When I walked into my first AA meeting, I wanted to figure out how to drink “normally” again. I wanted my old life back. I wanted learn how to drink alcohol without having to give it up completely. I wasn’t looking for more joy in my life, purpose, or stronger relationships. I wasn’t trying to become a better version of myself. I felt like I was pretty smart, thoughtful, and that life was as manageable as it could be for anyone who had my problems.
At first, I didn’t think anyone in those meetings weren’t drinking. If they were as sick as me, they are all lying. I glanced repeatedly at the Twelve Steps hanging on the wall noticing God mentioned everywhere. I wasn’t sure what to do with that having had a lifetime of confusion and fear about the topic. I couldn’t even say the word God without embarrassement and discomfort.
The Promises were also hanging on the wall. They mentioned freedom from regret, financial insecurity, peace of mind, usefulness, and happiness. Honestly, they sounded like a pipe dream. My life was falling apart and it seemed to far gone to save. I had just made the decision to sit in that meeting. The rest seemed way to much to imagine happening in my life.
Desperation has a way of opening a closed mind. Eventually I didn’t care how and if the program would work. I simply knew that what I was doing wasn’t. I became willing to try something different, and that willingness changed the trajectory of my life.
Looking back after ten years of sobriety, my old life was completely replaced by a new definition of what life can be. Before sobriety, alcohol dictated every decision I made. If I was happy, I drank. If I was sad, I drank. If I was bored, I drank. I didn’t realize I wasn’t experiencing life anymore. I was anesthetizing it.
Recovery Gave Me a Family
I’ve learned in recovery how to be part of my family. I had felt so alone, even when I was surrounded by people who loved me. I remember family vacations where everyone else seemed connected while I felt like I was standing on the outside looking in. I convinced myself no one cared what I had to say. Today I see that differently. Alcohol isolated me emotionally long before I secluded myself physically.
I didn’t know how to simply be present. I didn’t know how to have a conversation without worrying about what everyone thought of me. I felt like an open wound, constantly protecting myself from additional pain, holding my breath, and unable to breathe. Alcohol became the mask I thought made me look like a better version of myself. In reality, it was hiding the real me from everyone, including myself.
Recovery slowly peeled that mask away. I changed without even noticing. I became interested in paying attention to others more than the self-talk. Instead of asking what I could get from my relationships, I started asking what I could give. Today my relationships are built on connection and service instead of anxiety and self-pity. I celebrate other’s victories without needing to compare them to mine. I can sit beside someone who is hurting without needing to fix them, knowing I can’t control that which is outside my fingertips. I can simply be present.
One of the most meaningful moments in my recovery was when my brother called because he needed me. For years, he’d observed me stumble through what he may had not known was the darkest seasons of my life where I had nothing left to give anyone else. That day I got to carry him. I’ll ever forget that feeling.
Recovery gave me my family back and taught me how to belong.
Learning Who I Really Am
I lived with myself for forty two years before I got sober, but I didn’t really know me. When alcohol was the center of my life, it changed my identity, values, and purpose. It made my decisions for me. I was a victim of my emotions and only knew how to react to them.
What I believed about myself wasn’t actually true. Among so many others, recovery gives the gift of curiosity. What do I actually enjoy? What makes me laugh? What brings me peace? What hobbies do I like when I don’t have to hold a glass of wine in my hand? It was intimidating but exciting after living so many years on autopilot. I was discovering myself and that I deserve to be happy. I was reintroduced to the little girl that used to ride her bike around the neighborhood imagining possibilities rather than being caged by a self-constructed prison of alcoholism.
How I Learned to Enjoy Life Without Alcohol
One of my biggest fears was that life would become boring without alcohol. Every cookout, wedding, vacation, happy hour, and relaxing day revolved around where’d I get my next drink. I couldn’t imagine enjoying anything without my nerve steadying medication.
So I started practicing something that, in retrospect, almost sounds ridiculous to anyone who’s never experienced addiction. I practiced having empty hands. I would intentionally stand at an event without holding anything and felt unbelievably uncomfortable. I honestly didn’t know what to do with my hands. If you’ve ever seen Talladega Nights, you’ll remember the scene where Ricky Bobby keeps holding his hands awkwardly in front of him because he doesn’t know what to do with them during an on-camera interview. That was me. I didn’t know what to do with my hands if they weren’t wrapped around a drink. I watched other people who weren’t drinking, noticed how they carried themselves, and observed what they did with their hands. Their hands simply existed as if they weren’t gigantic flapping weighted pendulums of puddy like mine felt hanging off my shoulders.
It seems like such a silly thing, but learning to stand comfortably with empty hands taught me how to be present outwardly instead of focusing on my inward discomfort. Little by little, the veil lifted and conversation became far more interesting than what people were drinking. Events were more enjoyable when I actually remembered them the next day and could reflect on my growing connections with others. I became more confident and laughter was more meaningful when it wasn’t fueled by alcohol. More people wanted to talk to me because I had something to give.
I discovered something equally important, however. Some places simply weren’t for me anymore. Recovery gave me permission to leave situations that no longer fit the person I was becoming. That was my new freedom of choice.
“I Love Me”
A few years into sobriety, I was recording an episode of my Recovery Daily Podcast when it slipped out, “I love me.”
I laughed after I said it, because I felt arrogant saying it but was passionate and almost shocked about this new-found self-love. I’d spent so many years distrusting and disgusted with myself that it chipped away at my self-respect with every bad decision I made. Every morning reinforced the idea that I was destined for a declining, troubled life.
Recovery rebuilt that self-trust every minute I chose not to drink, face difficult conversations, apologized, attended meetings, prayed, and did the next right thing one day at a time—one moment at a time. I became dependable and respected the woman I was becoming. I genuinely enjoy living with myself and began to make myself smile.
Joy and Pain Can Exist Together
Prior to sobriety, I had a severe misconception that I was too broken to manage my emotions. I thought that I was another lost victim to depression and anxiety, and without alcohol, I was a lost cause.
Over time, my relationship with with my emotions began to change. Feelings became information, not instructions. I don’t have to obey every emotion that kicks out a mortifying reaction. I don’t have to DO anything. I don’t have to believe every thought that crosses my mind. I don’t have to numb sadness or disappointment. I can simply notice them like clouds.
That lesson became even more important after my stroke. For a while, I felt that grief and fear had won. My psychiatrist helped me to understand that joy isn’t the absence of pain. It’s refusing to let pain have the final word. Happiness isn’t that absense of hard seasons. Joy is always inside of me, and I get to practice surfacing it despite the hard stuff. I can grieve what I’ve lost and still laugh with my husband. I can be afraid of what’s ahead and still record my podcast episode right now. I can feel disappointed by my limitations and still be deeply grateful for the life I have and all that I’m still capable of. Those emotions aren’t competing with each other. They coexist. That’s emotional sobriety.
Recovery Prepared Me for My Stroke
Five years into sobriety, I had a stroke that permanently changed my life. I still live every day with a vestibular disorder, visual challenges, unyielding headaches, and physical limitations I naively never imagined people had. My recovery program unexpectedly prepared me for this loss. The same tools I learned in sobriety are those that I use in stroke recovery.
Acceptance.
Prayer.
Willingness.
Gratitude.
The next right thing.
One day at a time.
Those principles became an even more essential way of life for me in order to emotionally survive the loss. When I say I practice these principles in all my affairs, I truly understand the extent to which they can carry me.
Joy Is Something We Practice
Joy doesn’t just happen to us if we’re lucky. It’s something we practice if we are willing. It is rooted deep within all of us and can be surfaced with action. Every night I get on my knees and thank God for another sober (and nicotine-free) day. I thank Him for my willingness to recover, for my family, and for my body. Then I ask, “Thy will, not mine be done.”
I’ve learned that trying to squeeze my fists around things I can’t control only exhausts me and changes nothing. Recovery teaches me to open my hands instead, letting go of the nothingness I was white-knuckling. When my hands are open, I can receive help. I can serve other people. I can notice beauty instead of obsessing over what I wish was different.
Happiness is circumstantial. It comes and goes like clouds. I feel happy when I’m painting or crafting, walking my dogs, spending time with my family, or recording my podcast. Those moments are wonderful, but they’re temporary.
Joy is different. Joy remains, even on difficult days. It remains when I’m grieving, frustrated with my disability, and when life doesn’t go according to my plans.
Today I can work hard at easy things and be grateful that I can do them at all. I can carry pain without letting it steal my serenity. I can love without trying to control the people I love. I can wake up grateful, even with a headache. That’s a daily mountain to climb before my feet even hit the floor. I can look in the mirror and genuinely like the person looking back at me.
I walked into AA to learn how to drink without consequences, and instead I was given the gift of a joyful life.