I have hope for the future

Ten years ago when I left eating disorder treatment for the first time, I remember being angry and constantly triggered because everyone around me was dieting. Just ten years ago the patriarchy still had full control over pop culture’s unattainable thinness and beauty standards. Body positivity did not exist. The Biggest Loser was still on TV. It was perfectly normal to bond with folks over diet talk and body hatred. Nowhere felt safe. Everything felt triggering.

Now, ten years later, the same type of thing is happening on my alcohol-free journey. There are nine different places to buy alcohol on the six block walk to my job where people openly and eagerly await beer o'clock. In the summer there is a beer drinking, bike peddling trolley that rowdily goes by my apartment every hour. My dog walking trail is littered with beer cans. I can’t even listen to Pandora without hearing a Leinenkugel’s ad. Nowhere feels safe. Everything feels triggering.

I feel angry and constantly triggered by other people's alcohol use the same way I did ten years ago with other people's diets.

The good news is, hearing about other people’s diets does not bother me the same way it used to. My anger and resentment eventually morphed into acceptance and empathy towards those who remain trapped in endless diet cycles. Last week at work, for example, a woman beamed with pride saying she had been “good” for an entire week because she avoided carbohydrates. Instead of feeling angry and triggered, I felt sad for her. I know how impossibly miserable it is to equate food restriction with goodness.

This experience with my coworker gives me hope for my future alcohol-free journey. Maybe someday other people's alcohol use won’t be so triggering. Maybe I can learn to trade my anger for empathy. I also know how impossibly miserable it is to live for beer o’clock, after all.

In 2012 it was hard to find decent articles or books on eating disorders. Now we have social media accounts solely dedicated to debunking diet culture. There has been a significant cultural shift in a single decade. Hopefully by 2032 alcohol-free lifestyles will be more normalized, mirroring today's more body-positive culture.

I am slowly learning to survive in this alcohol-obsessed world by remembering my past. If this type of a shift is possible for eating disorders, it is also possible for alcohol. I am not crazy for feeling this way. It makes sense that this is hard. Maybe things won’t change today or tomorrow, but if I keep putting one foot in front of the other, maybe in another ten years I’ll be lucky enough to witness an alcohol-free cultural revolution.

I have hope for the future.

I am valuable, worthy, and rare

“Being weird is when you

love yourself enough to

liberate yourself from

the burden of trying

to be normal. It is also

when you are smart enough

to know that there is

no such thing as normal.

Know that you are valuable.

Know that you are worthy.

Know that you are rare.

How could anyone be

better than you if

you are the only you?”

-Cleo Wade

I wish I had found this poem 10 years ago at the start of my recovery journey. Being labeled an alcoholic has made me feel like the ultimate weirdo, like I don’t belong in my family or in society.

This poem helps reframe my so-called weirdness as a valuable, worthy, and rare superpower. My experiences with addiction and sobriety have given me the opportunity to view the world through my own uniquely special lense. My liberation comes from knowing that I no longer need to fit into this sick society. Sobriety allows me to take pride in my weirdness, and as a result, develop my own sparkly and fabulous definition of normal.

I am valuable.

I am worthy.

I am rare.

If I am the only me,

how could anyone be better?

My face tells a story of strength

I have an older cousin who was given the nickname “wrinkle” because he always had a scowl on his face that caused a crease between his brows. As I grew into my teens and early 20s I often had the same wrinkled expression on my face. My parents would jokingly say, “Hey wrinkle!” as a reminder to not let my face age prematurely. I learned from a young age that wrinkles do not make me desirable.

The messages to maintain a perfectly ageless face continued into my mid-late 20s. We live in a society where women are scolded for “letting themselves go,” while men are praised for “aging like fine wine.” Society discards women after their youth has worn off. Pop culture is steeped in toxic femininity and impossible standards. For example, I recently heard Kim Kardashian say she’d eat poop if that meant she would look younger, for goodness sakes.

Currently, I am 34 years young and have a deepening number 11 wrinkle between my eyebrows thanks to twenty years of bulimia and alcohol dependency. Oftentimes being sober feels challenging because all I see when I look in the mirror is an overly aged face. It feels like the wrinkle tells a story of two decades worth of self-harm.

Unfortunately, I have been chasing the idea of “pretty privilege” my entire life. I always thought I was too shy to be accepted, but if I could be pretty enough then life would somehow be easier. And now that I have a single imperfection in the middle of my face, I feel unworthy and ugly. Is this something all women experience? Are we all greeted with a slight (or massive) identity crisis while grieving the loss of youth and beauty?

Recently I saw an article where Jennifer Garner says young people should be cautious and wait to get injectables and fillers. My love for Jen began with 13 Going on 30, but now I love her even more. This article makes me wonder how much of my own negative self-image has been caused by patriarchy and capitalism. Has this botox-driven world skewed my perception of reality?

These Brandi Carlile lyrics have helped reframe my wrinkle shame:

All of these lines across my face

Tell you the story of who I am

So many stories of where I've been

And how I got to where I am

Instead of allowing my wrinkle to be a story of self-harm and addiction, I am learning to take pride in this facial battle scar. My wrinkle tells the story of the blood, sweat, and tears I have put into my recovery. It tells the story of the countless times I picked my hungover self up from the bathroom floor and tried again. It tells the story of my resilience, courage, and survival.

I can breathe a little easier when I think of my wrinkles as a story of strength, instead of a story of undesirability. I can breathe a little easier knowing that life’s greatest privilege has nothing to do with a smooth face and everything to do with having the opportunity to be soberly present as I grow older.

My face tells a story of strength.

I celebrate a Day Won

I had a slip last week. After several months without alcohol, I drank again. Since my recovery journey began ten years ago, I have been taught two completely different ways to deal with relapses. First, the most mainstream option is to go back to Day One after a slip. To delete all of the progress that has been made and shamefully collect a twenty-four hour chip. In my experience, nothing made me feel more like a failure than another Day One.

Before joining Tempest, I couldn’t figure out how to string together more than 72 consecutive hours of sobriety, so I lived in a space of constant not good enoughness. While hungover on the bathroom floor, I would beat the shit out of myself with abusive and self-berating thoughts like: “What the hell is wrong with me? How did I end up here AGAIN? Why can’t I just stop drinking? Get off the floor you piece of shit.” Understandably, this never helped me quit drinking.

The second way to deal with slips, known as The Myth of Day Ones, was introduced to me when I began my sobriety journey with Tempest 18 months ago. Tempest recovery coach Christina Hanks says the best way to reframe slips is with self-compassion. What is going to help me get back on track - kindness or shame? If I could punish myself into healing, I would not find myself hungover on the bathroom floor once again.

Hanks suggests that instead of kicking myself while I am down, I can lay on the bathroom floor with my hungover self and wipe my own tears. I can give myself the biggest hug knowing I do not have to go back to Day One. Everything I learned and all of the progress I have made before the slip does not go away, it is not erased. Instead of going back to Day One, I can simply skip a day and then proudly keep going.

Hank's words always make me emotional, “Another Day One. Does this equal failure? No way. I am a sweet and giving song of endless tryings. I am a person who loves myself enough to keep trying. Day Ones are never for a second a failure. Do you know what type of person it takes to try something 5 million times in 5 million different ways? 500 million Day Ones adds up to 500 million pieces of arriving home to myself.”

I no longer believe in Day Ones. Rather, I believe every alcohol-free day is to be celebrated as a Day Won (even if I am hungover). Slips are no longer used as fuel to beat myself up with. Now they are simply an opportunity for me to collect data points. What triggered me to drink? How can I set myself up for success moving forward? What changes do I need to make? What can I learn from this? How can I treat myself with even more self-compassion?

I have been practicing sobriety with Tempest for 532 days and have only slipped five times. That is incredible progress considering I only had a handful of sober days in all of 2019. Slipping does not make me a failure, it makes me human. I am not starting over. Nothing has been lost. I am simply learning new ways to love and nurture myself.

Instead of going back to Day One, I celebrate a Day Won.

I love you. I am listening.

For as long as I can remember I have kept a quote journal. I enjoy filling page after page with words that bring light to dark times. Back in the spring of 2016 while in rehab, I carried around a notebook and wrote down what I thought were nuggets of wisdom from Twelve Step meetings. A few days ago I pulled that old journal off my bookshelf to find this quote:

Reading this quote six years later makes me scratch my head in confusion and concern. Does this mean my thoughts are unsafe? Does this mean I am not to be trusted with my own emotions? Does this mean I am supposed to live in a constant state of dissociation?

I believed this quote was true for many years. I believed continuous distraction was the only way to survive without allowing my thoughts to implode upon my life. I kept waiting for something external to “fix me.” But now, after 17 months of practicing a more self-compassionate version of sobriety, I can’t help but call bullshit on that quote.

My favorite antithesis to that common Twelve Step way of thinking is a guided meditation led by Sarah Blondin called, “I love you. I am listening.”

Blondin says: “When we live in a state of distraction, we often forget that there is a heart and self within us that needs love and attention. We are often so busy showing up for others in this way that we neglect to care for our own hearts. This creates a type of separation and alienation from our source of love. One of the most potent and powerful ways to realign with our hearts and our deepest self is by saying - I love you. I am listening.”

The first time I heard this 13 minute meditation I wept. It was like someone had finally given me permission to connect with my truest self for the first time in my life. I felt a tenderness and a sorrow for the girl inside of me who was taught that living here - in between my own ears - was not only dangerous, but also to be avoided if I wanted to get sober.

For me, recovery from an eating disorder and alcohol addiction are not possible when I believe it is unsafe to be with my own thoughts. In order to heal, I need to love and listen to the parts of myself that I have been numbing for 20 years.

Today I am going to rip out that page in my old quote journal and burn it. I am going to buy a new journal and write this on the first page:

The safest place for me to build a home is between my own ears.

Danger lives in constant distraction.

I love you.

I am listening.

I am compassionately curious

For the past several months I have been experiencing vivid flashbacks. The type of flashbacks that remind me of the terrible, relationship-ending things I did while drinking. When these flashes happen, I lose grip of my surroundings. I get stuck in a quicksand of self-berating thoughts. For about five minutes, until I am able to regroup, I am short-tempered, sweaty, emotional, and unable to focus on the present moment.

Everyone knows that drugs make people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do. Ambitions and cognitive functioning are lowered. Anger and suppressed emotions are heightened. Chaos ensues. It makes sense that after a ten year span of alcohol addiction, I experienced and caused several traumatic events.

I imagine flashbacks are a common occurrence for most people in sobriety. It’s almost like addiction causes its own unique type of PTSD. Losing relationships, being labeled an alcoholic, and being criminalized for my pain are all deeply traumatic experiences. The problem is, all of this is considered normal. No one teaches newly sober folks about the magical powers of practicing compassionate curiosity while healing from trauma. Instead, I am expected to somehow manage PTSD symptoms below the surface after being told I am powerless and filled with shameful character defects.

In a TedTalk called Understanding PTSD's Effects on Brain, Body, and Emotions, Janet Seahorn describes PTSD symptoms, like my flashbacks, as a hidden wound, a silent scream. Seahorn doesn’t believe PTSD is a disorder, but rather a reordering of neural and sensory pathways. Parts of the brain - the prefrontal cortex, hippocampus, and amygdala - actually change during traumatic events. The sensory system is overloaded and stress hormones are released causing the brain to reset neural pathways as a survival mechanism.

Seahorn says trauma can manifest in our lives as hypervigilance, nightmares, night sweats, panic attacks, insomnia, physical pain, and of course, flashbacks. All of this makes it extremely difficult to figure out how to soberly function in the real world.

When I choose to look at my flashbacks with a compassionately curious gaze, I can’t help but wonder these four things:

1. What if these flashbacks are actually a perfectly normal response to all that has happened in my life? 

2. What if I stopped beating myself for responding this way?

3. What tools can I use to reroute this deeply engrained trauma groove in my brain?

4. What if compassionate curiosity is the birthplace of healing?

According to Seahorn, a few common ways to begin healing from trauma include: trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy, EMDR, meditation, yoga and tai chi, service dogs, harm reduction, and grounding practices. Books and documentaries can also help. It is impossible to have a conversation about addiction, trauma, and compassionate curiosity without Gabor Mate's book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts and docuseries The Wisdom of Trauma. Oprah's empathetic approach to trauma in her recent book What Happened to You? is another great resource.

Additionally, in recent years, countless articles and studies* on the life-altering effects of psychopharmacological medicine have become impossible to ignore. One of my favorite writers and researchers of all time, Michael Pollen, recently released a book and a four part docuseries on Netflix called How to Change Your Mind. Although I personally have never tried psychedelics, this documentary has removed previous stigmas and judgments I held towards those who have. Pollen's work sparks compassionate curiosity. Contrastly, my shero Holly Whitaker summed up her therapist guided psilocybin experience on this podcast episode as, “Fucking terrible. I threw up twice.” Plant-based medicine might not be for everyone, but I do think it is worth exploring if other treatments fail.

In my opinion, mainstream institutions of recovery and incarceration don't work because they completely miss the mark on trauma-informed care. In fact, I believe the system itself causes trauma because my worst flashbacks involve handcuffs. Luckily I am learning this is not a me problem, it is a societal problem. There is nothing wrong with me or other addicts. The problem lies within the criminalization of pain and trauma.

Unresolved trauma is a heavy burden to carry. But when I look at my trauma through a compassionately curious lense, I can see my flashbacks are a normal biological response and nothing to be ashamed of. Best of all, as the shame lifts, the magical healing powers of compassionate curiosity begin.

I am compassionately curious.

***Here are a just a few psychopharmacological medicine articles and studies:

Ketamine – Guernica (guernicamag.com)

The Next Big Addiction Treatment - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

What is Microdosing, and Does it Work? - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

Mental Health Startup Journey Colab Aims To Develop Mescaline As An FDA-Approved Treatment For Alcohol Use Disorder (forbes.com)

Could psilocybin mushrooms help with depression? | The Independent

I am experiencing ambiguous loss

Two summers ago, after a year of shameful drinking behavior, I ran away from my hometown and quit my job via drunken text message. I wasn’t willing or able to show up for the shit show of a life my drinking had, once again, created. Acknowledging the pain I had caused my loved ones was unbearable. So rather than dealing with the situation, I fled.

Ever since then I have been experiencing an unexplainable sense of grief. My family is still alive and well. Why does it feel like I experienced multiple deaths? Does everyone think I am just a cold-hearted addict? Am I even allowed to feel this way after causing so much pain?

Recently I stumbled upon a term coined by Pauline Boss in the 1970s called ambiguous loss. Ambiguous loss occurs when a person suffers a confusing loss that they are unable to process. Boss describes two basic types of ambiguous loss:

1. Person perceived as physically absent, but psychologically present.
2. Person perceived as physically present, but psychologically absent.

One of the hardest parts about recovery, for me and possibly most addicts, is coming to terms with the first kind of ambiguous loss. One of Al-Anon's main principles is detachment, for goodness sake. Al-Anon teaches folks to physically remove themselves from the addict's life as a form of self-preservation. It’s not uncommon for addicts to lose all communication with their families. My family has been physically absent from my life for two years, but sometimes psychologically present through my iPhone. The distance between us has created what feels like a large frozen mass of grief hovering above my heart.

Additionally, there is no doubt in my mind that families who deal with addiction first hand also experience the second type of ambiguous loss. While I was engaged with my eating disorder and alcohol addiction, I was physically present, but dead on the inside. My addictions worked as numbing agents, freezing all emotion. My family was not living with me, they were living with a hollow frame fueled by shame.

Understanding ambiguous loss helps me normalize and understand the gut-wrenching grief that comes with sobriety. I have been grieving my life before, during, and after addiction without proper language in a society that stigmatizes and looks down upon me for years. The cards have not been stacked in my favor. It makes sense that this is hard.

Pauline Boss’s work finally put language to my experience. Her work has helped me understand my emotions and, as a result, has helped lift some of my “runaway addict” shame. Next time I feel that pit of ambiguous loss in my stomach, I can welcome those emotions with open arms knowing it is perfectly normal to feel this way. 

I am experiencing ambiguous loss.

I use my anger to fuel change

Lately I have been doom scrolling and reposting angry words to my Instagram story more often than I’d like to admit. Embarrassingly, I have even picked a few angry fights with people in the comment section. Due to the current state of the world (and the American political system), it’s been easy to get sucked into the chaos.

The main emotion I am experiencing these days is fear. It’s a type of fear that shows up in my life as red hot fiery anger. I have spent my entire life trying to be a nonreactive “good girl.” No one taught me how to healthily cope with fear that manifests as anger. My go-to strategy has been stuffing my anger deep below the surface and praying I don’t explode.

For me, social media is like a drug. It's good for distracting and numbing my emotions in the short term, but ultimately, it makes me feel like garbage. Social media causes a feeling of anger that skyrockets my heart rate and makes my armpits sweaty. Social media, I have learned, is not a safe place for my anger or my nervous system.

One of my favorite quotes on anger comes from Glennon Doyle:

“Anger delivers important information about where one of our boundaries has been crossed. When we answer the door and accept that delivery, we begin to know ourselves better. When we restore the boundary that was violated, we honor ourselves.”

This quote leaves me wondering if social media is one of the things violating my boundaries. Is this highly addictive app helping or hurting me? What would happen if I spent time away from Instagram? How else can I release some of the anger that has been living in my body for decades with no escape?

As much as I dislike feeling angry, I am learning how to use my anger and pent up negative energy to fuel change. The first change I am making is limiting the amount of time I spend on social media. Unfollowing triggering accounts also helps. Next, I can ease my political fears by educating myself on future candidates. The time I used to spend doom scrolling can be spent advocating for myself.

Additionally, I can channel my fear and anger by creating art, meditating, speaking to a therapist, listening to podcasts, engaging with a like-minded community, and participating in local peaceful protests. I can release pent up anger from my body with movement; yoga, bike rides, dancing, boxing, and long walks in nature all do the trick. I can also practice somatic therapy and deep breathing exercises to calm my nervous system.

The world around us is on literal fire. Everyone is afraid, everyone is angry. Answering the door and greeting the delivery of my anger with doom scrolling won't fuel change. Change happens when I restore the boundaries social media has violated and honor myself by choosing endless self-compassion.

I use my anger to fuel change.

I release the idea that things should be different

A few days ago we celebrated one of my favorite days of the year - the Summer Solstice. It is the day of the year with the most daylight in the Northern Hemisphere. This kick off to summer is what I look forward to all winter long. My favorite flowers are in full bloom and my vegetable garden will soon follow. I feel surrounded by magic and wonder.

While at the park with my dog, Teddy, I gathered a handful of dying dandelions; the fluffy type that have lost their yellow pigment. Did you know dead dandelions are a symbol of hope, healing, and renewal? When blown into the wind, their seeds are dispersed, bringing new life wherever they go.

One of my favorite ways to celebrate this change of season is to shed aspects of my life that are no longer serving me. This is a season of rebirth. I want to release the idea that things in my life should be different.

I am currently 34 years old. I do not have a driver’s license or kids or a husband or a full time job or a mortgage or any of the other things society says 34 year olds should have figured out by now. I have been struggling with FOMO and intense resentment everytime my family posts photos from their fancy, booze-infested summer vacations. I have been allowing comparisons to be the thief of my joy.

But on the day of the solstice, with my dead dandelions in hand, I experienced a mental shift. I might be missing out on “typical” 34 year old things, but that doesn’t mean my life isn’t full or worth living. I still get to spend time each day engaged in my joy practices: Tempest calls, bike rides, gardening, writing, reading, learning, contemplating, baking, dog mothering, blasting Taylor Swift, and napping. It’s almost like l have been given space to create my own rehab, my own way of recovering. I have been given space to get to know my truest self, with minimal distractions from the outside world, for the first time in my life.

I celebrated the solstice by sitting next to a small stream at sunset, making wishes (a.k.a. releasing shit), and blowing each of the dead dandelion leaves into the wind. 

I release the idea that I am behind in life

I release the FOMO and the resentment

I release the fear of being different

I release the self-doubt

I release the comparisons

I release the idea that my sensitivity is a weakness

I release the idea that my recovery needs to be perfect

I release the fear of letting my parents down

I release the idea that I am crazy

I release all of the shoulds

Most importantly, my dead dandelions and I are releasing the idea that my life needs to look differently than it does at this very moment.

☀️🌞😎 Happy belated Summer Solstice ☀️🌞😎

I practice imperfectly

Ten summers ago, in 2012, after spending 28 days in a 24/7 lockdown hospital psych ward, I was admitted to a longer term, partial inpatient eating disorder program just outside of Toledo, Ohio. It was the second of the six treatment experiences I have had and I will never, ever forget it.

At the time, I was under the age of 26 and still included in my parents upper-middle class health insurance coverage. This allowed me to experience a holistic, woman-led program rooted in compassion, psycho education, exposure therapy, DBT, mindfulness, and actual scientific research. Even though I was in treatment, it was still one of the most magical summers of my entire life. The intensely vulnerable nature of treatment allowed me to form deep, healing friendships with my fellow patients.

One of my favorite parts of this program was its step-down process. This meant during the final few weeks of treatment, I would drive home, spend a few days with my parents, and then come back to treatment and process how the home visit went. My therapist understood that returning home after being held in the confines of treatment would be difficult and triggering. I was given space to practice, even if that meant I had a slip.

There was zero expectation to practice this new skill perfectly. There was no punishing. My treatment team and I were simply collecting data points. No shame necessary.

Fast forward to the summer of 2016. I was on probation for my second DUI, no longer covered by my parent’s fancy insurance, and had just completed 4 different state-funded, Twelve Step based inpatient rehab programs over a nine month period. This time, instead of being treated for a much more socially acceptable eating disorder, I was being treated as a low-life alcoholic. Financially, I was forced into a traumatizing and dehumanizing system that believes shame, powerlessness, and criminalization are the path to healing. If I didn’t recover perfectly, I would be sent to jail for years.

For the past decade, I have always wondered why humans who struggle with substance abuse are punished so much more harshly than those who struggle with eating disorders. The root causes of my eating disorder and my addictions are exactly the same. It doesn't make sense that my eating disorder was given way more grace than my alcohol addiction.

If I learned one thing in treatment ten years ago, it’s that I am allowed to normalize imperfections as I begin practicing an alcohol-free life. With Tempest, the addict shaming involved in slips or relapses has been replaced with holistic compassion. I am proud to say that I have only slipped with alcohol 4 times in the past 16 months. I have not been perfect, but I am practicing something brand new - in a culture obsessed with my drug of choice - at a 99.18% success rate. What a fucking miracle.

In my experience, the most effective way to start building an alcohol-free life is to allow myself the grace of imperfection.

I practice imperfectly.

Freedom Has Been Found

A couple of weeks ago I was included in a cousin group text that said, “We’re at a wedding doing pictures and (the song) Family Tradition comes on.. We need a party!!!!! A good old [our last name] party with drinks, food, drinks, a dance floor, and drinks!!! Love you all!”

Let me be clear, I am not writing this as a diss or a jab at my family. It is possible that my cousin was drinking when she sent this; and I am the queen of sending damaging drunk texts, so I can’t judge her. I am writing this because I don’t think my story is unique. I think many of us come from families that bond, commiserate, and celebrate with alcohol.

When I was a kid, my family was everything. I looked up to my cousins and used them as the blueprint upon which I built my life. They influenced everything from my hair color to the way I dressed to the people I dated. And like it or not, my family’s normalization of alcohol was also highly influential on my adolescent brain.

For about a week after I received that text, I felt fueled by anger, resentment, and a deep-seeded sense of inferiority. But yesterday, while crying and biking around town with my dog, Teddy, I saw a sign outside a Methodist church that said, “Freedom has been found.”

Yes, it’s extremely painful to feel left out of family traditions because of alcohol, but what if I am actually the one who has found freedom?

My journey to sobriety has not been easy. I desperately tried to quit drinking for about ten years before it finally clicked. Instead of building healthy relationships, starting a career, and planning a family during my 20s, I was forced to survive the criminal justice system and all of the trauma our society places on us “alcoholics.” I felt like I was crazy, doomed, and forever chained to alcohol. There was zero freedom in my life.

Now, 16 months into imperfectly practicing an alcohol-free life, I can see there truly is freedom on the other side of our society’s normalization of alcohol.

Freedom is found in my daily hangover-free sunrise walks with Ted

Freedom is found in feeling and learning from all of my emotions

Freedom is found in silence

Freedom is found in Quitting and Doing Hard Things

Freedom is found in educating and advocating for myself politically

Freedom is found in creating a life I do not want to escape from

Freedom is found in my garden

Freedom is found in holding down a job and not having to call in hungover

Freedom is found in being in control of my finances because I am no longer spending all of my money on alcohol or blackout online shopping

Freedom is found in not obsessing over where my next drink will come from

Freedom is found in no longer poisoning myself

Freedom is found in learning to ask for help

Freedom is found in being fully present for my life

The next time I experience a family-related drinking trigger, I can step back, breathe deeply, and remember that freedom has already been found. The world around us is going to keep drinking for the foreseeable future. However, I do think we are on the forefront of an alcohol-free progressive era. I do think, as Holly Whitaker would say, someday soon-ish seeing people drink at the airport will be just as taboo as seeing people smoke at the airport.

I truly believe freedom has been found on the other side of the alcohol.