A Toast to the Winter Solstice

Today is the Winter Solstice. The solstice brings the fewest hours of daylight and the longest, darkest night of the year. Winter has officially begun. For many of us, the extra darkness and barren cold create a season of poor mental health. But what if we could use this time to improve well-being instead? What if we could harness the darkness and reignite our inner light?

The word solstice combines the Latin words sol or “sun” and sistere or “to stand still,” making “sun stands still” the literal definition of this day. It is almost as if the Sun is taking a break. The Sun understands that we all need a season of rest and reflection. The Winter Solstice represents a much-needed pause. This day creates space for my favorite things: cozy candlelit cocooning and contemplation.

Today I also celebrate thirty-three consecutive days of practicing meditation using an app called InsightTimer. For years I have heard people speak about the benefits of mediation, but I have never managed to get into a consistent rhythm - until now. I wish I could say some major transformation has occured after 33 days, but that has not been the case. Not yet, anyway. People say it takes roughly 60-90 days before the magic begins.

What I have noticed, though, is a tiny shift in the regulation of my overworked nervous system. Breathing deeply, even if only for ten minutes a day, really does help with my anxiety and constant anticipatory dread. Sinking below the surface creates space to reconnect with my true self. The goal of meditation is not to have zero thoughts. The goal is to quietly listen to the parts of myself that I have been programmed to bury and ignore for decades. Using meditation as a tool to slow down feels like a rebellious and revolutionary act while living in a society that values constant productivity and distraction.

As the New Year approaches, I refuse to make resolutions to better myself. What I am willing to do, however, is set up a daily meditation practice intended to help rediscover myself. Ideally, I will report back here with a monthly meditation update. Thirty-three consecutive days is a big deal. I want to keep the ball rolling.

As a toast to the Winter Solstice, I will spend the day in cozy matching Christmas PJs with my dog, Teddy. I will light all of the candles, draw a hot bath, bundle up for a brisk walk, savor a simmering pot of soup, brew endless cups of tea, take a nap, and of course, meditate. I will follow the Sun's lead and take a gentle break to reignite my inner light.

Progress.

A Love Letter to Baristas

If you read my last post, you know that I helped open a franchise-owned chain coffee shop this past week. Luckily, prior barista experience helped quell my nerves. I thought I knew what to expect because I also helped open a smaller, locally owned coffee shop in 2016. However, I quickly learned how much busier and more chaotic these larger chain coffee shops are. It was madness.

In my opinion, baristaing is one of the most intense entry-level jobs in existence. We rise from our warm, cozy beds around 4am and arrive to work by 5am. Once the coffee shop opens, it is a literal sprint until the end of the shift. There is no time to breathe or to regulate the nervous system. There is only time for efficiency and vibrancy. Yesterday at 6:15am we had a line of ten customers inside and eight cars outside waiting in the drive thru. Working folks are desperate for their daily hit of caffeine. Before I had time to sip my own cup of joe, there was a stack of fifteen drink orders.

Imagine having to make this lineup of drink tickets as quickly possible hours before the sun comes up:

Iced matcha latte with oat milk

Quad shot Americano with room for cream and three splendas

Decaf sugar free vanilla latte with almond milk and no whipped cream

Banana berry smoothie with half the flavoring, extra strawberries, and soy milk

Half caff caramel hazelnut latte extra hot

London Fog with an extra tea bag, three pumps of vanilla, and skim milk

Cafe au lait extra hot with 2% milk, one pump white chocolate, and three sugars in the raw

Triple shot frozen sugar free peppermint stick mocha no whip

Extra dry coconut milk cappuccino at 145 degrees

Cold brew with light ice, cinnamon syrup, and two inches of sweet foam

Hot chocolate at 120 degrees, extra whipped cream, and sprinkles

Ready? Go!

In addition to memorizing hundreds of drink recipe combinations, baristas are also expected to effortlessly strike up conversations with cranky uncaffeinated customers over top of blaring music and noisy coffee bean grinders. We think three steps ahead at all times while acting chipper and bubbly. I get a headache just thinking about it. For extroverts, this might come naturally and even be enjoyable. But for highly sensitive, neurodivergent introverts like me, this job is draining AF.

Because writing is how I process my emotions and recenter, I decided to write a love letter to all of my fellow baristas:

Dear Barista,

I see you. I love you.

I understand the mental and emotional gymnastics that come with this job.

I know how easy it is to get frustrated and overwhelmed.

I know how hard it is to have multiple people talking at you while you're trying to focus.

I know you are forced to mask the shit going on in your personal life.

I know you always have a headache.

I know you’re grossly underpaid.

I know you’re sleep deprived and surviving on caffeine.

I know customers are grumpy and impatient even though you’re trying your best.

I know it feels impossible to get out of your cozy bed in the dead of winter at 4am.

I know that you are too exhausted and too overstimulated to function after each shift.

I also know that you are doing it.

You are showing up and doing your best.

You are juggling a thousand things at once and still smiling.

This is a job for special humans.

And you just happen to be one of those special humans.

You have superpowers.

I am so proud of you for showing up.

I see you. I love you.

I am learning that, for me, the only way to make this job sustainable is to really take care of myself in my free time. If I was still drinking, this type of work would be impossible. Although it's tough to get out of bed at 4am, I am incredibly grateful that I am not waking up hungover. Sobriety gives me space to be gentle and kind with myself, which is exactly what I need to counterbalance the chaos of being a barista.

Progress.

Leaps of Faith

Phew. How are we approaching mid-December already? Usually, December is a time for reflection and setting intentions for the New Year, but this year I have barely had any time to catch my breath. Last week I started not one but two new jobs. I knew last month when I left my old shitty kitchen job that I was taking a leap of faith. I knew stepping into a new job role would be draining. I knew having my daily routines thrown out of whack would be destabilizing. I also knew that the Universe would catch me if I remained alcohol-free.

However, I did not know the Universe would grant me two job opportunities at the same time. It has been a tough week, but I am finally starting to come out on the other side. I am finally rediscovering my center while living in the messy middle.

The first job, I am a little embarrassed to say, is as a barista at a popular chain coffeehouse where I am incredibly overqualified. On the first day of training, I was so nervous and rattled with thoughts of being a “loser'' that I got dizzy and fainted (lol). After more than a decade of fine dining and coffee industry experience, it feels excruciating to show up as an entry-level employee. I am struck by grief and shame each time I see past schoolmates and past coworkers post on social media about opening restaurants, founding thriving kombucha companies, and creating lattes named after Taylor Swift songs (who wouldn't want a Lavender Haze or a Snow on the Beach latte?!). Social media can feel like a big, fat reminder that I messed up my life.

The second job, however, is an actual paid writing job (eeeeeekk!!!) for a mental health website called HealthyPlace. My job will be to write essays debunking addiction myths. Because this job pays, I believe this officially makes me a professional writer, which has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t pay nearly enough to cover my bills, but that’s okay because the Universe also gave me a part-time barista job to get me by financially.  A girl has to start her writing career somewhere, after all. 

I took a leap of faith and the Universe caught me, just as I knew it would. Every time thoughts of being a “loser” creep into my mind, I can combat them with “professional writer” thoughts. My life might not look like everyone else’s life. I might not have a “real job” or a perfect criminal background, but I am chasing my dreams. And anyone who follows their dreams cannot possibly be a “loser.”

Progress.

Redefining Success

My driver’s license was suspended in 2015 after my second DUI and I haven’t been able to get it back since. Not being able to drive limits the jobs I am able to take. If the job is not within walking distance it is out of the question. Having a criminal record also hinders the hiring process. Next week I am interviewing for a job that I am two degrees and ten years of experience overqualified for, which has sent me into a raging shame spiral.

Society, white patriarchal norms, and late stage capitalism have painted a narrow view in my mind of what it means to be successful: a husband, a six figure job with health insurance, kids, a mortgage, a pool, a mini van, fancy vacations, botox, etc. In a few short months I will be 35 years old. Interviewing for an entry level job feels like the opposite of success. It feels like I am way behind in life, like I am a fuck up, like there must be something wrong with me. It feels unfair that my trauma and mental health problems were criminalized, and therefore, “success” became unreachable.

Yesterday while walking my dog at our favorite park, I had an epiphany. What if I can create my own definition of success? What if attempting to fit into this sick society is at the root of my addictions? What if, after all I have been through, simply showing up for my life is success?

And then, this morning my daily Mantra Project email from Holly Whitaker said: “Zen priest Norman Fischer says that the point of our lives is nothing more than to develop compassion, connection, love, and friendliness. That’s IT. Those are the big things we’re here to do! To love more, to love one another, to be friendly to ourselves and each other, to lead with our hearts.”

This (not the pythagorean theorem or the periodic table) is what we should teach kids in grade school. This is how success should be measured. Success has nothing to do with my SAT score, what college I get into, the amount of wealth I accumulate, my job title, or the square footage of my home. Success has everything to do with the amount of love I have in my heart. It has everything to do with how I treat myself and others.

At this point on my journey, success looks like loving myself enough to remain teetotal while living in a society that is obsessed with alcohol. It looks like eating enough calories, getting enough rest, showing up for therapy and Tempest calls, taking good care of my precious pup, being outside in nature, regularly engaging in my creative practice, meditating, and stepping into a new job role with self-compassion. Success is not measured by my “criminal” background or by money. It is measured by how well I tend to my roots and to my soul.

As my entry-level job interview approaches and my negative self-talk rises, I will remind myself that I am already successful. I will quiet the shame spiral with self-love. The Universe has not dealt me the most ideal hand of cards, but it has given me the Queen of Hearts. It has given me the gift of love, which is all I need to be truly successful.

Progress.

“We are more likely to think the point is to be miserable and survive

than we think the point is to love and thrive.”

-Holly Whitaker

Leaning Into Uncertainty

The Universe has been throwing me some serious curveballs lately. Last week my partner and I were supposed to move to a new town. I put in two weeks notice at my job. I started packing. I was excited for a new chapter. And then, just two days before our move in date, we viewed the place for the first time. The carpets had not been cleaned, the ceiling was covered in cobwebs, and there was a frisbee-sized grease stain on the stove. We decided it was too dirty and too overpriced. The move didn’t happen.

So here I am: unemployed during the holidays and forced to lean into uncertainty. Bah humbug.

Sure, I could go back to my old job. But while driving thru Taco Bell last week, I noticed a sign that said they are hiring and paying entry level workers $4 more per hour than my previous shitty kitchen job was paying me. And I have a culinary arts degree, for goodness sakes. Don’t get me wrong, my old job did teach me some important lessons and got me back on my feet in early sobriety. However, Taco Bell helped me decide that I am done being overworked and exploited with my level of experience.

It has been one week since my last day of work. For seven days I have been complaining about feeling cooped up and bored. And yet, all of this downtime has made me realize that I have been running myself ragged for an entire year as a way to avoid pain and difficult emotions. I have been overexercising and ignoring my body’s hunger cues. My shoulders and neck are constantly sore from all of the tension. I am malnourished and desperate for a change, which is exactly what the Universe has given me. It might not be the change I was expecting, but it’s still a change nonetheless.

The good news is, I am sober. And miraculously, this curveball has not made me crave alcohol. I can trust that the Universe will catch me because, for the first time in my life, I trust myself enough to not drink. Thankfully, I have enough money in my savings account to survive on for an entire year. Even better, there is a new coffee shop opening just two blocks from me in January. I will be okay.

Quotes always seem to appear in my life when I need them most. This one is no exception: “Her nervous system had been through so much. She decided to spend the rest of her life calming the inflammation. Thoughts, feelings, memories, behavior, relations. She soothed it all with deep, loving breaths and gentle practices. The softer she became with herself, the softer she became with the world, which became softer with her. She birthed a new generational cycle: Peace.” 

-Jaiya John

Maybe this is my chance to step into a softer way of life. Maybe I don’t need to push myself to the point of breaking anymore. Like the quote says, my nervous system has been through more than enough. All I need to do is focus on renourishing, resting, and breathing until another work opportunity falls into place.

All I need to do is be gentle with my body.

All I need to do is cultivate a little more peace.

All I need to do is slow down, lean into uncertainty, 

and trust that the Universe has given me exactly what I need.

Progress.

You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

The holidays are here. There are only 37 more sleeps until Christmas morning. For most of my life this time of year has come with a mixed bag of heavy emotions. My overly sensitive heart throbs like an exposed nerve during the holidays. Grief, pain, loneliness, and even addiction seem to intensify amongst the hustle and bustle and excessive spending. Ever since experiencing the holidays in rehab in 2015, I seem to be acutely aware of the fact that some people don’t receive any gifts or have anyone to celebrate with.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible to show up for holiday parties centered around my two drugs of choice (food and alcohol) and pretend like I’m fine with all of this bubbling beneath the surface. Sometimes I think the decorations, the lights, the carols, and the gifts are all superfluous. Sometimes I feel like the Grinch.

This morning while doing a little work in Glennon’s Doyle’s Get Untamed journal I came across a concept she calls Easy Buttons and Reset Buttons. Glennon writes, “Easy buttons are the things that appear in front of us that we want to reach for because they temporarily take us out of our feelings, pain, and stress. They do not work in the long run, because what they actually do is help us abandon ourselves. You know you’ve hit an easy button when, afterward, you feel more lost in the woods than you did before you hit it.”

Reaching for a temporary dopamine hit during the holidays feels natural. We all do it. This is not something that is unique to sobriety. Shaming myself for occasionally using an Easy Button won’t make the season any brighter. Luckily, Glennon says Reset Buttons are the tools I can use to recenter myself. They are things that make staying with myself a little more possible.

Glennon suggests making a list of Easy Buttons and Reset Buttons. My list of Easy Buttons includes: weed, alcohol, food restriction, oversleeping, overspending, overexercising, excessive caffeine, mindlessly scrolling social media, losing myself in political rage, procrastination, and isolation.

Conversely, my list of Reset Buttons includes: quiet time, writing, reading, hydrating, having a snack or a meal, hot tea or cocoa, deep breathing exercises, Grey’s Anatomy, podcasts, coloring books, meditation, crying, Taylor Swift, candles, cozy blankets, limiting social media and news, taking a short walk outside, bubble baths, and cuddling with my dog.

Numbing out with Easy Buttons ultimately leaves me feeling like garbage. Reset buttons might not completely eliminate difficult emotions, but at least they won’t leave me feeling even worse in the long run. Reset buttons should feel cathartic and reinvigorating.

One of the most well-known lines from The Grinch is: “The Grinch hated Christmas - the whole Christmas season. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. But the most likely reason of all, is that his heart was two sizes too small.”

I can definitely relate to feeling grumpy, unpleasant, and antisocial during the holidays. But, unlike The Grinch, I think it’s because my heart is actually two (or three or four) sizes too big. As a highly sensitive human, I am overwhelmed by all of the pain and all of the joy. 

I’m not a mean one (🎵Mr. Grinch🎵). 

I’m just a super soft one, (🎵Miss Grinch🎵) 

who happens to gravitate toward Easy Buttons during the holidays.

Thankfully, this year I have a list of Reset Buttons to help fill the season with a little more comfort and joy.

Progress.

“Maybe Christmas (he thought)

doesn’t come from a store.

Maybe Christmas

perhaps means a little bit more.”

-The Grinch

Welcoming Winter

This morning my 5:30am walk with Ted was greeted by the first snowfall of the season. Last week Ted and I took our final bike ride of the year. The 10 day forecast does not have a single day over 40 degrees. The onset of Daylight Savings Time has me ready for bed by 6pm. After an abnormally warm fall, winter has finally arrived.

If you’re anything like me, this is by far the most challenging time of year for my mental health. Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a real thing. My melancholy peaks in the darkness. For most of my adult life, drinking and eating disordered behaviors have been used to numb out these seasonal feelings of sadness. Earlier sunsets gave me an excuse to uncork a bottle of wine earlier in the day.

In order to bring a little extra light to this dark time of year, I started re-reading a book called Wintering written by Katherine May. May writes, “Plants and animals don’t fight winter: they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through.”

I like the idea of welcoming this season instead of fighting it. Creating new routines helps me adapt. I have prepared by stocking my pantry with cocoa, herbal tea, and soup fixings. Instead of daily bike rides, I get to slow down, cocoon, and hibernate. Stringing twinkle lights all over the house brings a soft glow that saves me from total darkness.

This book talks about the importance of winter and the importance of our cyclical nature. Winter is an opportunity to gaze inward. It’s a time to cozy up with our emotions and deepest desires. It’s a season to indulge in extra rest and extra care. Sure, feeling blue will happen, but that doesn’t mean I need to run from it. Just because I feel sad doesn’t mean I am a sad story.

Choosing sobriety creates space to move through this difficult season with extreme gentleness. Winter offers us liminal space to inhabit. There’s no need to refuse it. There’s no need to pour liquid poison down my throat in order to survive. In my experience, drinking only made my sadness and darkness worse. It only made it harder to see the light.

“We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again,” says May. This time of year is a reminder that nothing in life is permanent. Change is the only constant. Moving through this season in softness and grace is the only way forward. Eventually spring will arrive and the work of blooming will begin. But for now, I will welcome my doom and gloom with cozy candlelight and excessive self-comfort.

Progress.

Two of my other favorite books to read during winter are:

Bittersweet by Susan Cain

Rest is Resistance by Tricia Hersey

Attitude of Gratitude

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about being angry. Anger has been a major theme in my life and in my writing for most of 2022. If I am being totally honest, I think I have used anger as a source of fuel in order to survive this difficult time. Yes, anger is a natural part of any healing process. But what happens when it grows? When it goes unchecked?

The day after I wrote the It’s Okay to Be Angry post, I got sick. This makes me wonder if chugging continuous acid anger eventually causes the body to break down. It would make a lot of sense if that was true. Anger dysregulates my nervous system. It makes my shoulders and my jaw feel tense and sore. It makes it difficult for me to listen, to take in my surroundings, to properly nourish my body. Anger can create a life of tunnel vision; all I see is negativity.

About three weeks ago I signed up for Holly Whitaker’s 40 day Mantra Project. This consists of a daily email with a small written blurb, a few quotes, and a daily mantra. The day after I wrote the angry post and the day I got sick, the mantra I Have an Attitude of Gratitude serendipitously appeared in my inbox.

Holly writes: “My gratitude practice goes like this: Every time a thought creeps in to tell me about what I don't have or haven’t done, it is “simply” (and by simply I mean with a lot of work) replaced by gratitude for what I have.” According to Holly, the anecdote to anger is gratitude. I can sit here and make myself sick with anger over the things I don’t have OR I can choose to be grateful for the things I do have.

Today I am grateful that I woke up without a hangover

I am grateful for Tempest

I am grateful for my dog

I am grateful that I am no longer in legal trouble

I am grateful for all I have learned on this 10 year recovery journey

I am grateful to have a roof over my head and the ability to pay my bills

I am grateful for my huge heart

I am grateful that I have held down a job for the past 14 months

I am grateful to be alive

I am grateful for all that my body does each day

I am grateful for writing

I am grateful for so many things

When I take the time to reflect on all of the things I am grateful for, my anger is reduced. I am able to exhale a sigh of relief. My body relaxes. Gratitude is like a chill pill for my dysregulated nervous system. Sure, anger might still travel with me, but gratitude helps keep anger from fueling my bus. Anger takes a back seat when gratitude is driving.

I still believe that it is okay to be angry. All emotions are welcome. However, I no longer believe it is okay to shield myself with anger. It won’t protect me. If left unchecked, it will eventually make me physically ill.

Today I will mend my heart and my body with an attitude of gratitude.

Progress.

I wrap myself in a blanket of love

Most nights while curled up in my bed attempting to drift off into a sweet slumber, my mind begins to race. The stillness and the quiet allow unwanted memories to surface making it difficult to fall asleep. Last night, for example, I began ruminating about the shameful things I did while drunk, about the people I hurt, about the many bridges I have burned. Thinking about the years of self-neglect makes me feel a bit nauseous.

One of my favorite tricks for dealing with these traumatizing flashbacks is to close my eyes and imagine my past self wrapped in a blanket of love. The blanket that I imagine is purple and fuzzy and all encompassing. It helps me swap out shame for compassion. The blanket surrounds my past hurting self with grace. It whispers sweet nothings of forgiveness and kindness. It reminds me that the things I did while drunk do not make me a bad person, they simply make me a human who attempted to self-soothe in a messy world.

Wrapping myself in an imaginary blanket of love creates space for healing. It helps me tread lightly into those memories instead of continuing to forcefully numb them out. My past and present selves do not deserve further neglect. I deserve to be loved and cared for. Wrapping those tender memories in a blanket of love is an act of self-care.

With the colder, darker months upon us, it can be easy for me to get lost in a sea of doom and gloom. My unwanted memories live in the dark. But this year, with a little imagination, I can greet the darkness of my past with the softest, fuzziest purple blanket of light and love. I can cozy up to those memories instead of allowing them to interfere with my precious hibernation.

I wrap myself in a blanket of love.

Progress.

It's Okay to Be Angry

Lately I’ve noticed myself feeling resentful during Tempest calls when other members talk about their experiences with good therapists, psychiatrists, EMDR, psychics, reiki, massage, acupuncture, psychopharmacology, and other expensive routes toward healing. I get mad because lacking a driver’s license has limited my job opportunities and income to $12.25/hour. I get mad because my state-funded, Medicaid-based insurance only covers therapists who are still in school. I get mad because my financial situation does not allow me access to the specialized care that I deserve. 

Years ago, before I turned 26 and was still covered by my parent’s upper-middle class insurance, I did have access to those things. I understand what holistic, evidence-based care looks and feels like. Of course I get angry that people with privilege and money can supplement their recovery in ways that are no longer available to me.

Earlier this week I was listening to an interview with Gabor Mate on a podcast called Pulling the Thread. Mate says that everyone numbs - whether it’s with drugs, alcohol, food, gambling, sex, pornography, overworking, shopping, social media, the list goes on and on. The point is that everyone does it. So why do we criminalize and dehumanize people who numb with drugs and alcohol? Why was my eating disorder treated in a humane way, but my alcohol addiction was not?

People like me are forced into a criminal justice system that strips us of our dignity, our money, and our ability to get a decent paying job, which also impacts our access to proper care. The legal system believes that this is a choice, that we keep choosing stupidity. But let me tell you from first hand experience that NO ONE chooses to get addicted. The system has never been interested in helping me find the root cause of my addiction. They are only interested in further punishment and financial exploitation. The system is impossible to escape from unless there is a heaping pile of money and privilege involved.

Mate says the word addict is useful in shorthand, but it does not express the richness or complexity of reality. Imagine what would happen if instead of calling myself and other people “addicts,” we said, “that is a human being who has suffered a lot in life and carries a lot of emotional pain from which they try to escape in certain behaviors that are compulsive, that have caused harm, but they can’t give them up because they have so much pain.” Imagine what would happen if instead of stripping drug addicted folks of their rights, sending them off to jail, and traumatizing them further, we gave them proper insurance and the same access to care that privileged people have.

Maybe someday if I ever get my driver’s license back, I will start a program for folks like me who are trapped in a system that literally works to keep us sick. I have been given the blessing and the curse of experiencing both sides of the insurance coverage spectrum. I know that better care exists and I know how unfair all of this is. It makes sense that this boils my blood.

Every single day that I stand up and keep going down the path of sobriety is a miracle. Attempting to navigate an unjust system is no easy feat. I will remember, as Mate says, that I am not some low-life addict who doesn’t deserve proper care. Instead, I am just a human being who attempted to self-soothe after decades of emotional pain. That’s all. The societal rhetoric around addiction is all wrong. 

It’s okay to be angry. 

It’s okay to keep pushing for equal rights. 

It’s okay to stand up and say enough.

Progress.

“She should be mad,

Should be scathing like me,

But no one likes a mad woman.”

-Taylor Swift

Tailgaiting & Sober Revolutionaries

I recently stumbled upon an article called: Section Yellow offers sober Green Bay Packers fans an ‘oasis’ in a sea of game day alcohol. Articles like this infuse my resentful veins with joy. People are finally catching on to the dangers associated with the normalization of alcohol. The Packers seem to be ahead of the curve with this trend. My hope is that all sports teams will soon follow suit.

John Plageman, the founder of Section Yellow said, “It’s a simple idea. But it has such a strong impact and such big support, because there are a ton of Packer fans that are sober that will not go to games because of the drinking culture.” Currently Section Yellow has 1,200 members and that number is growing. It makes me emotional to hear about sober communities forming out in the real world, especially in environments where binge drinking is the norm. There is nothing more badass than going against the grain.

However, my joyful bubble burst when I scrolled to the bottom of the article and read the comments. Someone said, "Too bad this breaks one of the fundamental traditions of AA (anonymity)." My first reaction to this comment was quite strong. I thought: "Good! It’s about damn time someone broke free from the idea that us sober folks need to keep quiet, that we need to be hidden away in dingy church basements. We belong out in the real world just like everyone else. Fuck AA and fuck the idea that anonymity is helpful. We should be shouting from the rooftops that Section Yellow exists, not hiding further."

Something about that comment awoke my anger, which means something much deeper was triggered inside of me. I think many common AA beliefs make me crazy because I carry so much guilt and shame for having zero success within the Twelve Step framework. I worry I sound ungrateful for saying that Twelve Step based programs were, for me, more traumatizing than healing. Just yesterday my therapist diagnosed me with PTSD for the first time in my life. The majority of my flashbacks and nightmares revolve around my experienves at three different grossly underfunded and dehumanizing Twelve Step based inpatient rehab facilities. That comment struck a trauma-based nerve. Of course I reacted with anger.

This is not an AA bashing post. There is no denying that AA has saved countless lives. But the truth is, AA was founded in the 1930s by a cishet privileged white guy after he took a hallucinogen. It was not designed for minorities or women. It was not designed with evidence based or holistic care in mind. I am sick of living in a world where AA is the only way. I am sick of doctors and the criminal justice system telling me that I am forever doomed if I choose to not claim the alcoholic label. Attempting to function in the real world while keeping this huge part of myself locked away in anonymity is exhausting. I'm over it.

It’s confusing that mainstream recovery modalities work so hard to keep people trapped in their anonymity, trapped in silence, trapped without agency. It’s confusing that anyone, except maybe Big Alcohol, would have an issue with Section Yellow. 

John Plageman and Section Yellow are part of a revolution. A revolution that was started last year with Holly Whitaker and her trip to Notre Dame. Stop what you're doing if you haven’t seen this YouTube video about the normalization of alcohol and tailgating on college campuses. It’s a must-watch.

“You have to be brave enough to call bullshit on something that might not make you entirely popular with various groups, but will save a lot of lives,” Holly says. “One in ten Americans ages 18-62 will die an alcohol related death. And that number is going up.”

We still have a longgg way to go, but the Green Bay Packer's Section Yellow group is the definition of progress in a culture that is blind to the normalization and glorification of alcohol.

I speak up

I had a tooth pulled earlier this week. For me, trips to the dentist have been fearfully avoided for far too long after years of bulimia. Not something I would recommend to anyone, but it’s my reality. Unfortunately, I live in a country that does not believe in universal health care, so getting in to see a dentist took almost eight months. Fortunately, my insurance does provide free rides to and from medical and dental appointments, which has been a lifesaver since I can’t drive.

A random driver picked me up at 8:30am for my tooth extraction appointment. When he asked how I was doing, I said I was nervous about the procedure without anesthesia. The whole numb and yank thing really freaked me out. To my surprise, the driver looked at me through his rearview mirror and said, “Well, we could stop and get you liquored up before your appointment. I think there’s a liquor store on our way that is open this early. You could be an alchy for the day. We could have you stumbling in there and you wouldn’t feel a thing! Hahahahahaha.”

Needless to say, I found this comment horribly offensive. In that moment, I had two options. I could politely laugh, go along with the joke, and say nothing or I could speak up. For most of my life I have been a passive doormat. Speaking up felt unnatural, but I couldn't contain myself. With a shaky voice, I responded with:

“Respectfully and kindly, sir, it is not appropriate to joke about alcohol or drugs. You have no idea what my history is. The reason I can’t drive is because of alcohol. It took me nearly 10 years to get sober. Alcohol almost killed me. In the future, you should be more careful with your words.”

The driver looked at me with wide eyes through his rearview mirror and apologized. He was silent the rest of the drive. At first I felt worried that I offended him. But after I got out of the car, I felt nothing but pride, empowered even.

Somewhere along the way, I was taught that church basements are the only acceptable place to speak of my history with addiction. And yet, we live in a world that is obsessed with mindlessly poking fun at people like me. “Alchys” or alcoholics are the butt of people’s jokes. Am I really expected to silently heal while the rest of society mocks my experience?

In 2020 alone, alcohol killed 385 Americans every day. This is not a joking matter. For many people this is life or death. Learning to speak up against the normalization of alcohol might make other people uncomfortable, but for me, it is the only way forward. I’m sure my driver didn’t mean any harm, but I have learned that I no longer need to passively go along with bullshit societal norms.

Progress.

Three Years of Ted

Yesterday marked three years since I unexpectedly brought home a 14lb havapoo dog named Teddy. Reflecting back on that time feels painfully tender because my life was in shambles. I was living in an apartment I couldn’t afford. I was illegally driving an old ragtop Volkswagen Beetle that I bought without a driver’s license. I was hungover more days than not. My drinking landed me in a giant web of lies that I couldn’t keep straight. Who was I to think I could handle a dog?

Ted’s crate barely fit in the back seat of the Beetle as we drove away to start a new life together. I will never forget how scared he was, how scared we both were. Ready or not, this little guy was now fully dependent on me.

I have been struggling to write this for days because relentless dog mom shame surfaces when I think about that first year with Ted. Witnessing my final drinking days must have been traumatizing. When I first brought Ted home, I had given up hope that my life would ever get better. I created a story in my head that said I must be a stupid failure for having zero success within AA’s framework.

But, when I zoom out and look at the big picture, all I see is progress. For the first time in years, something became more important than figuring out where my next drink would come from. Hungover or not, Ted and I started prioritizing daily walks at a local park. His eating schedule helped improve my eating schedule. Before I knew it, I found myself putting more and more days between each drinking episode.

Ted taught me about a type of love that I can only describe as unconditional. Prior to Ted, I was looking for love in all of the wrong places. I was searching for something external to mend my inner turmoil. Ted’s sweet little face taught me that I was worthy of love even while I was still drinking. He brought a bright healing light to a dangerously dark time.

Three years of Ted has reignited hope. Next week we will celebrate 20 months of alcohol-free days together. When I stop to think about how much my life has changed in three years, the bad dog mom shame dissipates. Untangling myself from the web of lies hasn’t been easy, but it’s been possible with Ted by my side.

Three years of Ted has been the greatest gift I could ask for.

Three years of Ted brought me into sobriety.

Three years of Ted saved my life.

Progress.

Judgy Judy

Last week was a slice of living hell. Working 6 ten hours days in a row left me feeling mentally, physically, emotionally, socially, and even spiritually drained to the last drop. The day after my work streak ended, I showed up for a therapy appointment feeling cranky AF and unwilling to discuss anything difficult. Naturally, when my therapist told me I tend to be judgmental toward people who still drink, I began to spiral.

How dare he call me judgmental? Isn’t he supposed to help build me back up? Why is he tearing me down further? Should I find a new therapist? Am I judgemental? Is it normal to judge people who still drink while attempting sobriety? Am I crazy? A bad person? What’s wrong with me?

To help straighten out the spiral, I took a much-needed 4 hour nap when I got home from therapy. And then, I remembered an article Holly Whitaker wrote a few years back called Why Do I Still Judge People Who Drink? A reader given the pseudonym Judgy Judy wrote in and asked Holly, “Is this normal? Have you felt this way? Am I just hyper-aware of people's alcohol consumption now that I've made the decision to not drink? I don't want to be judgmental or assume that everyone has a problem just because I did and wanted to stop. Any advice?!”

Holly’s response to the question is brilliant. It makes me feel seen and heard, like my experience might actually be normal. She references the shadow self, a concept from Jungian psychology, which, “represents the things present in ourselves that we disassociate from because we deem them bad, ugly, dark, and less than. The shadow is all the things we suppress, reject, or deny in ourselves—the things we would rather not be. We think that if people were to see our shadow elements, we would not be liked, regarded, loved, and so on.”

This makes me wonder if the reason other people’s drinking bothers me so much is because it reminds me of my own out-of-control drinking days. It reminds me of my own lurking shadows: the incoherent text messages, the ruined relationships, the blackout drinking at work and family gatherings. Deep down, my judginess is not about other people’s drinking at all. It’s about my own suppressed relationship with my past hurting self. Underneath my judginess is shame, fear, and self-hatred.

Holly continues to write, “The point of this story is to prove one very big point to you—and that is that seeing other people drink wouldn't drive you so crazy if you didn't still hold yourself in some judgment for having binge drank and gotten ridiculously drunk in your previous life.”

Maybe over the next several weeks (or years) of therapy it would be helpful for me to work on the judgments I hold toward myself. Maybe I can learn to reframe my judginess as a natural, totally normal, newly-sober human response, instead of yet another thing to beat myself up over. Maybe being judgmental of others is easier than dealing with my own shit. And maybe, now that I understand why I judge, I can also learn to stop.

Progress.

I greet ghosts from my past with compassion

Today is the first day of fall. The autumn equinox brings shorter days, sweater weather, and cozy candlelit evenings. There is something magical about peak color season and crunchy leaves beneath my feet. I just cleaned out my vegetable garden to make room for pumpkins and mums. Spooky season is here.

Even though it is my favorite time of year, I’ve noticed an undertone of sadness lingering in my bones. Ghosts from my past are everywhere. The cooler weather subconsciously reminds me of my first attempt at rehab 7 years ago between September 10 and October 1. During the first week of September 2015, I moved back onto campus for my senior year in a bachelor’s level social work program. I had my field work placement all lined up and was ready to complete my degree.

Except, my drinking had escalated to the point of night sweats and physical withdrawal. After showing up to my first day of classes drunk, I decided to drop out and go to rehab. My education would have to wait until I was sober.

On the morning of September 10, 2015, my mom dropped me off at a 21 day, 12 step based drug and alcohol rehab program located in my hometown. The thing I remember most about that first day was feeling angry, like I didn’t belong. I was the only one there who had admitted myself voluntarily, who wasn’t in legal trouble (yet), who didn’t smoke cigarettes, who hadn’t lost all their teeth. It felt way easier to begrudgingly make comparisons than it did to accept my reality. Instead of fully participating, I used my anger to dissociate and clung to the belief that I wasn’t “that bad.”

And then, just 5 days after completing that rehab stay, on October 5, I was arrested for my second DUI. Now, I was suddenly a criminal who “deserved” even harsher punishments. I was impossibly angry at myself for ending up in legal trouble just like my rehab roommates.

Ever since that first day of rehab, I have felt a sense of being trapped. Trapped under a heavy, inescapable blanket of anger. According to Brene Brown, “When we are in pain and fear, anger and hate are our go-to emotions.” Beneath the anger, I really felt: ashamed, afraid, resentful, self-hatred, grief. 

As much as I adore fall, I am still haunted by the ghosts of my past. Memories from seven years ago make this season extra spooky. But, when I think deeply about what’s beneath my anger, I feel a tenderness toward my younger self. She was only trying to protect me. She was doing the best she could. If I have learned anything, it is that anger will not protect me. It will only keep me trapped.

As the leaves continue to fall, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I allow the ghosts of my past to be a reminder of progress, rather than a reminder of past mistakes. I can allow memories from seven years ago to surface, notice how I gravitate toward anger, stop myself, and remember I just celebrated 19 months of practicing sobriety. This year, I will release my anger and greet those tough underlying emotions with a cozy mug of hot cider, cinnamon sugar donuts, fuzzy slippers, and endless self-compassion. Happy Fall Ya'll.

I greet ghosts from my past with compassion.

I am a good person

The first time I met someone who had a drinking problem was in middle school. My dad was coaching my younger brother’s little league team and one of the kids had a mom who was obviously struggling. I remember hearing stories about her dropping her kid off to practice and then forgetting to pick him up because she had gotten drunk. Or she would show up to games highly intoxicated and highly obnoxious.

What I remember most is the language we used around this situation. There was no sympathy or empathy. There was only judgment and fear. She was the person everyone used to moralize their own drinking, to compare themselves to. People called her a hopeless, raging alcoholic. The way people talked about her made me believe she must be a bad person.

Ten years later I was arrested for my first DUI. My biggest fear came true. I grew up to be just like that lady who my parents, society, and the criminal justice system said was a “bad person.” How was I going to be normal or respected ever again after being labeled an alcoholic? Does everyone talk shit about me the same way they talked shit about her?

Last week on her podcast, Glennon Doyle introduced the idea of being a good person who does less than ideal things. She said we should all practice saying, “I am a good person who ________,” instead of “I am a bad person who _________.” For example:

I am a good person who used to self-medicate with alcohol.

I am a good person who used to struggle with bulimia.

I am a good person who currently struggles with overexercising.

I am a good person who has big emotions.

I am a good person who has been arrested 5 times.

I am a good person who needs extra support.

I am a good person with an imperfect past.

This makes me wonder what would happen if we used this language to change the narrative around addiction. There is incredible shame that comes with repeatedly saying, “Hi my name is Kelsi and I am an alcoholic.” What would happen if I said, “Hi my name is Kelsi and I am a good person who used to drink,” instead?

In my experience, it seems like we teach kids from a young age that drug addicts and alcoholics are bad people. They are not to be associated with. They are trouble. It makes sense that I carried around a big ol’ sack of self-hatred for becoming like that lady from my childhood. It makes sense that addicts like me have a hard time getting better in a world that looks down upon them. It makes sense that I developed a belief that I am a bad person.

What doesn’t make sense is that I was expected to somehow heal after constantly receiving the message that I am bad. It’s time to change the dialogue. Addicts and alcoholics are not bad people. We are good people who have been traumatized. We are good people who don’t have access to adequate care, all we have access to is stigma. We are just regular people with huge hearts and extra sensitivities.

I wish I could go back in time and talk to that lady from my childhood. I wish I could hear her story, give her a giant hug, and tell her she is a good person. Imagine what type of world we would live in if we changed the language and told all addicts they are good people.

I am a good person.

I befriend my sensitivity

There is a full moon in Pisces coming this weekend. This full moon is supposed to be a highly emotional, creative, and intuitive time. It’s a time for deep self-reflection and manifestation. Best of all, it’s a full moon in my sun sign during my favorite time of the year, so I’m feeling extra mystical, witchy, and woo-woo.

Even though the full moon isn’t quite here yet, I have already been feeling overly emotional all week long. This past weekend I got out of town for the first time all year and it was incredible. I felt renewed and energized while hanging out in a much more progressive town than the delusional, Trump-loving town I currently live in. Perusing three different book stores with rainbow gay pride and BLM flags in the window made me feel at home. I spent all of Labor Day coffee-shop-hopping. Oversized cozy mugs of herbal tea and the most decadent pastries blissfully filled my belly and my soul.

Then, when I returned home and was forced to immerse myself back into my daily reality, I felt a wave of sadness, grief, FOMO, and unfairness. I was overwhelmed by thoughts of hating my life and hating that I can’t drive anywhere. Caught in endless rumination, I thought about how angry I am at the criminal justice system for punishing and stigmatizing my trauma instead of helping me find resources to heal. I spent most of the week coming down from my weekend high and got lost in a sea of full moon in Pisces sadness.

One thing that has helped me survive this driver’s license-less season is writers. Yesterday Holly Whitaker posted a newsletter to her Substack account and linked this podcast episode with Martha Beck and Elizabeth Gilbert. This episode didn’t necessarily pull me out of my funk, but it did help me befriend my sensitivity.

In this episode, Liz Gilbert talks about her past with addictive behaviors and how she finally overcame them. She says the hardest part was learning to sit with and feel unwanted emotions. The good news is, experiencing those difficult emotions doesn't mean there is something wrong with her. Liz views her extreme sensitivity as her superpower, as something to be celebrated, as something to befriend. Which, of course, gives me hope because I literally cry 1-12 times each day.

Liz continues to say she has learned to hold and validate herself in moments of intense sadness or grief. Instead of numbing or squashing her sensitivity, she has learned to befriend it. When Liz feels engulfed in emotional tidal waves, she puts a hand over her heart, or wherever her body feels tense, and says:

I see you and I love you

I’m not going anywhere

I see you, I see you, I see you

I love you, I am here for you

What do you need, sweet girl?

A nap? A glass of water? A hug?

I see you, I see you, I see you

I love you

Since I was a small child this culture has told me that being overly emotional is unacceptable. Crying is not allowed in public spaces. I was told: “No tears, my dear” or “Suck it up, Buttercup.” No one taught me how to nurture my nature. No one taught me how to befriend my sensitivity. It’s no wonder I fell deeply down the blackhole of addiction.

Befriending my sensitivity is the opposite of numbing. It means I see and validate my hurting self. It means showing up with endless self-compassion. Feeling this way does not mean there is something wrong with me. It means I am a human with a special superpower.

As the full moon in Pisces approaches and my emotions intensify, I will remember this Liz Gilbert quote: “What a rare bliss it is to finally feel all of the feelings this culture has told me are not allowed.”

I befriend my sensitivity.

First, I forgive myself

While I was drinking, I got into a nasty habit of drunk texting people. I would tell them things that were buried deep in my subconscious. Things that I wouldn’t otherwise say. Things that probably didn’t make a ton of sense. I would message close friends, old friends, my mom, even strangers. It didn’t matter, as long as someone was there to ease my pangs of loneliness.

The worst part is, when I woke up from a blackout around 4am, I would delete those conversations before I could read them. It was too painful and too shameful to reread the words that frantically spewed out of me. The people I messaged didn’t receive an apology or an explanation. It was way easier to pretend like it never happened. Avoidance was my go-to morning after coping mechanism.

Years ago, while attempting to get sober within AA’s framework, I was advised to start making amends for those drunk text messages. I was told to start apologizing to everyone else for my actions, which confused me. Can an apology be authentic if I haven’t forgiven myself first?

On episode 5 of Glennon Doyle’s We Can Do Hard Things podcast, she talks about her experience with AA and the amends process. In her early 20s, after having an abortion and still in the throes of her addiction, her parents desperately sent her to see a priest. To her surprise, the priest told her she better start apologizing to everyone around her for her actions if she wanted to be “saved.”

Glennon then shares this analogy:

“I was raised in a country in which there is a factory that gives off toxic smoke on every single corner. Some people are okay with this smoke, but there is a certain group in the population that has a gene that reacts negatively to this toxic smoke. Those people get sick.

Over time, the smoke makes them so sick that they start showing symptoms and because of those symptoms, they become a huge pain in the ass to their family, their friends, their community. They become a burden because of these symptoms.

Eventually the symptoms get bad enough that the people go to the hospital. And instead of getting help, the doctors say: you better start freaking apologizing. Because that's the only way you’re going to get healthy. Get on your knees and ask for forgiveness for getting sick.”

This is why I have always had such a negatively strong reaction to the amends process. I was born into a culture that says alcohol is not only normal, but also the ultimate celebratory tool. I was born into a misogynistic world where women are expected to be beautiful and small and quiet. Like Glennon, I breathed in this toxic smoke for decades and it made my highly sensitive self incredibly sick.

The smoke was everywhere. 

I was just breathing. 

And now I need to apologize?

Most nights as I attempt to drift off into a sweet slumber, I am haunted by memories of those drunken messages. I feel awful and humiliated. It was unfair of me to worry people with my incoherency. At the same time, it feels inauthentic to apologize for trying to connect with people while in the pits of drinking, to apologize for “breathing.”

For me, the only way to truly heal is to start with self-forgiveness. Drinking in isolation is the loneliest address on planet Earth. Those texts were just my way of searching for connection. They were my way of reaching out and speaking my truth. Maybe in some twisted way it felt therapeutic to unload on people.

When I look at my drunk text messages through a more compassionate lens, it is much easier to forgive myself. It makes sense that I did desperate things after a lifetime of breathing in toxic smoke. The last thing I need to do is apologize.

To heal, first, I forgive myself.

I reclaim my alone time

For the past five months, I have been given the gift of about 30 hours of alone time each week. Admittingly though, at first, this alone time felt more like torture than a gift. I have been without a driver’s license since 2015, which has forced me into a 7 year situation that mirrors the COVID lockdown period. Daily bike rides to the park with my dog have become my version of getting out of the house.

Sometime around 2006, I began spending all of my alone time either binging and purging or drinking. Anything to distract myself from myself. Alone time used to feel like the scariest thing in the world because all of my emotions came to the surface. Alone time forces me to look at my discomfort, fear, confusion, and overwhelm straight in the eye.

In order to survive these past 5 months, I have clung to these Brianna Weist words like a lifeline:

“What if, in the moments you feel most alone, 

you begin to realize that you are also free? 

What if you could see that in these very moments you fear most, 

you are also completely unburdened from the expectations of others, 

able to define and redefine yourself, 

to explore life on your own terms, 

to hear the sound of your own voice? 

What if being on your own, in any capacity, 

is a sign of self-sufficiency and courage? 

What if you’ve already made it? 

What if instead of believing your aloneness is a sign you have failed, 

you realize that it is proof you have accomplished the most daring thing of all?”

This summer started out feeling painfully lonely for me. However, as time passed and I learned to lovingly fill my time, I have found true freedom. Making the decision to stop numbing my emotions with booze and food has given me space to get to know myself without input from the outside world, to create a routine that works for me. For the first time in my life, I am learning to become my own best friend. I am learning to ride my own emotional waves. I am learning, as Weist says, that I have accomplished the most daring thing of all.

The key to sobriety for me, is learning to create a life I do not want to escape from. In my experience, this has not been possible without reclaiming my alone time. Sometimes I complain about still not having a driver’s license; but sometimes, I also wonder if it’s one of the best things that ever happened to me. Not driving has given me extra space to indulge in the greatest gift of all - alone time.

I reclaim my alone time.

I honor and protect everything that comes along with being me

The second time I went to a 12 step based inpatient rehab program, in 2015, was at a 90 day women’s facility in Grand Rapids, Michigan. One of the mantras we lived by was, “the only way to get sober is to change everything but your name.” Sadly, that made sense at the time because I still believed I was just an alcoholic, bulimic loser who was in rehab to avoid jail time. Changing everything but my name felt like winning.

But here’s the thing, the more I tried to change and deny myself, the sicker I became.

Because I am someone who engages in cross-addictive behaviors, I was discharged on day 76 of my stay, after a trash bag filled with puke was found in my closet where I purged every night. That was at a drug and alcohol facility. They had zero tolerance for my eating disorder, which isn’t uncommon.

So there I was, sober from alcohol; but also being taught to reject every single part of myself, twenty pounds lighter, and more disassociated than the day I arrived.

What I have learned since then is, changing everything but my name doesn’t work. What I need in order to be okay is to honor and protect everything that comes along with being Kelsi. I need to work with my highly sensitive, highly anxious self, rather than against her. I need to become more of myself, not less.

For me, this wouldn’t be possible without alone time, endless self-compassion, and Tempest. It’s difficult to get to know myself when I am constantly bombarded with messages from the outside world about how I should be. It’s difficult to get to know my truest self while engaged in a program that gave me a shameful label, suggests I am filled with character defects, and tells me I cannot be trusted with myself.

That rehab stay was a traumatic hell. Being told to deny all parts of myself did not help me feel seen or heard, all it did was reinforce my alcoholic, bulimic loser shame.

But now, years later, I feel lucky to have the opportunity to reconnect with and RECOVER that girl I was taught to bury. I was not born just to spend life trying to be someone else. I am not changing everything but my name. Instead, I am embracing everything that comes along with being me.

“I will not stay, not ever again - in a room or conversation or relationship or institution that requires me to abandon myself.” -Glennon Doyle

I use my morning routine to return home to myself

This week marks 18 months since I began (imperfectly) practicing sobriety. There are 547 days in 18 months, and I have spent 542 of those days alcohol-free (!!!). This truly feels miraculous. It’s the first time I have had a stretch of sobriety that was not forced upon me by the criminal justice system. It’s the first time I have done this for me.

The best part of the past 18 months has been the development of my morning routine. It’s the only time of day when the messed up world around me is quiet. It’s my time to write, feel my feelings, and recenter. I use my morning routine to return home to myself.

5:30 fur baby alarm clock.

Brush my teeth.

A moonlit stroll around the block

metabolizes my grief.

Crisp morning air.

Neighbors cozily tucked in bed.

With each silent step

my soul is fed.

Veins pulsing with a

golden sunrise glow.

The early bird’s song

eases worries of tomorrow.

A blank page

fills my heart with glee.

Here I am

 542 days hangover-free.