Consciously Sober

I never planned on being sober. 

If you would have told me years ago that I’d never have another drink again, I would have laughed. After all, I didn’t have a drinking problem. 

And yet, here I am, three and a half years sober.

Like most of the people around me, I considered myself a “social drinker,” whatever that even means. A great bottle of wine over dinner, a spicy margarita on our patio, and every once in a while having one too many with the girls on a rare Saturday night out. That was about as wild as my story got.

But a drinking “problem”? Never. After all, I didn’t drink any more than anyone else I knew. In fact, I felt like I drank less.

But it didn’t matter because asking myself if I had a “drinking problem” was asking the wrong question. 

What I should have been asking is, does drinking make me feel good? Does it add value to my life?

Alcohol is the only thing in our modern society that we have to have a “problem” to justify quitting something we know is not good for us.

And deep down, for years, I knew. 

As I look back on my relationship with alcohol, I can see now that it was always surrounding me. At every family holiday, at every celebration, marking every occasion. It was everywhere.

Up until now, I don’t think there was ever a milestone, an occasion, a holiday that wasn’t shared with a drink in hand. And I never questioned it. It’s just “what we did.” What everyone did. So that’s what I did.

To add to it, I became a mom as wine culture was at its peak (and I think probably still is). A bottle for baby, and a bottle for mommy.

The jokes and memes about drinking and motherhood were (and still are) everywhere.

Even now, I hear moms on social media or in my circle joke about needing a glass of wine after a long day with their kids, and I cringe. Not out of judgment of them. But out of my own judgment of me. 

That used to be me. 

I spent years in my motherhood journey, and my adult life in general, with a glass of wine in my hand. Thinking it would help me cope. Help ease the stress. Help me relax and not be so uptight with the kids. 

And yet, alcohol never made anything better. 

It numbed me for a few moments, sure. But in actuality, it only made me feel worse.

It heightened my anxiety.

It robbed me of quality sleep.

It made my body puffy and inflamed.

It made me irritable and short-tempered.

It affected my health, my relationships, and my mindset.

I was the worst version of myself when I drank. Always. It didn’t matter if it was one glass of wine or three spicy margaritas. It brought out the worst in me. 

But I had become so accustomed to this watered-down version of me, so surrounded by “social drinking” everywhere I looked, that I didn’t think alcohol was the problem. I thought my inability to “handle” it was the problem. Not the actual alcohol.

I was the problem. 

In the past, I had taken time off from drinking. A dry January here, a detox there. I had toyed with sobriety, but I never truly understood the depth of how alcohol was holding me back until I stopped for more than just a month or two.

For years, I had been hearing this voice inside me each time I drank. I knew it wasn’t serving me. I knew it wasn’t helping me. But I let myself off the hook every time. It’s just this one night; it’s Christmas; we’re on vacation; it’s my birthday. 

There was always an excuse, a way I could justify having “one more” drink. Maybe I’m overthinking it. It’s just a glass of wine. 

But deep down, in my core, I knew something was off.

Not because of a “problem” but because I wanted to experience ALL of life, and alcohol was holding me back. It didn’t align with what I said I valued. It didn’t match all the other things I was doing to stay present and mindful in my daily life, and the internal tension it was creating was eating me up.

At the time, I was waking up early every day to meditate. Drinking my lemon water and tea. Mindful of my food choices, of my thoughts, of my stories. I was living as mindfully and as consciously as I knew how. 

And then at night, something in me shut off, and it was as if a totally different Katy appeared.

I was on autopilot, and I didn’t even see it. I’d be making a healthy dinner for me and the kids with one hand, and pouring myself a glass of rosé in the other.

But one of those actions I had to justify to myself. It’s not “that bad.” It’s just a glass. I ate so clean/healthy all day; what’s the big deal?

As time went on, I could feel it becoming a big deal. My hangovers felt more intense, even just after a glass of wine. My morning meditations felt foggier. I had a harder time getting up when my alarm went off. I wasn’t the same person.

And I knew. This thing I was doing. This “one glass” here or there that I was justifying was robbing me of my life. Little by little. It was watering me down. 

It wasn’t adding anything. It wasn’t making me more productive. It wasn’t helping me reach my dreams. It wasn’t making me healthier. 

I wasn’t going to live longer as a mom because of it. I wasn’t going to sit down and write my book because of it. I wasn’t going to move my family across the country because of it. I wasn’t going to create the life of my dreams because of it. 

It was giving me nothing. 

And yet it was taking, little by little, each day.

And inside, the more I started to see it, the angrier and angrier I became. At myself. 

Justifying this “thing” I was doing all these years. This thing that I said wasn’t a “problem” for all these years. 

And yet, as I looked back, it was a problem. It was a very real problem. Maybe not the way society so conveniently labels alcoholics as having a problem. But it was very much a problem. 

It was getting in the way between me and every single thing I said I loved, valued, and wanted to do with my life.

It was the thing that was keeping me stuck, and I knew it. 

I finally got to a point where I had lived too many days frustrated and angry over this one thing that I just couldn’t shake that I was over it. All of it. I was over me. I was over the excuses. I was over the fear. I was over all of it. 

I wanted out. 

So on what I thought was going to be a normal night of the same justifications, something shifted.

It was New Year’s Eve 2020, while visiting my family back in Ohio for the holidays. Without any premeditated thought, I stood up from the table where everyone was sitting around and talking. I walked over to the kitchen sink and poured my glass of very warm, mediocre white wine down the drain. Without saying a word, I set it in the sink and went to bed. That was the last drink I’ve ever had. 

At the time, I wasn’t consciously “quitting” drinking. I didn’t know what it was that I was doing. I just knew sitting there, around the table that night, something felt off. It didn’t feel good. And I knew something had to change.

I didn’t have the courage to say that I was quitting alcohol for good. That felt too big. Too scary. Too much of a commitment. So in my mind, I framed it as just another dry January. But deep down, I hoped it would last longer. 

As January quickly passed, I kept going. January turned into February, and February turned into March, and March into April. On the months went. And that whole time, I still wasn’t sure.

I told myself I’d just take it one day at a time. No promises. No overthinking. No worrying about future situations or holidays. 

My only promise to myself was that I wouldn’t drink “today.”

And three and a half years later, I’m still not drinking, today.

I can say confidently now, three and a half years of “todays” later, that I’m also not drinking tomorrow, and most likely not for a very long time, if ever. But I don’t look at sobriety like that. It’s not something I have to fear, control, or plan for. It just simply is. 

It’s no longer about a decision, but instead a way of life. 

It’s what feels true to me, in my body, today. And most likely will continue to feel true in my body in the future. But I’ll keep checking in with myself. Keep being honest about what it is that I value, and ensure my daily actions match.

What I value today is feeling alive and awake in my body and mind, and sobriety helps me to feel that.

Yes, I think I could do this work with alcohol still a part of my life. I’m not saying you have to be sober to live mindfully or connect to your true self.

But what I am saying is that for me, alcohol got in the way of that. And it took me becoming sober to understand all the effects it had on me. I knew before I became sober that I would feel “better,” but I had no idea how much better it would actually get. 

There’s a clarity that comes with sobriety.

Not right away. It takes time. But it’s there and it’s profound. 

Sobriety has given me a deeper connection to myself than I ever had before. I sense my feelings faster, I pick up on nuances quicker. I’m more observant, more vibrant, less reactive, and more in tune with myself and the world around me.

I joke with JonPaul that it’s our superpower. And in honesty, it feels that way. 

Like any big change in your life, though, sobriety doesn’t happen easily. It’s work. 

My first year into sobriety was emotionally brutal. I lost a lot of friends that year. Emotions that had been stored deep down began surfacing, and there was no longer a vice to help numb the pain. There is nowhere to hide, from anything, in sobriety. 

The good or the bad is that you feel it all. Always. Every day. The sadness is deeper, the heartache heavier, the loneliness emptier. 

But equally, the joy is bigger. The beauty, more abundant. The connections, more authentic. 

If you’re curious about living a life without alcohol, I can’t tell you what to do. Only you know if that’s something that feels true for you.

But what I can tell you is that for years I debated taking this leap. There were signs all around me. I just wasn’t ready to face them. I was too scared. I spent so many years continuing the same habits and patterns because I was afraid of losing people in my life, I was afraid of making situations uncomfortable, and I think more than anything, deep down I was afraid I’d fail. That I couldn’t do it. 

I was afraid that somewhere below the surface, my drinking was more of a problem than I was ready to face. That I was addicted. And that I couldn’t quit. That I wouldn’t be strong enough. 

There is only one way to make it through in sobriety: facing all of your fears, head-on. There’s no way around them, and we all have them. You are forced to come face to face with yourself, hold yourself accountable, and be honest about who you truly are. And that, for any of us, is terrifying.

But what’s even more terrifying and uncomfortable is staying the same out of fear.

I heard someone say once that the person you need to be, to face the situation you’re most afraid of, is the person you’re becoming.

We have to trust, and have faith in ourselves, that we’ll become those very people we need to get us through whatever situation we’re most afraid of. Whatever that is for you. Whether it’s becoming sober, overcoming an eating disorder, or leaving a marriage. 

We must have faith that we are becoming those people, right now. That we won’t let ourselves down. That we will rise to the occasion. We have to believe in our own goodness and our own ability to save ourselves. 

No one else can do that for you, except you.

When you leap, the staircase appears. The woman you need to be will appear too.

If you’ve been considering taking this leap, I promise you, the stairs are there. But you have to take the first step. 

Not for every day. Not for the rest of your life. But simply for today.