Eight Years Sober
One day at a time
Eight years ago today, I stopped drinking. January 26, 2018 was the day I entered a 40-day stint in rehab.
There was a lot of wreckage behind me. And a lot of uncertainty ahead. Looking back now, I feel grateful for where I’ve ended up.
Mid-October 2017, I got in my car after way too much to drink. I don’t remember going nearly 50 in a 25. I don’t remember the impact. I don’t remember what the four parked cars of crunched metal looked like. I don’t remember neighbors coming out to see what the loud noise was.
I do remember coming to in the hospital, handcuffed to the bed. Head pounding. Face scraped. Then, back to another night in county jail, sitting on a concrete bench. The smell of incarceration. The sorrow of regret.
This was my second DUI in seven years. I’d been flooring it to this moment for years. One drink at a time. One regret stacked on another.
I’m lucky I didn’t kill someone that night. I’m lucky I didn’t kill myself. In many ways, I was already trying to.
You’d think that brush with death would’ve scared me straight. It didn’t.
A few weeks later, there I was again—Tuesday morning, in a bathroom stall on the ground floor of the office building where I worked. I opened my backpack and pulled out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Screw top, of course. I downed it in a couple minutes. 9am was approaching. The warmth calmed the shakes. Made me feel like everything was going to be okay.
For a moment, I stared at the bottle, knowing how fucked up this was while denying how empty I felt inside. This was far from the first time. Same stall two days earlier. More bottles the week before.
I was fired not long after.
I spent the better part of my twenties trying to escape myself. Running from it all. From the breakup, From the DUI. From my own dark thoughts. I thought if I drank enough, if I moved back home, if I reinvented myself, I could outrun the wreckage.
I couldn’t.
I had to lose my car, my job, my girlfriend, and nearly my life, to realize I was capable of becoming someone I respected.
Nearly eight years ago, I left the treatment facility. Sobriety didn’t start for me because I was brave. It started because I ran out of exits. Jail, institution, or death—those were my options.
I chose sobriety. I had no other choice.
Not everyone gets this chance. Fewer still take it. I chose to face my suffering, to not become another statistic, and to make the most of it.
Sobriety taught me how to stop running from myself. Early recovery forced me to observe my thoughts and feelings for what they are, not letting them dictate my actions. Rehab allowed me the opportunity to look deep inside myself, realizing the damage I’d done to myself and others, while giving me the structure to start to rebuild from the ground up.
For the first time in years, I stopped fighting myself and I actually enjoyed who I was becoming.
The eight years since haven’t been perfect. I didn’t stay active in meetings, but I stayed sober. I did the work—meditated, journaled, reflected. I learned to forgive myself. I learned to stay the course when things got hard. To choose the long game over the quick fix.
My anxiety didn’t disappear. The self-doubt didn’t go away. What changed was how I responded.
One day at a time. Then eventually, it got easier.
Sobriety gave me a real life. A wife I love. A house we own. A son I adore. Work I’m proud of. Self-respect earned. Not a perfect life—but an honest one.
I’m grateful to my parents, who held the umbrella while I weathered the storm. To the counselors who helped me rebuild a foundation. To the friends I made along the way and the ones who were always there for me. To the people who took a chance on me when I finally told the truth.
And most of all, I’m grateful to still be here.
Eight years later, I wake up clear-headed. I show up as a husband and father. Flawed but present.
I’m still standing. Still building. Still choosing to make the most of the chance I was given.
One day at a time.
