One morning, over a year ago, I stood in front of the mirror and couldn’t recognize the person staring back at me. The reflection showed a beer belly that I had acquired from years of indulging in liquid calories, not to mention those extra pounds I gained by giving in to unhealthy snacks during drunken nights. My eyes were puffy, and my face had lost its vibrancy. I felt mentally foggy, still reeling from the previous night’s choices.
In that moment, I felt utterly repulsed. I was angry with myself and knew I had to make a change. I can point fingers at my upbringing or genetic predispositions, but ultimately, I own my relationship with alcohol. I used my tumultuous childhood, work stress, and the challenges of parenting as excuses to indulge. I drank to celebrate, to cope, and, most importantly, to escape. I came to the harsh realization: I am an addict. I am an alcoholic.
Achieving sobriety has been a long journey filled with hard work, numerous attempts, and countless uncomfortable conversations. I’ve been fortunate to lean on fellow recovering addicts, supportive friends, a loving partner, and an incredible therapist throughout this process. While I am not perfect and still face my mental health challenges, I proudly declare that I am sober. I have a clearer vision of my future, even if I don’t have all the answers yet. However, despite my pride, I occasionally find myself missing the social aspect of drinking.
At school events, I no longer join in the banter about how the PTO could raise funds by selling alcohol for playground equipment. I don’t jokingly say I need a drink to manage my kids’ shenanigans anymore. Instead, I reach for cans of seltzer or drink excessive amounts of tea and coffee at social gatherings. When someone offers me a beer or a cocktail, I politely decline, saying, “No thanks, I’m good.” But deep down, I feel anything but good. There’s a twinge of jealousy when I see others unwind with a drink after a long week.
While acquaintances might not notice my choice to abstain, my outer circle of friends tends to give me puzzled looks, knowing my previous love for beer. My close friends, the ones I’ve confided in about my struggles, are incredibly supportive, but I sometimes feel embarrassed by their kindness. They create a safe space for me, yet I worry about how my sobriety impacts their social lives.
This journey is uniquely mine, but removing a socially normalized activity like drinking from parenthood can make you feel alienated. I often find myself on the outskirts, observing others who seem to bond over drinks. I haven’t lost friends, as I’m surrounded by wonderful people, but I’ve lost that shared experience that once connected us. I miss alcohol like an old friend who has moved on to enrich everyone else’s lives, leaving me behind.
I’m gradually learning to grieve the absence of alcohol in my life. I understand its influence on my past and the potential consequences if I were to drink again. Instead of being the designated driver, I often feel like I’m not even part of the group. I can’t help but feel a sense of failure, even though I know I’ve made the right choice for myself.
Feelings fluctuate, like the gin I once poured nightly. They ebb and flow between pride and longing. They can ignite warmth inside or provoke confusion in my mind. I let these emotions exist as they are, even if it means feeling excluded. Yet, standing on the outside has guided me toward self-discovery and helped me find a healthier path.
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In summary, navigating sobriety as a parent can be isolating, especially when social norms center around drinking. While I sometimes feel left out, I am also finding strength in my journey and discovering new ways to connect with those around me.