sometimes the wrong things. In some ways, alcohol was the perfect solution for me—until it wasn’t.
At 1,000 days sober, there is no room for a question mark when it comes to my relationship with alcohol. I have seen too much, felt too much, and realized too much. Once I learned the truth, I could no longer unlearn it. That door has closed. Nothing good will come from lingering near it. I will not be knocking again. There are many more punctuation marks, each serving a unique purpose: the apostrophe, the en dash, the em dash, the hyphen, and the colon, to rattle off a few. (Special mention of the oft-confusing and polarizing semicolon, which could warrant an essay all its own. A nifty text wink? A grammatical flex? An abhorrent foe for “real” writers? Oh, the drama and delight.) Truthfully, I like all the marks—but the comma has won my heart. I am entering Commaland with my head held high, my freshly stamped passport a testament to my commitment to myself and others. Behind that small, softly bent mark there have been many tough and tender moments, conversations, and revelations. I carry these close now, tucked beside my heart where I’d once pinned that invisible scarlet letter. Each one has proven a necessary lesson, testing me and guiding me back home. So far, this new frontier feels unfamiliar and promising, not unlike life back in the single, double, and triple digits. I will continue onward, learning to release what was never mine to begin with and reclaim what was mine all along. Commas don’t begin a sentence, nor do they complete one. Often, they are merely a marker between all that has been and all that is yet to be revealed. A reminder as we traverse life’s vast and wild terrain to pause at that sun-kissed meadow, dew- dropped forest or barren rock. And then just keep going.
I see now that it all matters. It all belongs. I honor it all.
Because no fall, no rising. No darkness, no dawn. No mud, no lotus.
HOLA SOBER | MADRID
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