I am 10 YEARS sober today.
I remember when 10 days felt like an eternity.
10 YEARS.
2016 was a wild ride. I was the biggest POS I had ever been, living one hell of a lie and ready to end it all because I knew there was no way to undo the damage I had done. Then I found sobriety. She promised me a better life. She promised I could walk with my head held high, knowing I had made it to the top of the moral high ground.
I didn’t just stop drinking. I stopped EVERYTHING. Smoking, eating meat, actually most food, all the behaviour addictions. It was such a drastic change.
I was pretty sure I was on the path to perfection.
Slowly but surely, I was humbled.
Year one, I hated losing friends. It was devastating, probably the most painful grief I had experienced to that point. Grieving people who are still alive is such a trip, especially when it’s 100% your fault and no amount of amends fixes it. I made new friends, safer, healthier, more loving ones, but the allure of a toxic friendship still calls me to this day.
Year two, I hated my body. Which was crazy, because I was finally at my goal weight. 123 lbs, actually 17 lbs under my goal. I thought that number was going to make me happy and it didn’t. That was horrifying. I just found new reasons to hate my body. I would stare at my chest imagining the big old boobies that used to live there, wishing I had some curves left. The loose skin, the hair coming out in clumps. It wasn’t the body I had pictured.
Year three, I hated depression. Mentally ill and sober was not on my bingo card. I had worked so hard to curate the perfect life, and there I was, completely floored, right after finding out I was pregnant with my baby girl. Another dream come true moment, crushed. Puking, crying, sore and hopeless, I begged for some kind of purpose. If I wasn’t going to be the skinny, healthy, sober girl saving the world with her cheerful demeanor, showing up to everything like Mighty Mouse, then who was I?
I also hated how judgmental I had been. I used to watch people miss meetings, relapse, or worse, choose a different path to recovery, and turn my nose up like I was the poster child for doing it “right.” Then suddenly I was the one who couldn’t show up, couldn’t make the meetings or the cakes or the midnight volunteering, and I found myself the subject of the judges on their soap boxes.
At least I got my curves back.
Year four. I hated. I had naively said, “year three was so hard, it’s all got to be smooth sailing now.”
HA.
Year four, I hated the pandemic and trying to reconstruct recovery without meetings. I hated my sponsor, whose betrayal crushed me in mind, body, spirit and bank account. And I hated losing my little brother.
I had never felt a pain that deep. I still haven’t. It was mid pandemic and all my lifelines were exhausted. I didn’t think I was going to make it through that season. The pain was so physical, so intense, I would find myself dry heaving over a toilet bowl.
Year four made me someone I didn’t recognize. I felt very unlovable. I couldn’t people please anymore, couldn’t over give, couldn’t be my bubbly self. All of me was crushed. I still haven’t fully recovered from year four.
Year five, I was still hating year four.
Year six, I was finally back on my feet. New business, a little travel, cautiously re-entering the world after a few years of feeling like a feral cat. Then life reminded me that life is life and death is death, and we lost another member of our family. I hated that I couldn’t keep promises to clients or live up to my own expectations. I hated that I would cry in business meetings. I hated that my normal, the hustle, the people pleasing, the running on my own will, wasn’t working.
I hit a spiritual bottom and had to surrender again. Which I hated.
Year seven, the stages started calling. Speaking, comedy, podcasts around the world. The outside looked good, but all my dreams coming true felt like my worst nightmare. I hated that I couldn’t enjoy it. I would get off stage and my nervous system would shut down. After my first ever comedy set, I lost vision in one eye. Turns out that’s called an aura migraine. Terrifying.
Year eight, I hated that cancer took my dad. The weird thing is, I had spent years six and seven rebuilding my relationship with God, and when it happened, I felt so supported. It wasn’t the same pain as losing my brother. It was actually quite remarkable. My dad passed in a hospice bed while The Masked Singer played “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on the TV. The room filled with love when he took his last breath. It reminded me of when I had my first son. The most pure, unconditional love.
Year nine, I hated that my Grandma took her life. She was done with the hospitals, the system, and missing the two of three sons she’d had to bury. I hate that I took it personally. I hate that it made me feel like I wasn’t enough. And I hate how I ran from those feelings instead of dealing with them, spending months trying to please difficult people and giving myself heart problems staying too busy to face the pain.
Today marks year 10. I hate that my brother, my dad and my grandma aren’t here to see it. I hate that when I post this, I won’t wonder, “what’s Grandma going to think of this one?” I hate that I didn’t get to call my dad today and celebrate this wild milestone with him. I hate that I am 10 years in and still not perfect. That is so annoying.
Sobriety didn’t stop life. It built me into a person who could handle it. Not just handle it, but grow and thrive and evolve with every new chapter.
Today I am going to step on a stage and pour my heart out to 70 humans who have loved and supported me over the last 10 years. I am going to launch a podcast that I hope gives another woman permission to believe she doesn’t have to stay stuck. I am going to live out a dream come true moment.
10 days felt like an eternity once.
How has it been 10 YEARS.
