It’s made even more stressful knowing that I can’t just get hammered and pass out on the flight. Ultimately, future me thanks me for it when I land and I’m fully sober and present and can get right down to the fun of the trip, but the flight is miserable.

Thankfully, I’ve figured out a system to help me cope with my flying anxiety without booze. And my hope is that my system helps you, too.

In January of this year, my husband and I packed up and traveled across the pond to Scotland for my birthday. The entire trip was magic that I wish I could have bottled up and brought back home with me.

I’m a true lover of the cloudy, cold, “gloomy” weather that I get almost none of living in Oklahoma. So I was well and truly in heaven.

In fact, now that I’m writing this, I think it’s partly because we’re in the beginning stages of summer here and I’m feeling nostalgic for those cold, crisp days spent roaming the beautiful city of Edinburgh.

All that to say the anxiety of flying for eleven hours without alcohol to help me cope had me honestly rethinking going at all. But the point of being sober is to truly live and experience everything, even the uncomfortable bits.

If I had canceled my trip out of fear, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself because the experience once there was everything I dreamed it would be and more.

So I planned ahead and researched and did what I could do to cope with the uncomfortableness in my stomach. And here’s what that looked like:

Noise canceling headphones

Specifically, Bose QuietComfort Headphones. I bought the refurbished ones, as they were cheaper, but still really good quality. And this is the number one thing I would suggest because without the noise of taking off and landing, you can close your eyes and pretend you’re not in a giant tube floating through the air.

Melatonin and Olly Goodbye Stress Gummies

I was a little bit skeptical, but the melatonin really knocked me out once in flight. It’s a good alternative to five glasses of white wine to take the edge off. The Goodbye Stress Gummies, I took while waiting to board. And I don’t know if they did much of anything, but they certainly tasted good and made me feel like I was being productive while waiting.

Pre-downloaded Movies and Podcasts

Even though you’ll likely have access to movies on an international flight at least, it’s good to be prepared ahead of time and download your movies and podcasts on your phone so you’re prepared for anything. A good comfort movie really works wonders when you’re 30,000-40,000 feet high.

A Comfortable Hoodie

Preferably one with a long hood that you can cover your eyes with. After you eat your melatonin and stick your noise canceling headphones on, a hood over your eyes is like a little dreamscape. You’ll have forgotten all about that glass of wine after this.

A Small Blanket

Traveling with a blanket is tricky because they’re bulky and take up space. However, a small blanket that you can roll up small and tuck away is something I would absolutely suggest. It’s worth it to get snuggled up under to just add another layer of comfort to your travel.

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What I did not think to bring with me was a sound machine to help me sleep when we landed where we were going. I couldn’t have known, however, that our upstairs neighbors of the Airbnb we were staying in would be having loud, pornographic sex almost every night we were there and that the walls would be paper thin.

And, like, hell yeah! Good for them! Not good for me trying to sleep in a new time zone with no alcohol though. But, as they — who are “they?” — say, you live and you learn. I will, from that time forward, be bringing a sound machine with me wherever I go.

Ultimately, facing your fears without using alcohol as a crutch for the first time is scary. But the pride you’ll feel in yourself after is such a reward.

Not to mention the gift of landing somewhere and not missing the rush you feel when you finally get out of the airport and step into your new city. The feeling is unmatched, a drunk you can’t get from five glasses of white wine. One that, I would dare say is even better.

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To the Cardinal snacking on the bird feeder outside my kitchen window, thank you for taking only what you need and nothing more. You’ve inspired me to imagine a world where we could live like you winged creatures; sharing our space, our food, the natural world, taking only what is necessary and leaving the rest for our community. You’ve given me hope that we could let go of ego and understand a life worth living is not a life of hoarding goods and food and wealth, instead, it is quite the opposite. I can only hope humankind adopts your less than gluttonous nature before it’s too late.

To the Cardinal snacking on the bird feeder outside of my kitchen window, I sincerely hope we don’t ruin it for you.

Yeah, if you read the fine print, in every single way this product is bad for you, but they’ve got their best on it making sure no one remembers that little detail.

It’s like they have Men in Black working for them; going around using their nebulizers making people forget the part where alcohol causes cancer and shrinks your brain, but leaves you with the warm and fuzzy feeling.

They’ve sold us on a glass of wine to unwind, a can of beer to bring us cheer, a shot of liquor to give us back our flicker. And while I appreciate the heck out of a good rhyme, I don’t love what it’s suggesting; that life without alcohol is boring.

And, to be quite honest, I’m bored of that narrative.

It’s like adults completely forgot how to be fun without their inhibition being smudged just a smidge. Dancing on a bar in the middle of the day? Society frowns upon that. Dancing on a bar in the middle of the day because you’re drunk? Somehow that’s more palatable.

It’s as if we all grew up and went, you know what? I don’t want anyone to see me having fun unless it’s the result of lowering my inhibitions because I wouldn’t want anyone to know how much I actually enjoy myself.

To me though, the person dancing on the bar with their inhibition fully in tact and well is much more interesting a person than the latter.

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But I’m obviously not the only one that feels this way because the alcohol industry is losing billions in revenue as more and more people decide to go without it.

So in the inverse, it does seem that there’s an awakening happening. People want to be more in touch with their inner child. They want to play and feel things fully and be present. Not to mention the health movement that’s sweeping over the United States in a weird way.

So what’s the sudden shift for?

I don’t have the answer, but I do have a theory. And that is that in the last twenty to thirty years, humans have lost touch. The quickness with which technology has taken over and reshaped our lives has people suddenly feeling a need to get back to themselves in a good way. Touch grass with their toes, hold hands with their friends in a circle, dance under the stars, all that wonderful shit.

That and — I see the irony in this — the wealth of knowledge at our fingertips made possible by said technology. We’re able to see the effects of long-term and short-term drinking and the damage it can cause.

And/or we saw it growing up with our parents through their very toxic relationships to both alcohol or each other, made worse by the alcohol. And then we learned from their mistakes. What a concept, right?

Whatever the reason, it has come at a time that I believe is crucial for our world. When things seem so very bleak, when nothing sounds better than a drink to forget the hate and the anger and the outright dumb, dumby, dumb shit happening every single day, reaching inward and finding yourself, fully aware and fully capable, is a true superpower.

A superpower, I might add, that is taking money out of the pockets of people that would exploit your addiction and say things like, “drink responsibly,” as if the two could coexist.

So I’m hear to say, I’m very sober and very much feeling more alive than I’ve felt in a very long time. And, surprise! I’m not at all bored.

So as a thirty-year-old restarting in a lot of big ways, this show was the comfort I needed, as well as the inspiration.

Under that comfy umbrella of nostalgia comes yearning for another place and time, which can be tricky to navigate because we only have the here and the now. However, you tie that with inspiration and you’re off to the races.

The life of Carrie Bradshaw — outside of her trouble with men — is one of glittery fairytales. Living in a rent-controlled flat in Manhattan, affording said flat with her journalistic employment, the fashion, the food, the never-ending fun.

And regardless of how out of reach it feels for some of us now with prices flying and AI encroaching, one should never stop dreaming. More than that, one should never stop believing, never stop putting themselves out there, never stop reaching for said dreams with long, extendo arms.

The most endearing aspect of the show is the friendship that Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha have. And that connection doesn’t seem out of reach at all if you don’t count meeting for breakfast once a week because no matter how much we all want to, who has time for that?

I have opinions on who Carrie should have ended up with; who she deserved and who she didn’t deserve.

I have opinions about Miranda’s pessimism and how I deeply relate to it.

I have opinions about Charlotte and how desperate she comes off through the entire series.

So as you can see, I have a lot of opinions on Sex and the City, as one does. However, I have just one qualm.

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Spoiler alert ahead. If by some chance you’re someone who, like me, hasn’t yet, but does want to watch this wonderful show, please don’t read any further.

I have a qualm with the way doctors handled Samantha’s breast cancer diagnosis.

Do you remember the scene in which Samantha has already had her cancer removed, but is following up with her doctor to see what the next steps were?

If not, it went like this — and I’m paraphrasing.

Doctor: Good news, all of the cancer has been successfully removed.

Samantha: Oh, that’s great.

Doctor: However, we will have to start you on chemo to be sure.

Samantha: Oh, god. Why did this happen to me?

Doctor: Well, we can’t say for sure, but your lifestyle choices can be a factor.

At this point I was shocked. I was shocked and also impressed that a show written twenty-plus years ago would mention the correlation between alcohol intake and cancer because in my mind, that’s where he was headed next with that statement.

How could he not be? Samantha was rarely seen without a drink in hand throughout those six seasons, so in my mind that was the only logical next string of words out of his mouth.

However, immediate disappointment followed because doctor’s next words were something to the effect of, women who choose not to have children have a higher chance of getting breast cancer.

Rightfully so, Samantha storms out in her dressing gown and tells that doctor to fuck off in the most Samantha way possible.

My initial thought was that he was going to explain that alcohol is a Group 1 carcinogen. I certainly didn’t think he was going to make her feel bad for choosing not to have children, but this is — and has always been — the patriarchal world that we live in.

Then I thought, well, when was it officially classified as such?

So I did some digging. Turns out, alcohol has been classified as a Group 1 carcinogen since 1988. Again, shock. Only in the last five years maybe did I learn that information.

Big Alcohol is good at what they do, and they were good at what they did 35 years ago. Marketing. They have bottled one of the most harmful substances and spun it as a good time, effectively selling people cancer in a bottle.

The good news, the age of information is coming for them.

It was not, however, coming for them in 1998 when Sex and the City first aired.

So when the doctor said, it’s because of your life choices, for just a millisecond I thought they were going to do something radical and at the very least tell Samantha that her drinking habits could have been a contributing factor. Or advise her not to continue drinking at the rate that she was.

Nope. Just a big fat you need to have children disguised as a breast cancer diagnosis.

And please don’t get me wrong, I see the point that was being made. It needed to be said then and it unfortunately still needs to be said now, that women are not just baby machines and shouldn’t be punished for choosing a title other than “mother.”

And I wholeheartedly agree.

It’s just that I hoped every angle would be addressed in a manner conducive to a healthy doctor-patient relationship. And my hope now is that real world situations look more inclusive and that every imperative detail is conveyed.

I want more for women than the treatment Samantha was given by her doctor. I want women to have everything they want without the breath of this patriarchal society huffing down their necks. I want women to have the indisputable truth without having to dig and pry and claw it out of someone who is profiting off of their ignorance.

At the very least, I want the life of a woman affording her best life by doing exactly what she wants to do, running around with her best friends, ending up with the person she wants to end up with and getting respect and truth from her trusted peers to feel less like a glittery fairytale and more like reality.

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And, no, I’m not talking about getting older, even though that certainly feels close to it. I’m talking about a hangover. And as someone who was an avid drinker for most of my late adolescent and young adult life, I know that feeling very well.

However, as someone who has quit drinking, that feeling has long since left the chat. So when I woke up this morning with what could only be described as a big, fat, angry hangover, I was confused and unsettled, to say the least.

After some reflection and a cup of coffee though, it clicked. There are few other times that I’ve woken up feeling this unwell without bringing it upon myself, and they all have one thing in common. My hometown.

You know, that tiny awful place that feels like a black hole? The place that brings up icky feelings of dread and panic? Yeah, that one.

Although, I guess for some people their hometown isn’t all misery. I don’t know any of those people, but I imagine they exist. Those people probably had storybook childhoods and sailed through school without a single crashing wave. I’m jealous of those people.

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So you guessed it, I went to my hometown yesterday. And now it’s the middle of the day and I have yet to leave my bed. There’s just something about being back in a place that was the site of so much of my misery that hikes my cortisol and sends me spiraling.

And, honestly, no one looks happy there. And I know I’m probably projecting, but they really don’t. And if they do, I can’t help wondering if they’re pretending or if they’ve genuinely found a sliver of joy that’s keeping them there.

When I run into people from my past that are still living where we grew up, they tend to rattle off all the reasons why they’re still there as if they have to justify themselves. Except I know it’s not for me; that justification is there’s alone.

But then I tend to rattle on about how I hate coming back and how “I only ever come back if I have to.” As if I have to justify to them why I’m showing my face.

And the cycle continues. The whole dance is very unsettling.

It’s as if we’re all still running from the monsters of our past that are hiding in the nooks and crannies of our little hometown. Running from the hideous memories that only rear their ugly heads when we are forced to look them in their stupid faces.

It’s not only my monsters though. Each time I go back I’m faced with the monsters of my loved ones that refuse to acknowledge they exist. They can’t face them, so those rogue motherfuckers begin chasing after me as soon as I cross the threshold into hometown territory.

The whole thing is exhausting and it very quickly sends me right back in the direction I came from. Forget an overnight stay. That shit is not happening.

So the next time I’m required to make an appearance in my hometown, I’ll go prepared with pain relievers and hydration packets. And maybe I’ll consider some form of monster repellant in the form of an on-call therapist?

But today, I’m left with my hometown hangover. So if you need me, I’ll be right here wrapped up in my comforter with my dogs, fighting off the hangover I should have seen coming.

I’ve been desperately trying to fit into a digital world with an analog heart. It beats to the slow ticking of a clock face that has two hands and a circle of twelve numbers. It craves a full, slow cracking album on vinyl, but it’s getting fast, loud, system shocking content at 100 miles an hour. I feel like shouting into a birdcage microphone the disgrace of digital everything, everywhere, all the time. But unless I’m shouting into a tiny microphone that’s getting shoved through my tiny cell phone into the vast world of social media, no one will hear me. And if I do that, I’m sure to be left behind. But maybe behind is where I want to be, just me and my analog dreams.

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I wore a blue waffle-knit beanie to make a statement without outright making a statement. But it turned out to be not quite statement enough, as there were multiple men and women adorned in MAGA shirts and hats lined up in front of and behind me.

Frustration immediately melted over me. My first thought was, there are rules against this, I hope they know they will be turned away and not allowed to vote or at least asked to change and come back.

My second thought was, of course these people who support Donald Trump like he’s a god aren’t following the rules. He’s emboldened his supporters to break the rules at every turn.

My third thought was, let’s see if they actually get called out in this sea of red. They didn’t, by the way. No one said a single word.

As we were getting closer to our polling booths getting ready to cast our votes, a man behind me proudly flaunting his MAGA gear asked in reference to the sample ballot, “These are just made up, right?”

You have got to be kidding me. You’re telling me that this man — I imagine, like many others — doesn’t know what a fucking sample ballot is? The amount of proud ignorance seeping from that polling station was enough to make a girl want to drown her sorrows.

And I did. I got home and waited to hear the news. And when those results came in, I did what many others like me did, and I got hammered. It wasn’t celebratory by any means; it was a sad, pathetic let’s drink to forget kind of hammered.

I remember the feeling of dread and anxiety that overtook me. I remember it well because I have felt it almost every day since he took office.

Anxiety and I have a past, but it’s always been my own demon. It has been self-manifested. It’s not often that my anxiety stems from anywhere but my own thoughts, which is what makes me so mad about the situation at hand. This is completely out of my control now and there’s nothing I can do about it. I did what I thought I needed to do, and it wasn’t enough.

So there I was, bracing for the next four years of dread and anxiety.

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I quit drinking seven months after Trump took office. In the seven months preceding my quitting, my anxiety was raging like it had never before. It was affecting my everyday life for reasons out of my control - reasons I did not vote for. And I was drinking to take the edge off, which consequently led to more anxiety, as we know alcohol will do.

Finally, when the anxiety from this administration combined with the anxiety from my dopamine spiking and dropping and spiking and dropping got too much to handle, I realized something had to change.

I attempted to quit drinking two handfuls of times in probably two years. But it finally stuck. I made it ten days, then one month, then three months. And now I’m sitting at nine months sober and my anxiety is *almost* non-existent.

So I guess I could say thanks to this administration for sending me into a state of constant dread and panic so that I was forced to look at myself and fix the only problem that I was able to fix? I won’t say that, but I could.

The rage is still there. The dread is still there. But it’s all much more manageable. I’m more in control of my emotions. I can take that dread and rage and use it as fuel for something productive.

The reason I think it’s so important to stay sober in Trump’s America is because I need to see clearly through the bullshit, which, by the way, is not hard to do as they make it so very easy to detect. But when every new day in the United States feels like a scene out of a dystopian novel or film, it’s important to me that I stay in control of my mental faculties.

You don’t see anyone surviving in the Handmaid’s Tale by getting fucked up every night. No, Offred is scheming and planning and making connections and staying aware. And in Fahrenheit 451, Guy’s not going out and drinking himself to oblivion every chance he gets; he’s reading and asking questions no one else seems to be asking and he’s making plans.

Staying sober keeps me in control of my emotions, it keeps me grounded when everything around me feels shaky. I’m utilizing my time in a way that I feel good about, i.e., by going to school and getting an education, amongst other things. And in Trump’s America where proud ignorance seems to be the motto, staying educated is the key to staying above water.

I’ve replaced brain fog with clarity, doom scrolling with journaling (although not entirely, I am still a victim to doom scrolling), time I would have spent at a bar, I’m spending reading or writing or being creative and just flexing that little pink squisher stuck between my ears.

I can take the money that I’m saving by not drinking and donate to causes that I align with and want to support. I can travel the world and experience different cultures and broaden my horizons, bringing back with me hope for the future of the United States.

So not to say that any day in Trump’s America is any less anxiety-inducing, because it's not. The horrors do persist. Just this week we saw that the Trump administration fired the entire US National Science Board. And that’s not even the tip of the iceberg, that’s just one measly example of the destructive decisions that are being made daily that really make me think about picking up tequila again.

For that very reason, however, I won’t. I don’t want to be easily controlled; I want to be in control. I can take each day of new dumb antic, and instead of stewing on the idiocy with a bottle, I’m able to accept that this is what life is right now and ask myself what I’m going to do about it.

What I’m not going to do is get drunk and forget what’s going on. I’m not going to numb my feelings of anger and hurt. I’m going to feel them and use them. I’m going to have meaningful conversations with people who feel the same, or differently, than I do because isolating does nothing for anyone. And I’m hopefully going to make a difference in my small corner of the world.

It’s been said time and time again that you can’t pour from an empty cup. But I’m also going to make sure that the cup I’m pouring from isn’t full of alcohol because, baby, it’s more important now than ever before to stay locked in.

So in case you were feeling down on this administration and needed a little extra push to stay sober today, staying grounded and clear-minded so you can demand more from your leaders is one worth considering.

A bowl full of nothing is not just nothing. It is endless possibilities. At first, an empty bowl can feel daunting. Should I put fruit in this bowl and paint it on a canvas? Should I fill this bowl with cereal and eat it? How would this bowl look on my counter as décor? Should I use this bowl to mix cake batter to bake a cake? And then, slowly, you realize the bowl has many functions. You can do every single one of those things with that empty bowl if that’s what you want because that empty bowl has been waiting for its entire existence to be used for its innumerable purposes.

Early sobriety feels like a bowl full of nothing, anxiously waiting to be filled. Early sobriety is constantly thinking about the endless possibilities. But a bowl full of nothing waiting and wanting is anxiety inducing. It is craze making. Not to worry though, once you find your way past that stage, it’s lovely. After that, sobriety feels like looking at your painted masterpiece of that fruit-filled bowl or finally enjoying that cake you mixed up and made in that once empty container.

So please don’t discount an empty bowl. You may be surprised what you will discover if you make the decision to fill it.

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I was scouring social media looking for tips and tricks and the best non-alcoholic options and how to be sober in a sea of drunks. And the internet did not come up short by any means. In fact, it helped me along the way feel a little less alone. So my hope is to be a shining light at the end of a tunnel for anyone early in sobriety.

Because there’s a sort of stigma around not drinking - which is insane, by the way - that was one of the things that kept me from quitting, amongst a litany of other things. However, as I’ve continued my sobriety I’ve found it to be quite freeing to not give a single fuck what anyone thinks of the choices I make for myself, especially when those choices involve making me a better human.

I began drinking around age 13 here and there at parties and I fell in love. The relief I felt immediately was addicting. And it never seemed unusual because I was surrounded by addicts from the time I exited my mother’s womb. So the bar was set low from the get.

At 19, things ramped up. I began drinking almost every day and using c*caine on occasion. But I was a functioning adult with a job and a house, paying my bills, getting shit done, taking care of my dad while he nursed his addiction. Again, I was surrounded by addicts so it was easy to look like I had it all together in comparison.

At 21 I started my seven-year bartending career. That job meant the world to me and was a turning point in a lot of ways. The people I met were life-changing. I made connections that have lasted me to this day. I met my husband and my best friend. I felt support there like I’ve never felt before. However, that put me, again, surrounded by people who, like me, were there to drink.

All of that to say that when there’s not many examples of sobriety to look to, it’s hard to imagine what life could be like without it. The lifestyle sucks you in like quicksand: slow at first, then before you know it you’re stuck.

I began journaling to keep myself accountable. And that didn’t work… until it finally did.

I had been journaling for about a year when one day I decided to read back what I had written. I pored over that journal and sobbed. There were countless entries where I was begging and pleading with myself to quit just for a week. The next entry would be a shameful recounting of how I made it two days before I got drunk again. Next few entries would be the same thing, and the next few would look eerily similar. I was setting goals and making promises to myself that I didn’t reach, not did I keep.

The breaking point was the realization that I was no different than the people in my life who had let me down time and time again with their addiction. The ones who chose a substance or the bar or a good time over their daughter or their sister. I was no different than those people.

There’s a quote floating around the world wide web that goes something like “Be the person your younger self needed.” And that’s really what sobriety is about for me. And being what my younger self needed looks a little bit like this:

Telling people is the hardest part. Saying out loud to people who know you as the girl who takes shots by herself and is always down to drink is comparative to telling your boss you’re quitting your job or your friends and family you’re moving away. Those same butterflies form in your stomach and the same dread when waiting for their response manifests. But this part is necessary to set some boundaries.

Developing a different mindset to get me out of addiction and into sobriety unfortunately took me getting away from the places I frequented so often - bars, breweries, parties, etc. But when you want it badly enough, it isn’t a terribly hard thing to do.

In the beginning, having literally anything in my hands at all times was a necessity. NA beers were helpful, sparkling water, hot tea. I’ve eventually replaced all of these with coffee, but that’s a story for another time.

But being prepared when you know you’re going to be around other people drinking is especially helpful. If it’s a BYOB situation, bring your own NA beers, or sparkling water or kombucha. Anything to hold in your hand to avoid the awkward, “you want a beer?” conversation. If you’re going to a bar, check their mocktail selections. If they have none, sprite, soda water, diet coke with a lime (my personal favorite) any of those will do the trick.

Also, if you have friends that are constantly trying to get you to drink after you’ve told them you quit, find some new fucking friends because that’s not it. Real friends will support you and lift you up even if they don’t understand it.

And I think most importantly, remembering your why. If you’re in a tough situation that has you questioning why you’re “depriving” yourself, reminders of why you began to begin with can be little drops of rain in a desert.

On that point, shifting your mindset from I’m depriving myself from a fun time to, I’m giving myself the gift of self trust, confidence and health is a game changer.

Oh, and give yourself more than 90 days. The first 90 days SUCK. They’re scary. Emotions are all over the place. Chemicals are trying to get balanced in your brain, causing anxiety, depression, really high highs and low lows. If you only give yourself 30 days, there are some health benefits, but in my opinion you’re only experiencing the worst part of sobriety. So this is a big one for longevity.

And lastly, one of my favorite reasons to stay sober is that it feels like a giant fuck you to the man. Unsubscribing from the idea that life can’t be enjoyable or relaxing or fun without alcohol is like giving Big Alcohol the middle finger. You’re a lot harder to control when you have full control over yourself.

So while I don’t have THE answers, these are things that have helped me tremendously. And I hope they can be of some help to anyone in the trenches of early sobriety because life in sobriety really is magical.

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It’s a sort of magic to behold when they start their dance to the rhythm of the wind. One after the other beginning their jig, branches swaying, leaves flying, boogying all together to the fierceness of a gust of air moving through the open spaces between them.

A tree is rooted in place, unmoving and standing tall, reaching to the sky; able to take whatever is thrown its way and remain steady. On the other hand, it’s pliable, not so firm in its place that it can’t be swayed to the rhythm of life or the changing of the seasons. It’s so confident in its ability to stand tall and remain imbedded in earth’s crust that it has no problem at all letting its tiny little freak flags fly in the form of swaying branches and flying leaves when it feels a breeze pulling it this way and that.

But then I guess it’s not so laughable to spend such time thinking about the trees dancing in the wind; to ponder what it would be like to live as free as those tiny leaves, and in the same moment as fixed as those roots. Such coexistence deserves a bit more time and brain space actually. So if you need me, I’ll be in my head, taking notes from the trees dancing in the wind.

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You assume that the immense love that you had for him brought about his death. You thought you had cursed yourself by incessantly imagining that he’d leave you, and it was confirmed when he finally did.

Now picture eight years of grieving and finally feeling like the curse has lifted. In fact, it was never there to begin with. It was in your head all along.

Picture standing next to the cloaked figure himself just to ask him if he can send a message to your dad that his daughter is taking care of herself exactly as he would have wanted her to; no need to worry on the other side because she has everything she needs, apart from the chunk of her heart he took with him when he left. Tell him she wants him to keep that, she’s learned to live without it.

I actually hope you never have to picture it. But in case you do, this one’s for you.

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“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.”
― Albert Camus

In all of my life I’ve never been the lover of spring that most people tend to be, nor of summer. The heat makes me feel oppressed and sweaty and squishy and unable to breathe at times. The sun always seems to be beating down directly on top of my head, making life uncomfortable at best. But what I always had to look forward to in order to beat the heat, so to speak, was a cold beer and a shot of tequila on a shaded patio with my friends. And don’t get me started when it comes to a chilly body of water - a lake, a pool, a fucking water sprinkler – and a crispy light lager. In my head, there’s a cork board with the sun on one side and alcohol on the other, and a piece of bright red yarn linking the two together.

So although I’m hardly ever looking forward to the warmer months, drinking with my friends was always something I anticipated when the seasons changed from dull and cold to warm and bright.

As a newly sober person, patio season is now my enemy. It’s the time of year when it seems like every single person I know wants to “go out” and “get a drink.” And I don’t blame those people for wanting to get out and defrost.

My issue is that Big Alcohol has successfully engrained in us that nothing could make relaxing on the beach better than having a drink, or that nothing tastes better after mowing your lawn than a cold beer. As if the pure beauty of the ocean or the reward of a job well done could never be enough. And, genuinely, that makes me furious. But that’s a discussion for another time. Alcohol was such a big part of my life that now it’s something I consider as the seasons change, so their advertising is certainly working. That, or alcohol is just doing its alcohol thing and getting people hooked on the dopamine hits it’s doling out, keeping everybody coming back for more.

Regardless, spring is meant to ignite hope and bring life after a season of what most people consider melancholy and dull, and it doesn’t quite do that for me. Granted, it really never has. I much prefer the melancholy of autumn and winter. But at the very least, I was able to enjoy a lot of drinks on a shady patio or two when spring sprung.

“When Spring has sprung... Spring with it!”
― Robert Armstrong

Conversely, I’m now incredibly eager to enter this new season as a brand new person. This spring, I’m a person with a great deal of self-respect and trust in myself. So, while the sun is still beaming down on my head making things wholly uncomfortable, I have a new set of tools to sit with the uncomfortable; and that feels like a superpower.

As cheesy as it may sound, sobriety really does provide what we’re all chasing at the bottom of a bottle. Experiencing life fully, feeling every feeling - good or bad - and trusting in yourself to feel it and move through it with ease, that is something to look forward to even in your most dreaded seasons of life.

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Time after time after time, I came back to my big blue journal to report back failure. I couldn’t stick to the two-week no-booze rule I made for myself; I couldn’t moderate like I thought I should be able to. But what I didn’t know while I was journaling is that I would use all of that written failure to fuel a change for myself.

I was able to go back and read and reread how I had let myself down over and over again. Coming from a family of addicts who chose substances over me continually, it felt like I was doing the thing I couldn’t forgive everyone else for i.e., choosing alcohol over myself. And I had been doing exactly that for the past ten years. So those scribbled words on that perfectly ruled paper that I shared in confidence with no one, really became the thing that saved my relationship with myself.

The aha moment came when I was reading my journal entries for the previous two years or so and every other entry was something to the effect of, I drank too much last night and today I feel like absolute garbage; or I got in a fight with so and so while I was drunk last night for such and such reason. And every single entry after that would be a sort of plea with myself to make a change, quit drinking even for a week or two weeks.

Needless to say, I finally got the courage to say out loud to myself and to my friends and family that I was not drinking for one entire month. Saying the words out loud validated them for me and telling my friends made it so I couldn’t go back on my word. But I would never have gotten there without putting my thoughts to paper first.

Now, at eight months sober, I can say with confidence that I am a better version of myself than I’ve ever been before. I journal every single day, and writing has actually become one of the largest parts of my journey. My time is precious and it is also fleeting, and I’ve realized how much of it was wasted completely blackout or hungover in bed. Consequently, I have every urge to create, to learn new things, to do things I would have never done before.

Thus, the Wet and Dry of it. This newsletter is where I hope to encourage anyone on a similar journey or anyone who wants to be, to just start. And if it becomes hard, just know that there are umpteen people out there struggling right along with you. There are SO MANY reasons we feel we have to drink or want to drink, especially in this political climate, girl. But there are that many reasons, plus one, to stay the course. Ultimately, my hope is that you find the thing that motivates you - your big blue journal, as it were.

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