From Shadows to Sunshine: 50 Days Alcohol-Free
and why it took so much time and pain to get here
Thank you so much for reading. I’m a certified Health & Well-being Coach sharing the change, growth, and struggles of my wellness journey to inspire and create community. If you’d like to take steps toward your happiest, healthiest self too, inquire about 1:1 support here.
This piece is dedicated to my friends: the ones who forgave me, the ones who believed in me through darkness and pain, the ones who see, acknowledge, and celebrate my growth. Thank you for standing by my side and supporting me as the sisters I always wanted. I love you. So much. And to A, I wouldn’t be here without you.
Sip.
Head pounds. Energy runs low. Skin is dry. Eyes too. Night sweats start. Naps creep in. Irritability too. Anxiety. I overthink. My brain feels foggy. I underthink. I skip my workouts. I skip meditating. I skip journaling.
I skip and skip and skip as alcohol takes and takes and takes.
I am not me. My muscles are atrophying. My joy muscles. My exuberance muscles.
I am not me. For a few hours, I’m the person I want to be—the clouds clear and the sun shines—and then I am not me.
The clouds return, darker, heavier, wetter. The rain streams down my cheeks, unless the wells of my eyes run dry. The thunder in my head pounds. The storm is unbearable, brought on in exchange for just a couple hours of sunshine.
Empty. My glass is empty. I don’t refill it. For 50 days I haven’t refilled it.
I’m laughing louder and more deeply than I’ve laughed in years. It’s the kind of laughter that shakes your whole body as you double over, clutching your insides as if they too will be swept up in the joyous energy spinning from your belly into tears and howls. The kind that scares you because it takes control of your muscles - the ones in your face and around your abdomen - as it reverberates through your whole body, forcing your head to fall back and your lungs to beg for air.
I’m dancing more, feeling a lightness on my feet that makes moving feel easy, effortless, and natural.
I’m bubbling with creative ideas.
The corners of my mouth turn up slightly as I walk through the streets, stealing the tension from every other muscle in my face. My eyes and forehead relax. I smile at nothing in particular and yet I smile at everything.
My joy muscles are growing.
I haven’t gone this long without drinking since high school, when my relationship to alcohol was just developing. Things felt better with alcohol then: periods of sunshine broke through my cloudy sense of self. At 17, wading through the scrutinizing college application process, I heaved in my dad’s arms, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I repeatedly exclaimed, “I don’t know who I am.”
When I got to college, excited to explore who I was, alcohol gave me an unfamiliar, thrilling boost of confidence. I quickly made dozens of friends, bonding over shots of cheap Aristocrat vodka at frat parties and dorm room pre-games, sitting in circles on the floor as we laughed and shared stories prompted by “Never Have I Ever.” I discovered a love for flirting, feeling empowered to awaken and express my feminine energy. I acted with a sense of silliness and freedom I didn’t know I had access to, blissfully eating whole boxes of pasta with vodka sauce smeared on my face.
Drunk on the sunshine, I made light of all the clouds that followed it: waking up with people I hardly knew in places I didn’t recognize, deprioritizing my intellectual curiosity, and suffering through the aforementioned physical pain of poisoning my body.
By the second half of junior year and into senior year, the clouds grew so thick, they started covering the sunshine. Drinking led to selfish, unloyal actions that strained and severed friendships, and to tearful fights with A.
I was lost, spiritually and mentally disconnected from myself and my community.
_ _ _
Life kept moving forward, though. I graduated, begrudgingly moved to a studio in San Francisco for a job, and tried to gain my footing in that awkward, scary transition to independent adulthood nobody warns you about.
Living alone on the other side of the country from my best friends and family in New York forced me out of my comfort zone: I went on “friend dates” with strangers, learned to buy groceries and cook for one, and spent whole weekends exploring restaurants and neighborhoods alone. I enjoyed my time alone. I looked forward to walks around the Pacific Heights mansions, trips down the hills to Souvla in the Marina, and sunny Saturday strolls to brunch at Jane on Fillmore. I started reading for pleasure and experimented with journaling and meditation. Since my social life was far less active, I drank less overall, though pairing TV with wine provided an exciting escape from lonely nights.
I needed that space to reflect on who I was and what I stood for: loyalty, kindness, honesty, love. As my actions began aligning with my values, I hoped physical distance, time, and weekend reunions with friends might close the gap on our emotional distance. When I got a job based in New York two years later, I envisioned the move as the final step to reviving my relationships’ trust and intimacy, and the key to absolving the paralyzing remorse still lingering in my mind.
_ _ _
I arrived on March 9th, 2020 as New York City shut down. I didn’t see any friends for months.
Unease, tension, and uncertainty overflowed where I expected stability and community. Though much earlier than expected, I moved in with A because after two years of long distance, being apart wasn’t an option anymore.
In the intimacy of living together and the honesty of our relationship, A highlighted the clouds still following me. I was a puppet of my emotions, unable to productively express or relieve them. I’d shut down. I’d cry. I’d force A to guess what lay inside my mind. A’s unwillingness to take the blame for the clouds above my head saved me. He told me I had work to do and though it hurt, it was the reflection I needed. Sometimes it’s the hardest messages we need to hear the most.
I tried meditating again. I became aware of the chaos in my mind. I saw a therapist for the first time. I started learning about my emotions and reactions, and how I could productively address them. I got excited by the taste of growth and improvement. I wanted more.
I started reading books and listening to podcasts about the self, thoughts, ego, awareness, courage, vulnerability, spirituality, and presence. I found a more gentle style of exercise that made me feel strong and grounded. I found a meditation style that made me buzz from the inside out. I started complimenting strangers. I started telling friends and family how much I love them. I started noticing the reactions my emotions and experiences triggered. I noted what felt good and what felt bad, and began to envision a life where I didn’t settle but intentionally invited all that enhanced my life while minimizing that which didn’t.
As I started implementing little changes, the clouds started to clear. I could see light streaming through. Alcohol-induced sunshine became unnecessary and, with its corresponding clouds, inferior.
So why was I still drinking, even in moderation?
I associated a drink with some sunny benefits: the comfort and safety of aligning with cultural norms, the buzz, the taste, the fairytale pairing of a book and a glass of wine at the bar. I was scared to let go of these feelings and moments, and dreaded explaining myself when asked about my abstinence.
But a long trip in June began to threaten my sun. The clouds rolled in: headaches, poor sleep, anxiety, self-doubt. My gut urged me to give alcohol a rest.
Now, 50 days in, I can’t say whether this is a rest or a permanent hibernation, but I know I feel sunnier, more alive, and more limitless than I remember ever feeling. My silly, playful, joyful muscles are getting stronger. I’m no longer dependent on a substance or circumstance to let go, have fun, and feel a buzz. I’m sleeping better. My relationships are the strongest they’ve been in a long time. My doubting voice is fading.
I no longer feel like I should skip a drink; I want to skip it. I’m no longer seeking short-term goodness; I’m optimizing for long-term greatness. I no longer fear losing some sun; I know I’m gaining a world of it.
_ _ _
I struggled to live and write this story for a while. I struggled even more with the idea of sharing it, especially as somebody moving into a career in the wellness field. I worried about being “just another wellness person talking about sobriety from a soapbox.”
But these stories are necessary.
A preference for alcohol is still the assumption in our culture, and like any identity you cannot see, moving counter to the default requires courage and intention, which is a whole lot easier to muster knowing: I’m not alone; there’s a community, even if small, where I belong; somebody who drinks might’ve read something like this and understand my choice without asking 10 questions, pressuring me, or giving funny looks.
Everybody’s relationship with alcohol is different. Do what works for you.
If your gut is telling you alcohol might be the cloud blocking your sun, I hope my story lets you know you’re not alone.
I hope I can show you a life with less alcohol can be really, really fun.
P.S. Delicious alcohol-free drinks are popping up all over. If you’re based in the U.S., check out Absence of Proof for alcohol-free social events and Boisson for an alcohol-free “liquor store.” If you don’t see non-alcoholic options on a restaurant’s menu, ask for some! Many have off-menu options.