As the years progressed, booze for me became far more than a prop—it had become my life force, and without it circling through my veins, I felt like a fraud playing my own part. Underneath the “wild child” image, I was that same timid girl looking for meaning in the world and a place to belong. I remained baffled by my secret, obsessive longing for alcohol and the all- consuming degree to which it dominated my thoughts and energy. What had begun as the best thing about me had turned into the worst. I managed to hide my alcohol obsession remarkably well, even as it snowballed. By the time I got sober in my early 40s, I’d been dancing the impossible moderation Tango for years— stumbling between white-knuckle abstinence and dark, secretive drinking. I repeatedly tripped over my own two feet with no clue how to exit the dance floor. I couldn’t understand myself, and I was certain no one else ever would. The chains of shame had grown far heavier in addiction now that I was a wife and mother. I remained hung up on the parts of my story that made me an anomaly: no known family history of alcohol abuse or addiction; two parents and two siblings who all drank moderately; no significant early childhood neglect, trauma, or abuse. I’d been loved and wanted, my childhood home warm and stable. My story did not have a logical trajectory, yet there I went, barreling toward an early grave. And why? Shame and blame. I had continued to buy into the same lies that I’d been fed as a young girl: the ones insisting that alcohol isn’t a problem, only the people who cannot handle it. I didn’t just have society pointing their finger at me. I was pointing the finger at myself, too. A truth bomb was about to explode and change everything: the simple truth was that I had become addicted to an addictive substance, which can—and does—happen to anyone. I was not flawed. I was not some black sheep or lost cause. My body and brain had behaved exactly as they were designed. As my awareness grew, my shame began to shrink. And my self- compassion and courage began to bloom. I discovered that even after so many years of exposing myself to a toxic and addictive substance, I could recover. I was not a victim. I was a survivor.
At 3.5 years sober, I have redefined for myself what it means to be a happy and empowered modern-day woman. Being wild and liberated does not mean showing up as the life of the party with a drink in hand; it is showing up as myself with my heart on my sleeve. Or not showing up at all, if that feels right. Being powerful does not mean controlling other people; it is taking full ownership of my life and choices. It is remaining soft and kind, even when the world has its way with me. Being free does not mean the ability to get drunk; it is waking up with my dignity, integrity, and memory all intact. Being courageous means raising my hand in a recovery meeting and saying the very things I am afraid to voice. It is asking for help or accepting it, which are often two difficult things for us women to do in a society that constantly reminds us we are the helpers and fixers. It is sharing my story—no matter how daunting that may feel—because I know its not only an act of service for myself but for others. A truly meaningful existence for me is having a woman I have never met reach out to let me know that because of my words, she found her final Day One. Two nights ago, I walked through the center grocery store aisle—the large, well-lit one, smack in the middle with all the bottles. I know this aisle well. I used to hit this aisle frequently, bargaining and berating myself as I snatched a bottle or two for my cart, quickly rearranging the bread and cereal boxes to conceal the evidence as I beelined to the checkout counter. That woman I used to be, standing in line with wine in her cart and cortisol coursing through her veins, was not a powerful woman. She was not free. There was no romance ahead on the agenda that night. No lasting joy ready to be poured. No bold moves or proud moments are about to unfold in front of her husband or children.
HOLA SOBER | MADRID
HOLA SOBER | MADRID
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