I am loved

If you’re reading this, you understand that alcohol destroys relationships. You understand what it feels like when people stop being your friend because they think you keep “choosing” to drink. You understand how it feels to wake up in a panic; unsure of the texts and social media posts you sent the night before. You might even understand how it feels when a sibling stops speaking to you. You understand the loneliness, the shame, and the fear of being forever misunderstood.

You can also understand why I created a story in my head that says I am unlovable.

In today’s world we teach people to abandon folks who struggle with substance abuse. My rock bottom was met by a criminal justice system that told me I was a disgrace to society. I needed to be locked up in order to keep the general public safe. I had become otherized; “one of them.” This system made me feel less like a human, and more like an unlovable hollow frame fueled by shame.

One thing that has truly helped reroute this deep, unlovable groove in my brain is showing up for Tempest group calls. Hearing your stories and feeling the nonjudgmental love from the facilitators has honestly changed my life. We’ve all been through the same shit. We’ve all been beaten down. Thankfully, this space is slowly building me back up. Slowly infusing my hollow frame with the love I have been missing. Your faces and your stories have become my medicine.

Now, each time I experience a trigger, I step back and think of all of you. I breathe in your love and your kindness. I breathe in the statement, “There is no fixing, because we are not broken.” No matter how triggered I might feel, I know there will be another call in a few short hours and I can, once again, bathe myself in your love.

Here’s what I have learned by showing up in this space: The story I created in my head about being unlovable is not true. Thanks to all of you, I know I am never alone. Better yet, this space is teaching me to cultivate a self-love that I can bring with me anywhere.

It seems like we live in a world that doesn't know how to help those of us who struggle with substance abuse. I think The Beatles were onto something way back in 1967. Maybe all we need is love.

I flow like water

When I was in grade school, my family took spring break trips from bitter wintry Michigan to sun-bursting St. Augustine, Florida. Without understanding why, my preteen Pisces self became utterly obsessed with the ocean. Each morning I would rise with the sun and, as weird as it might sound, I would have full conversations with the ocean.

There was something mystical about the ocean; its vastness, its awe, its mystery, its never-ending flow. Walking along the coast provided space for and connection to a meditative part of myself I didn’t know existed. It felt like each time I shared a worry or a fear with the ocean, it’s crashing waves would respond with a nugget of inner wisdom.

When spring break ended and my family returned to Michigan, instead of Dear Diary entries, I’d fill notebooks with Dear Ocean entries. I would communicate with and pray to the ocean from afar. I couldn’t wrap my adolescent brain around the idea of a God who lives in the clouds, but I could sense something much larger than myself in the ocean.

Naturally, when I recently stumbled upon a Taoism tradition called the Water Course Way, my interest peaked. The Water Course Way suggests we flow like water. Water is always moving, always shifting. Water never fights against the temperature or the wind or whatever vessel it might be in; it simply adapts and fills space. Water goes with the flow. Water is powerful and gentle, loud and quiet, soothing and drowning. Water is a true paradox.

Alcohol, bulimia, and drugs kept me removed from the natural, waterlike flow of life. I numbed out the bad stuff, along with the good. I was fighting against my own emotional tides. But, when I attempt to flow like water, I too, possess a vastness, an awe, a mystery, and a never-ending flow. Water knows that all emotional waves - the good and the bad - will eventually pass, just like the waves always passed in St. Augustine.

Getting sober continuously forces me to face emotions I have been avoiding for decades. Maybe my preteen Pisces self somehow knew deep down in my bones that water is an excellent teacher. Water knows nothing is permanent, everything passes. When I attempt to flow like water, there is space within myself to hold grief and joy, anger and excitement, fear and wonder. Like water, I too, am a true paradox.

I flow like water. 

I walk on rainbow clouds

We’ve all heard the “pink cloud” sobriety metaphor. Many people, from various recovery programs, have told me stories about this sparkly pink cloud of joy they walk on during the first few months of sobriety. They say it’s as if they are suddenly gliding through a life that is filled with bliss, hope, and rose-colored glasses.

I just celebrated one year of practicing sobriety (🎉). I have only slipped three times in the past 365 days (🎉🎉). To be exact, that is a 99.18% success rate (🎉🎉🎉). This has been the most sober year of my adult life, and I am still waiting to experience this so-called pink cloud. The first year of recovery, for me, often felt closer to trudging through mud in holey boots, than it did walking on some glittery pink cloud.

Yesterday while bundled up for a 19-degrees-below-freezing walk, my dog Teddy and I witnessed the most breathtakingly vibrant sunrise. It looked like the sky had been painted with brilliant hues of red, orange, yellow, green, dark blue, pink, purple, and gray. It was a full rainbow of colors in the clouds.

I like to think of my first year of sobriety as walking on rainbow clouds, rather than a pink cloud.

❤️ Some days I have red clouds of fiery anger and passion beneath my feet.

🧡 Some days I walk on orange clouds filled with optimism and curiosity.

💛 Some days I walk on yellow clouds filled with creativity, joy, and light.

💚 Some days I walk on clouds that are green with envy and resentment.

💙 Some days I walk on midnight blue clouds filled with depression, grief, and loneliness.

💗 Some days I walk on pink clouds filled with love or the rosy cheeks of embarrassment.

💜 Some days I walk on purple clouds filled with fear and sensitivity.

☁️ Some days the clouds beneath my feet are just gray and blah.

🌈 Most days there is a rainbow of clouds and emotions below my feet.

I used to feel a tinge of shame for never reaching this presumed pink cloud in sobriety. It felt like I was doing something wrong. But, by pretending to walk on rainbow clouds, I can welcome and normalize the full spectrum of emotions and colors that I travel with in early sobriety. Is there anything more beautiful than a rainbow?

🌈 I walk on rainbow clouds. 🌈

There is nothing wrong with me

The first time I heard the word “Normie” was in 2015 during my stay at a 90-day women’s rehab facility in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Roughly ten of us patients were crammed into an oversized van, named the Druggie Buggie by staff, and were headed toward an AA meeting. One of the girls, Nicole, longingly gazed out the window at a young couple holding hands outside of a bar and said, “Fucking Normies.”

Instantly, my mind began to race, my stomach churned, my clothes soaked in sweat, and the walls closed in around me. Unable to breathe, panic set in. My drinking led to a world of multiple DUIs, 24/7 lockdown rehab facilities, and road trips on the Druggie Buggie. There must be something wrong with me. I must be the polar opposite of a Normie; I must be batshit crazy.

After leaving rehab and reentering the real world, I noticed this Normie mentality everywhere. My family continued to drink daily. Pop culture promotes, even celebrates substance use. People bring coolers of booze to their kid’s t-ball games, and then drive home. Everyday occurrences like going to the grocery store resemble walking into a drug dealer's house. There are rows and rows of my drug of choice available round the clock; all I need is 10$ to black out. 

How is any of this normal? 

What is wrong with me?

Back in 2015, I didn’t have the words to explain why the word Normie triggered a low-grade panic attack. But now, I can see there is nothing normal whatsoever about society’s relationship with alcohol. The list of abnormal things our society does with (this drug called) alcohol could fill book after book after book.

My favorite tool to combat society’s backwards, “Normie,” relationship with alcohol is a simple loving kindness meditation. With eyes closed and hands over my heart, at each inhalation I can repeat phrases I’d want a struggling friend to hear:

May you know there is nothing wrong with you.

May you know there has never been anything wrong with you.

May you be gentle, kind, and patient toward yourself.

May you know freedom from alcohol.

May you feel seen, heard, and loved (fur baby affection absolutely counts).

May you become your own BFF as you create a beautiful new normal.

There is nothing wrong with me.

I am gently guided by wonder

One of my biggest struggles in sobriety is the idea that I need to find my purpose and have some impressively grand plan for my future. I spent most of high school attempting invisibility; not actually thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Getting into college wasn’t easy and I struggled to pick a major. How was my brace-faced, painfully sheltered, 18-year-old self supposed to choose a single career path for the next 40+ years of my life?

A couple of weeks into my first semester of college, while feeling overwhelmed by the crowds and paralyzed by my own lack of purpose, I stopped going to class altogether. Unsurprisingly, I failed out after the third semester. I couldn’t see a future for myself. Bulimia and an older boyfriend who introduced me to alcohol quickly trumped showing up for the shit show, college dropout life I had created for myself.

During the next decade of my life, I was arrested 5 times and admitted to rehab 6 times, which continued to distract me from finding this thing people call “purpose.” After being degraded and dehumanized by the criminal justice system, I struggle to feel worthy of looking within and trusting myself to make decisions about my future.

Unfortunately, I don’t think my story is unique. I think many of us, after years or decades of addiction, struggle to find purpose. The world labeled me an alcoholic loser. How do I put that bullshit label aside and learn to compassionately look within for answers? How *the fuck* do I get from: Day One, 32 years old, no job, no job references, no driver’s license, no therapist, still no clue what the hell I want to be when I grow up - to peace, lasting sobriety, and a sense of purpose?

I would be a wealthy woman if I knew the answer. But I do know something magical happens when I am guided by a gentle sense of wonder, rather than pressuring myself to know. Brene Brown says wonder is what fuels our passion for exploration and learning, for curiosity and adventure.

Hmm, I wonder if sobriety will create space for the treasure hunt of self-exploration I buried while attempting to be an invisible high schooler who couldn’t find her damn purpose.

Hmm, I wonder if there is no such thing as an alcoholic loser who can’t be trusted with herself.

Hmm, I wonder if I don’t need to have it all figured out today.

Hmm, I wonder if allowing myself to be gently guided by things that fuel my passion for exploration and learning, for curiosity and adventure, is good enough for now.

I am gently guided by wonder.

I collect moments of peace

A few years ago, I bought an off-white porcelain travel mug with the word HAPPY written on the side. During the colder months, this mug is never out of arm’s reach. I refill it hourly with coffee, tea, or cocoa, cups of comfort. But recently, I have noticed the word written on the mug rarely matches my mood.

I carry around a mug that promotes happiness, like it’s the only acceptable emotion, all day long. And honestly, this nonstop reminder to be happy has filled me with more rage than smiles.

When I was kid, and well into my adult life, I thought happiness was the ultimate #lifegoal. I thought adhering to social norms would make me happy. I thought a college degree, a husband, babies, vacations, botox, diets, and a two-story, 4-bedroom home with a pool was the only path to happiness because, unfortunately, that’s what my adolescent brain was exposed to.

Now, as I continue down the path of sobriety, I am learning to collect moments of peace, rather than striving for whatever happiness is. Peaceful moments happen when I slow down, notice how I am actually feeling, and mindfully re-enter my body after a long day of pretending to be “happy.” Peace, to me, is like an inner sense of calm. No matter what I am feeling, peaceful moments help bring me and my big, scary emotions back toward middle ground.

I have turned peaceful, quiet moments into daily rituals. Lighting a candle, cuddling with my dog, long walks at the nature trail up the street, preparing a comforting meal, watering my plants, hot baths, frequent trips to the library, deep breathing practices, fresh air on my lunch break, journaling, and wearing fuzzy socks are all things I can do to help collect a little peace.

 

In her latest book Atlas of the Heart, Dr. Brene Brown describes 87 different emotions humans experience. *Eighty-seven.* If this is true, why am I so hung up on happiness?

Maybe it’s normal to feel 87 different emotions in a single day. Maybe, as Brene suggests, the North Star to healing isn’t happiness. Maybe the bright light guiding us home lives in naming, feeling, and learning from all of our paradoxically messy emotions - while refilling our cups with moments of peace along the way.

Let me know if anyone finds a travel mug that says:

I collect moments of peace.

I get cozy & hibernate

One of the hardest parts of recovery, for me, is learning to regulate my emotions. I have always been an extremely sensitive and emotional human. It often feels like I live in a constant state of emotional overwhelm.

When I was in middle school, binging and purging became my go-to emotional regulator. I felt forced to restrict my emotions and food in the daylight; while animalistically binging on junk food and purging to release the day’s emotions at dusk. After I finished, while sprawled out on the bathroom floor, my brain and body were exhausted to the point of blissful numbness. Years before I ever touched alcohol, this was my daily emotional regulating system.

Luckily, sobriety provides space to explore new ways to regulate my emotions. After much trial and error, I have created a new ritual: I get cozy and hibernate.

This process begins as soon as I get home from a long day at work. I slip into my favorite oversized fleece onesie PJs and fuzzy slippers. I play soothing music, boil water for tea, wash my face, and light all of the candles. I gather a giant pile of pillows and wrap up like a burrito with my dog, Teddy, in a soft blanket cocoon. I fill up my introverted cup with some cozy quiet time.

Next, while in my safe, cozy space, I prioritize a cathartic release. The word catharsis literally means to purify or purge emotions - like pity and fear - through art or any extreme change in emotion that results in renewal or restoration. My cathartic releases of choice are endless Taylor Swift and Grey’s Anatomy marathons. But, if sappy isn’t your style, comedy, cute dog videos, and upbeat dance-in-your-underwear-jams will also do the trick. Maybe a cathartic release is what my middle school self actually needed.

Once I have cozily released some of my daily emotions, I like to hibernate. When I feel extra emotional, it usually means I need extra rest. My hibernation space is free from all distractions. I don’t have to worry about my to-do list or check my Instagram. All I have to do is drift off into a sweet, lavender scented slumber. Sometimes I hibernate for 8 hours, sometimes 12, sometimes more. I have learned that by resting, I am eventually able to rise without harming myself.

I have struggled most of my life, long before ever touching alcohol, with emotional regulation. And it turns out, emotional regulation is an integral part of sobriety. What would happen if I tried to regulate my emotions with rest and self-compassion rather than numbness?

The only way through is cozy.

I am powerFUL, not powerLESS

Yesterday I was listening to Ashley C. Ford as a guest speaker on Glennon Doyle’s We Can Do Hard Things podcast. Hearing Ashley was like the motivational speech I didn’t know I needed. She might not have been talking about sobriety, but she kept using Tempest-worthy affirmations like, “I won’t give up on me,” “I’ve kept me alive this whole time,” “I can trust me to take care of me,” and “I’ve got me.”

The best thing Ashely said was, “When I let people see me, I am powerful.”

To me, this means, when I show up without any masks and allow people to see the real me, I am my most powerful self. This message from Ashley feels empowering; like it gives me a superwoman cape.

Ashley’s statement about power also reminds me of Step One from the Big Book, which says, “We admitted we are powerless over alcohol.” Step One always makes me scratch my head in confusion. If I quit drinking and let the world see me, does that mean Twelve Steppers believe I will have less or no power? Do they really believe disempowerment is the first step toward sobriety?!

This quote from Ashely seems profound because she is saying my real, sober self is powerFUL, not powerLESS. I struggled to get sober for 15+ years because of fear; fear of what would happen when I let people see the real me. Making the choice to reevaluate my relationship with alcohol and practice sobriety does not make me less powerful. Rather, it fills me with power.

Sobriety, for me, requires vulnerability and letting people see the real me. Let’s ditch this old idea that showing up as sober and real requires powerlessness, shall we? Today I will remember, “When I let people see me, I am powerful.”

I am safe in the nothing space

Yesterday, while waiting for my teapot to whistle, I caught myself thinking, “I need to sweep the floor and clean the stove. I need to do some laundry and schedule my first dentist appointment in ten years. I need to take my dog out for a walk before dark and get him groomed next Tuesday. I need to vacuum the carpet and clear off the coffee table, and then I can relax.”

Making tea is my favorite simple daily pleasure. It’s like a hug in a mug. But what happens when this time for myself gets bombarded with thoughts of a never-ending to-do list? Do I ever stop thinking about my to-do list? Is it possible for me to relax without cleaning up first? Do I even feel safe in the nothing space?

I think I developed this need for hyper-productivity as a way to both prove my worthiness and avoid my awkwardness - which creates a false sense of control. I am much more comfortable working than I am making small talk, so I never stop moving. I think twenty steps ahead and work efficiently. I will work harder than everyone in the building, even at the cost of my mental, physical, and emotional health. No one can talk shit about a hard worker.

But, when I live in this constant state of doing, I completely lose myself. I never allow for relaxation or fun or growth. I find it challenging to slow down because that means there is space for vulnerability.

So, how do I begin slowing down and create space for nothing? What if I prioritize, maybe even schedule in my color-coded planner, time for rest and creativity and extreme introvertness? What if, in moments where I catch myself obsessing, I take a deep breath instead? What if the path to healing lives in the nothing space?

What if the next time I find myself heading down the to-do list spiral of doom, I switch up the dialogue? What if I told myself, “I see what you are trying to do here, Kelsi. I know this pattern well. I give you permission to temporarily put the to-do list down. It is safe. I am safe. I know it’s challenging, but there is beauty to be found in stillness.”

I am safe in the nothing space.

I ditch the diet

It’s that time of year again. We are entering the season of “New Year, New Me” diets. It’s time to offset the extra holiday pounds with calorie restriction. It’s time to get an overpriced gym membership and pick my fad diet of choice. Call me a Scrooge; I loathe this time of year.

When I was a preteen, the South Beach Diet hardcover book sat on my parent’s coffee table like the Bible. My mom read it with a highlighter and tried all of the recipes. Now, at 33 years old, I can see it has been 20 years since I rang in the New Year without a diet. Somewhere along the way, I began associating weight loss with self-compassion. Diet culture tells us the formula to looking and feeling better is food restriction.

But what if this idea of bettering myself with a diet, is actually a form of self-punishment? What if this process of constantly striving for thinness is actually killing me?

Biologically speaking, the natural way mammals respond to a period of starvation - or a diet - is to compensate with a binge. It’s literally hardwired in our brains and bodies to follow a diet with overeating. So, every time I ring in the New Year with a new diet, I am setting myself up for this cycle of failure. Diets are not designed to work. They are designed to keep me coming back and stuck in never ending self-hatred. (Kinda sounds like drugs.)

What if, this year, I made the resolution to practice asking my body what it needs and wants, rather than constantly rejecting its hunger cues? What if I vowed to properly fuel my body with three meals per day, plus snacks in between? What would happen if I stopped counting macronutrients and just ate whatever the hell I am craving?

I imagine giving up dieting will be challenging at first because it’s one of my oldest security blankets. I will miss the (false) sense of control my eating disorder has provided for 20 years. But, if I alter my intention to self-compassion, rather than self-punishment, diets no longer belong in my life.

Whether it’s the South Beach, Paleo, Keto, low-carb, low-fat, or low-calorie, being on a diet will not change my relationship with myself or the world around me. Self-compassion, self-trust, intuitive eating, and stretchy pants are much more practical and attainable “New Year, New Me” goals.

I ditch the diet. 

I take a self-compassion break

 Recently, upon arriving at work, the first thing my coworker said to me was, “OMG. I got so drunk last night. I think I am still drunk right now. Hahahaha.” My eyes got wide as I stared at her with an angry and judgmental gaze. Unable to respond, I walked away and cried alone in a nearby janitor’s closet.

I spent the rest of the day fuming and beating myself up for “overreacting.” Sometimes I get so furious my drug of choice is casually flaunted and joked about at work. Sometimes it feels like there are triggers around every corner.

A few days later, while venting to my therapist, I was introduced to what is called a self-compassion break founded by Dr. Kristen Neff. This is a quick mindfulness practice that can be used during moments of stress and emotional discomfort.

A self-compassion break involves the following steps:

1. Notice this is a moment of suffering

While crying alone in the closet, I could’ve taken a deep breath and reminded myself that this is hard. It is incredibly difficult to live in a world where alcohol use is everywhere. I can acknowledge my triggered state, which leaves me feeling hurt and stressed.

2. Remember: Suffering is part of life/the process

Next, as I continue to breathe deeply, I remind myself that it is normal to feel this way. Triggers and difficult times are a part of getting sober. I am not alone or crazy. I have all of you to share this recovery experience with.

3. Be kind to myself

Finally, I can combat this emotional discomfort with self-compassion. With my hands on my heart, I can take more deep breaths and shower myself with words of kindness. What would I say to a dear friend in this situation? What do I need in order to best support and protect myself? Furthermore, I can whip out my toolkit and self-soothe with essential oils, a cozy cup of tea, and dark chocolate.

Unfortunately, it is impossible to live in this world without encountering alcohol triggers. However, on the bright side, I can always take a self-compassion break—even in a janitor’s closet—when I start feeling shaky.

I take a self-compassion break.

P.S. Here is a short guided self-compassion break with Dr. Kristen Neff. Enjoy! https://youtu.be/uSNH5yvxylg