Hey there,

I’ve been trying to write this letter for days, longer, mulling it over in my head, putting one word after another and none of it feeling quite right for my current state. I envisioned a celebratory message. Sunday marked two years, that’s 730 days, since I’ve consumed alcohol. My soberversary, soberthday as they’re often referenced in recovery rooms. It’s something I’m very proud of and probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Talk about commitment and discipline. This is the greatest example of those attributes.

How did I do it? One day at a time, as they say. I just didn’t drink each day.

Why did I do it? Was I a problematic drinker? Yes, in that drinking was a crutch I leaned on to avoid challenging circumstances, from social anxiety to grief, to dull my giant feelings. The crutch was modest, more like a walking stick, but nevertheless a glass of wine or two to make a networking event less stressful is exactly how reliance forms. Soon your muscles are ever so slightly less taut, the stick helps bear the weight. Remove the stick and a social gathering suddenly seems like hiking Everest.

Was I “addicted”? Psychologically, perhaps, see above. Physically, maybe. I don’t have a rock bottom story. No drama to share beyond the nasty voices in my head that constantly told me I was an awful failure at life for drinking, that I was on the road to ruin, the leaning tower of Lisa without the budget for remedial stabilization to stand the test of time. I quit to silence the shame. I quit to stop the constant questioning of whether I had a problem or not and free up my brain for more worthwhile ruminations. I did it to prune the rotten wood and save the root.

And while I’ve enjoyed many benefits since quitting—better sleep, improved mood, lost weight, increased energy, clarity of thought, more time, more money, yada yada yada—writing about all of that felt self-righteous and pushing toxic positivity right now. Every time I started extolling the virtues of being a teetotaler I stalled out. As proud as I am of where I’ve come and as much as I know this is the best path for me, it’s difficult.

I am a radical. A rebel. An outsider. I feel this a lot lately.

Our world revolves around alcohol. Birthday? Drinks. Promotion? Drinks. Death in the family? Drinks. Business meeting? Drinks. Sports event? Drinks. Flight? Drinks. Win the deal? Drinks. Lose the game? Drinks. Vacation? Drinks. Hectic work week? Drinks. Bath time? Drinks. Tuesday? Drinks.

Stream any TV show to see the smartest, most successful characters pour themselves balloon-sized goblets of wine at the end of a long day. Why can’t I just be like them? And then I remember that they are fictional. The Flight Attendant would not in a million years be standing upright and functional (yes, her functioning is debatable), having consumed what she did. And yet I can’t help pouting for the loss of the life that I’d been sold by every savvy alcohol marketer.

As much as I have a supportive network of friends and family, I am changed. I am not the person I once was and there is a domino effect in every area of my life. I am also acutely aware of how privileged I am to be navigating this without other visible character traits that could be used to marginalize me. All of this is meant to describe the rock and the hard place I often find myself between lately.

The thing is that feeling life is hard. And as much as we want to take the bridge over the river of sadness, walk the long way around the forest of fear, tunnel under the mountain of regret, the only path forward is through. Avoidance only serves to quicken the rapids, thicken the undergrowth, weaken the retaining wall.

In the early days, when I was counting every hour, every minute closer to freedom, farther from alcohol, I devoured every offering of inspiration, many of them in the form of poetry. This excerpt from Rilke’s Book of Hours is a favourite.

“You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is a country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.”

In the hard days when I’m feeling a fair amount of self-pity and more than a dash of anger (at society, big alcohol, my genes, you name it), I am heartened by remembering that those feelings are not final. They will pass. Life is feeling. It is a serious affair because we only have one shot. I remind myself how courageous it is that I’m taking my life seriously. I’ve taken steps to be here, to be present for all of it. The beautiful parts and the terrifying parts. And I’m going to keep going to see how the next 730 days unfold with my eyes wide open.

I hold out my hand to you.
xo
Lisa

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