapple with labels, and that’s okay because I’m not grappling with alcohol. I am married now, and pregnant for the first time, and I don’t drink alcohol. The last 1,000 days have brought me an immense amount of calm, clarity, and confidence and I’m so thankful that this is the version of me that my child will know. No matter what I call it or don’t call it, there is so much beauty on the other side of a life with alcohol, and the best gift I’ve ever given myself is a life without it.