Sobriety had saved and shifted my entire life, there was no question about that. Everything that mattered most to me in this world—my health, marriage, children, and closest relationships—would be in ruins had I still been trapped in active addiction. But at 15 months sober, was I ready and willing to fully own my story—my light, my dark and my many shades of humanity between? It was one thing to sit before a computer screen and bare my soul, one keyboard click at a time. But this was different. Did I have the guts to attach my face and identity to a published article that could potentially float around the infinite world wide web for all of eternity? It took me less than five minutes to decide. The “Yes” that my inner voice whispered felt big and risky, unnerving even. But it did not stutter. It came with a capital “Y,” and I nodded back to it. I thought of the many women before me whom I’d come to admire most in this world, the ones who had stepped into the spotlight in a similar manner. They did not do this for personal recognition or gain, but rather to be aligned with a purpose greater than themselves. I thought about the articles I had submitted to Susan, all centered around the gifts of sobriety that are possible once we step out of the shame shadows and seek help and community. What kind of unintentional secondary message would I be sending out if I couldn’t attach my own name to my story? I took a capacious, stabilizing breath—the kind that fills my soul and lungs when I find myself stepping into my power and purpose.
And then I did my next right thing—I called home. At 44 years old, I’ve figured out the difference between asking someone for permission versus informing them of a decision. Yet, I wanted to give a courtesy heads-up to my parents, deeply private people who have loved me unwaveringly through all the muck. And yes, part of me hoped for their approval and support as I stepped into the great big unknown. My parents, now both in their 70s and early risers like me, answered before the second ring. “Hey, Mom,” I whispered, “I’m so glad you are up. Something wild just happened, and I’ve got to tell you about it…” As usual, my safe haven of a mother listened without interruption for a few minutes while I rambled and paced around my small kitchen. For as long as I can remember, my mother has been my greatest teacher—a woman who listens far more than she speaks and does not offer advice unless it is solicited. People tune in when she talks not because of her volume but her wisdom. But morning discussion was still relatively new territory for us. I come from a family of very light drinkers—the dumbfounding this early “take-it-or-leave-it” type. For years, they’d be perusing the dessert menu at a restaurant, an unfinished drink beside them, while I’d be flagging the waiter down for a third round. During the worst years of my drinking, I’d undoubtedly have had a few glasses before we left and a small bottle of something stashed in my purse as well.
Alcohol had forever been the one topic that I refused to talk about with anyone— particularly my family. I couldn’t imagine a life without booze, so I became increasingly secretive around anyone who stood in my way from drinking the way I wanted. Yet here I was on a random December morning, calling my parents to discuss a soon-to-be published article I’d written about my own personal experience with alcohol addiction and recovery. When my mother finally spoke, her words were soft and carefully chosen; I could tell she was smiling.
“I think you will help many people, JJ. What a gift.”
Her words brought my pacing to a halt and tears to my eyes, for it wasn’t too long ago that my mother received a grim, hard-to-swallow diagnosis: a progressive form of dementia that was robbing her of language, cognitive abilities and function before our eyes. What we have is time, but how much, we are unsure. It is the quality of time that matters most now. Her words were very clear on this morning, and I held them close. It is not lost on me that as I have begun to find my freedom, my mother is losing her independence. It is not lost on me that as I have begun to use my voice, my mother is losing her words. What consoles my soul and galvanizes my spirit is recognizing the choices and power that are within my control. I make a choice each day to honor my sobriety, to honor myself, and to honor my family. The best way I can thank those who continued to
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