This little light of mine.
Today, through what I can only figure was and continues to be grace, I celebrate another year of sobriety.
Four continuous years (and some time before that trying to figure out how to make it stick) of a life without booze. Or, as I’d rather think of it: one thousand, four hundred and sixty chances to start each day fresh. To find a new way of being. To recover.
What a year full of days it’s been. A new job, a bout of prenatal depression, a baby, a pandemic, a bout of postnatal anxiety, an autoimmune diagnosis, a new vocational journey… and those are just the biggies. There’s also been the steady trudge that we’ve all been through as we try to navigate this no-longer-totally-new-but-not-yet-totally-comfortable normal.
It’s easy to get lost in the quotidian and take my very existence for granted but today is the day that I pause long enough to contemplate the freaking miracle: I’m. still. here.
(I’m not convinced that would have been true if I had kept on the way I was going.)
I’m still here. And not only am I still here but I’m living a life that I never even dared to dream could be as big and beautiful as it is (even with the messy and uncomfortable parts).
Hallelujah.
***
My morning meditation opened with a question, “When was the last time you listened to the stories of others?” It’s a good one, isn’t it?
I said that grace was what saved me and I believe that to be entirely true. I also believe it to be entirely true that it was stories that saved and still save me. Listening to the stories of others and telling my own is powerful medicine for me. I suspect it is for a lot of people.
I’ve been a storyteller for as long as I can remember. Somewhere along the way I learned that there were some stories not to be shared — at least not outside the confidential bubble of a therapist’s office. Violence. Poverty. Depression. Anxiety… those are the things that the “good” stories aren’t supposed to mention unless they’re tied to a happily ever after. But Hustle. Success. Happiness? Now, THOSE are the things we’re supposed to talk about. Those are the things society tells us our stories should include. So I tried to make my own pretty and packaged and perfect. But by ignoring what I had learned to try to bury, I made myself sick. Soon my untold stories also included alcoholism and workaholism too.
It was at my sickest that I intuitively knew what would save me. I needed to hear from others who had managed to crawl up from where I sat. I needed hope and, more than that, I needed to hear what had worked for them and what might just work for me. I reached out to a family member and a friend who I knew to be in recovery. I started reading the anonymous blog of a woman who we now know to be Laura McKowen and I followed @Holly and others on Instagram. I found myself in church basements with people whose shares made me laugh and made me cry. And somewhere in all of those stories, I found exactly the medicine that I needed.
For a few years, I held my own recovery story close — shared only with dearest friends and family or in rooms with traditions of anonymity. Then slowly to a few more but only if I was reasonably certain that they already thought highly of me. Eventually I came to realize that I was holding onto my recovery story not because I wanted to protect it but because I was ashamed of the before and only wanted to let people see the after. I started to recognize that holding it too closely was putting my health and wholeness at risk. So I did something brave: I shared my story publicly. And it was again good medicine for me.
Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.
— Brene Brown
***
A lot has changed in the handful of years since I first started trying to get sober. More and more stories like mine are showing up in very mainstream places. New paths to sobriety are cropping up and the sober-curious movement is growing. There’s a new consciousness about alcohol and its effects, even on those who imbibe in much more reasonable quantities than I could muster towards the end. The stigma of not drinking or getting help to stop drinking seems to be fading little by little.
But even if all those things weren’t true, I think I’d still be telling my story because doing so makes me whole. And maybe, just maybe, my own story of darkness and despair turned into healing and hope might just be a light for somebody who needs it.
Amen.
If you are struggling with doing something that you don’t want to do anymore, know that you’re not alone. And if that thing is drinking too much or too often or when you really don’t want to but can’t seem to help it, I’m happy to share my experience and more about what worked and works for me. Please feel free to reach out and know that I’ll hold any correspondence in the highest confidence: ec {at} emilycornell.com
You might also want to check out:
Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink In A Culture Obsessed With Alcohol by Holly Whittaker
We Are The Luckiest: The Surprising Magic of a Sober Life by Laura McKowen
The Unruffled Podcast (on your favorite podcast player) hosted by Tammi Salas and Sondra Primeaux
