3 Years Sober
Some reflections on Day 1,096
Today marks three years of sobriety—36 months, 1,096 days, 26,280 hours, 1,576,800 minutes, and counting—and I am incredibly grateful.
I don't have a dramatic story of how this all began. I wasn't arrested, hospitalized, or court-mandated to attend recovery meetings. I used to joke with friends, saying my drinking was not a problem but a solution. I even instructed them if they ever carted me to rehab, to please take me to Betty Ford. Drinking and having fun was my entire personality. I was always the one to order another round, bottle service, or have "just one more," but the truth is, there was never enough. Just weeks before my final drink, some dear friends staged a mini-intervention and told me they didn't want to hang out with me when I was drinking, which, they said, would mean they'd likely never see me.
My life wasn't entirely in shambles, but it was getting there. If I traced the pathway of destruction in my life at that time to a single source, it would be at the bottom of a wine bottle—a good Pinot Noir from Burgundy, to be exact.
So much of my drinking was related to the shame I carried about being gay and having to hide myself for so long. Coming out later in life, I found alcohol was a way to feel comfortable in the new queer world I was navigating, which often seemed centered around drinking and drug use. I drowned a lot of pain, shame, fear, and anxiety in copious amounts of alcohol, hoping to stop feeling hard feelings, find acceptance in a new world where I felt like an outsider, and sleep through the night. But even that wasn't enough over time. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to realize I should probably sober up and reached out to a friend who told me how he'd done it and told me to get to a recovery meeting.
Mind you, this was the summer of 2021, in the age of social distancing. No musty church basements were open for me to sit in a circle of chairs and relive the PTSD of being in conversion therapy in a similar setting. I think in way, that was a bit of a gift.
On June 20, 2021, I woke up hungover like I had nearly every morning for the last couple of years, but something in me was finally willing to do something about it. I logged onto a Zoom meeting in the middle of the day and heard my story echoed in the words of strangers. This was quite the opposite of the virtual happy hours I'd come to enjoy in the pandemic's early days. One of the guys on the call messaged me his number. I thought I'd get sober and find a date, but it turned out he was straight and offered to help me. He became my sponsor, and I've talked to him nearly every day since. I even had the privilege of officiating his wedding last year. It's crazy, dare I say, a miracle, how it all worked out.
For the first two weeks, my only connection to others was through the Brady Bunch-like screen of Zoom meetings and phone calls with my sponsor. Then, recovery meetings in New York City opened up, and I attended my first in-person meeting on a 95-degree day in a church with no air conditioning. I literally felt like I was in the bowels of Hell. The next day, against my better judgment, I went to Fire Island for the first time and thought my life as I knew it was over. Thankfully, a guardian angel helped me find my way to recovery meetings there instead of running away or giving up 21 days into sobriety. Somehow, I managed to stay sober in a place known for debauchery and saw that you could be gay and sober and still have fun.
And then, well, the rest is history. I went to meetings, listened to others share their stories, and started to share mine. I learned to ask for help, take suggestions, call my sponsor, and begin to work on my recovery. It's been a slow process, but day by day, I've seen growth and change I could have never imagined.
For me, sobriety is about more than not drinking or using other substances. It's about learning to sit with what's uncomfortable, facing things I'd rather run from, and letting go of the control I used to cling to, trusting my Higher Power/God/the Universe to carry me even when things are uncertain.
Life didn't magically get better, but a new world opened up around me when I persevered and, one day at a time, decided to do the opposite of what always came naturally. Sobriety gave me the space to confront patterns that had me trapped and also gave me back dreams I'd long thought were lost.
A year ago, on my second anniversary, I signed with a literary agent. Now, a year later, I'm closer to my dream of publishing a book, which is crazy to me and one of the countless things I know are a reality in part due to my sobriety. There have been so many unexpected gifts, friendships, and experiences that have come from digging in and doing the hard work with others who are walking the same path. I'm thankful for the people who have shown up, shared their wisdom and experience, and been there for me. I'm also grateful for the opportunity to help others, too. I don't always get it right, but I'm learning.
Last week, a friend reminded me sometimes we need to say what we needed to hear. That idea stuck with me. When I think about my book project and the work I hope to do in the future, it's with that end in mind. I want to write what I needed to read. I want to use my words and experiences to help others. I'm grateful for the clarity and purpose that sobriety has given me, and I am committed to using my story to light the way for others.
Looking back on these past three years, I am immensely grateful. Sobriety has given me a second chance at life, allowing me to rebuild and reimagine my future. Every day, I am reminded that recovery is a journey, not a destination. It's about showing up, doing the work, and embracing the support of a community that understands and shares in this path.
Sharing openly about sobriety is often looked down upon in recovery circles, and I get it. But I also come from the school of thought that if our addiction was loud, why should our sobriety be quiet? I would have never found my way if friends of mine hadn't courageously shared their stories. So, that's why I choose to share mine.
For those reading this who might be struggling, know you are not alone. Reaching out for help was the hardest but most rewarding decision I ever made. Remember, it's never too late. Help is out there. All you have to do is ask for it.
Here are some resources that can help:
SAMHSA's National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Here's to another year of growth, learning, and living fully—one day at a time.
Love this. Love you. Congrats on getting here one day at a time.