How and Why I Finally Got the Courage To Quit Drinking

It's beautiful here on the other side.

photo by author

One. Two. Three. Four.

Four years since I stopped. Would time have gone this quickly if I had done it 20 years ago? Sobriety took me a while to embrace. I was a social and comfort drinker and a lover of wine's place in my routines. Alcohol was a salve, making me feel warm from the inside out. I was on board with the image of a happy drinker who wasn't hurting anyone. I wasn't a typical alcohol abuser, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hooked.

Yoga had planted the seed that being a prisoner to my body's cravings, of which I had many, wasn't good. If I left things to the path of no resistance, I would become a vegetable: a couch potato with a bag of potato chips happily marinating in my loosest sweatpants.

I wanted to respect my body and have it work for me, with me.

Giving up the sauce would, at a minimum, eliminate one more toxin I was exposing myself to. Still, I was ambivalent.

I couldn't quit cold turkey, so to wean myself away, I made mini-goals. Everyone has a time of day when their blood sugar drops; for me, the witching hour was between 3 and 4 p.m. I tried distracting myself with cranberry juice on ice instead of a frosted glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Cranberry juice is tart and tangy and, with some ice, quite satisfying. Not long after, I became acquainted with ginger beer, which has zero alcohol. The ginger burned my throat on the way down in a delightful way, and I thought, "I should definitely do this."

With the weekdays settled, I made new rules about the weekends. My last hurdle was going to be tough. A wine glass signaled that I was a part of the group. A toast meant my clunky water glass would thud against the delicate tinkle of the crystal goblets. A no-wine ex-wino meant I belonged at the kiddy table.

Sobriety would be so much easier if my friends abstained, too, I thought.

The people surrounding me were diehard drinkers, and I knew once I quit, I would be alone in my decision. There were no encouraging words around sobriety, just a stony silence. Sipping my club soda, I immediately noticed the party was not as fun when everyone else was drunk.

It's a snooze fest.

How often can you listen to the same stories, see glazed expressions, and smell their horrible breath? I'm embarrassed that I used to think this was all fine. My effort to remove myself from the collective haze had pulled me right back to the edge of the circle.

Where did I belong?

I'll be honest. Weekend promises of abstaining did get broken, but my success in cutting back buoyed me. Even when I gave in and had a glass of wine, I never thought I had a problem with alcohol, despite the mental gymnastics I used to get myself to stop.

The decision and courage to completely stop occurred during a conference held by my employer, a non-profit whose mission was to support people in recovery by forming sober, active local and national communities. To maintain sobriety, people needed to create new communities where others lived a sober lifestyle—the non-profit organized healthy activities like biking, hiking, fitness, yoga, and meditation.

New friends that didn't drink.

I was lucky to fly to their first-ever employee conference in Colorado. For three years, I had been employed as a yoga teacher, going to a halfway house for women every week, the psych unit in a local hospital, and various behavioral health units. Yoga was the answer for many to handle the discomfort of sobriety. After class, I could see the relief in their faces, and they would rush to tell me how much better they felt.

After landing in Colorado, we conference participants found ourselves in an old-time hotel that had inspired Stephen King's book "The Shining." The creepiness factor that had haunted King was palpable as soon as we walked in. My idea of away-from-home comfort is a sleek, modern hotel where everything sparkles. This place was the opposite.

Dark wood trimmed every doorway and window, including the old grand staircase. Despite ample windows, the sun's rays couldn't lift the impenetrable shades of brown, maroon, and crimson.

The brightest illumination wouldn't make the old new.

I needed luck and extra time to get a spot on the decrepit elevators. Upstairs, the ancient hallways were endlessly long. I was sure a ghost lingered at every corner. A silent scream burrowed at the top of my throat as my eyes darted up and down the damask-papered walls, waiting for a vision of the twins in blue dresses to assemble.

It was much scarier in my mind. Photo by author

I was being silly. Wasn't I too old to be manufacturing monsters? My room was at the end of the hall, and the coworker next door asked that I check on him if he didn't turn up for breakfast the next day. Unsettled, I implored him to do the same for me.

Shivers ran up my spine, which may or may not have been related to the fact that we were there in February, a time and place pleasing to the bean counters. My room was so cold I could see my breath, reminding me yet again of another scary movie. Despite a teeth-chattering call for help to the front desk, I slept in my coat, hat, long underwear, and socks the first night.

I was one of the lucky ones whose heat kicked in on night two. Other coworkers admitted that their rooms were iceboxes every night and their water was too cold to shower.

Our conference sessions took place in a ballroom with grand wood-framed windows opening to a view of Rocky Mountain National Park. Scott, the founder of the non-profit, led the meeting. He was in recovery from addiction. Weed, alcohol, pills, cocaine—Scott had done them all. He was proof life was beautiful on the other side.

Looking around, I was one of the oldest employees- a grandmother pushing 60.

Young and middle-aged people got up to tell their heart-rending addiction stories, each one sadder than the next. Some cried as they spoke, and the audience responded with warm applause and shouts of support. Tears spilled out of me as my heart turned to mush. The speakers reminded me of my children.

I sat next to a man in his late 20s who had spent ten years incarcerated at the Texas State Prison. The young man sported close-cropped hair and tattoos up to his jawline. I would have crossed the street if I'd seen him in public. When he got up to speak, he told a story of someone who had a rough upbringing and had turned everything around after leaving prison. He wasn't anyone to be scared of but rather a soft-spoken person who'd been through a lot.

What was I doing with these amazing people who'd overcome so much? Old feelings about belonging surprised me as they wriggled in.

I was old. I was freezing. I had no tattoos. I was not in recovery. I was an imposter.

Did I fit in anywhere?

I admitted my despair of being the only "old" person to my friend

Melanie Thompson

, whom I knew from our local New Jersey studio. She was one of the two black employees in the group. Did I say that I didn't belong to someone who had been treated as "other" her whole life? One look from her said it all. (Melanie is wise and will inspire you. You can read her Substack here.)

I had to get over myself. My feeling of not belonging anywhere was a me-problem. I was holding on to being an outlier when the people I met had been exceptionally kind, accepting, and open. After listening to everyone's stories, I knew whatever I shared with them, my coworkers would have received my words with understanding and compassion.

I didn't share my story because my journey was still underway. I had only cut back, unable to quit completely. Looking around the room, I realized it was an illusion that I was separate from everyone. We may not have been addicted to the same substances or in the same way, but we were all trying to fill a hole. We were all suffering from not-enoughness.

On the last day, the whole group hiked. Unaccustomed to the altitude, my head ached. I trekked through the rocks and snow, catching my breath where I could. Melanie, Scott, and I were the caboose, the other hikers ahead on the horizon. I found Scott, a gentle and down-to-earth man, easy to talk to for the forty minutes it took us to reach the top of the trail.

Something changed in me when I got to the top.

It could have been the dopamine from the hike, the group's energy, or both. I felt exhilarated as I joined everyone for the group photo. I was elated I had met so many sober people, not one of whom had stepped foot in the hotel saloon.

They had overcome so much, including going to jail, losing their children, and living through tragedies. If they could do it, I knew I had been delaying my new life far too long. Alcohol didn't make me belong any more than not drinking made me feel excluded. No, that was all me, and it was my responsibility to change my thoughts.

When I got home, I made my decision. No more mini-goals. No more regrets. I haven't had a glass of wine since that trip. Four years ago, a group of sober people inspired me by the knowledge that life without drinking isn't easy, but it sure is sweet.

Quitting was so much work that I never wanted to start over on the sobriety path. Sobriety is an inside job. Life is better, more transparent, and more brilliant because of it.

The future is so bright, I gotta wear shades with Melanie. Selfie by author.