I will always remember the last time I woke up with a hangover. It was an April Sunday. As I blinked my eyes open, trying to make sense of my surroundings, I realized I was in my own bed, yet I couldn’t recall how I got there. I had decided to watch a movie the night before, but everything else was a blur. Clearly, I had finished the wine and crawled into bed, but the specifics were lost to me. My mouth felt parched, my throat was scratchy, my heart raced, and my head throbbed. I promised myself, “No more!”—a vow I had made countless times before.
That Sunday passed, and surprisingly, I upheld my commitment. The hangover was so severe that it was easy to keep away from alcohol. All I craved was water and rest, but reality doesn’t pause for those suffering from a hangover. My daughter and I had tickets to a play, and her hopeful eyes urged me not to disappoint her. So, I begrudgingly pulled myself out of the house and into the glaring sunlight.
Ah, the sun—the sworn enemy of anyone grappling with addiction. In the darkness, we can hide our flaws and missteps, but the brightness of day exposes everything. It’s as if the universe, with all its radiance and charm, reminds us that we don’t belong in its light. Sunlight became my kryptonite.
I managed to evade alcohol that day, but by the next, the memories of my hangover began to fade, and I found myself pouring another glass of wine. After all, I deserved it. My uncle had just passed away, and I had spent the day at his funeral. Upon returning home, I turned on the TV and was met with the grim news of a bombing at the Boston Marathon. The images were disturbing and heartbreaking. I was engulfed in sadness and desperately in need of a numbing agent. Just as I poured my second glass, I heard it—a voice. Was it God? My conscience? Or maybe I was losing my mind? Regardless of its origin, the message was clear: “This isn’t helping. This won’t bring your uncle back. This won’t erase the pain in Boston. It’s making you disappear. Come back.”
For a brief moment, clarity pierced through the fog, and I recognized what I was becoming. I was a successful professional, a devoted mother to two wonderful children, a loving wife, sister, daughter, and friend. Yet, all of that was slipping away. Initially, I had used alcohol to unwind or to celebrate, but now I drank without reason. I simply wanted to escape feeling anything at all. I maintained a semblance of normalcy during the day, but when night fell, I found no way to quiet my chaotic mind. Alcohol was my off-switch.
However, the issue with turning oneself off is that you miss out on life. When you refuse to experience both joy and sorrow, you lose the essence of truly living. I felt like a ghost, present in body but absent in spirit. I was running tirelessly, with no finish line in sight. Despite my hard work and love for my family, I felt like I was drowning.
Loneliness engulfed me, as if I were bearing a heavy burden all on my own. Shame and fear gripped me. How did it get this far? What would others think if they knew? What would the other moms say? Or my boss? Or my family? I understood I couldn’t continue on this path, but I was at a loss for how to stop. I had no coping mechanisms that didn’t involve wine. Wine was my means of celebration, my outlet for tears, my relaxation tool. But I realized it had to end, or things would only worsen. For me, there was no upward trajectory as long as I kept drinking.
The day I decided to quit drinking, I had never felt more isolated. It felt like I was the only woman in the world who had failed at life. Little did I know then what I know now—the antidote to addiction is connection. The only reason I found the help I desperately needed was that other women shared their stories, and I listened. There’s immense power in revealing that this struggle can touch anyone, regardless of their age, gender, socioeconomic status, education, or race. It does not discriminate. Yet, recovery is achievable. It truly is. And it offers a remarkable way to live.
In the years since, my life has transformed in remarkable ways. Rewiring my brain and learning new coping strategies wasn’t easy; it was the most challenging endeavor of my life. But as I persisted, my journey has become increasingly rewarding. Today, I am thriving. My depression has lifted, I’ve shed 30 pounds, and I’ve launched my own business, turning my passion into my career. My body feels healthier than it ever has. I’m a more joyful mother, wife, and friend. Life is extraordinarily better.
On my worst days of recovery, I still feel infinitely better than I ever did while drinking. I once feared that putting down the wine glass would signal the end of my enjoyment and that others would think I was dull or strange. Yet, it was when I discarded that last bottle that my true life began. Now, I can be the mother and woman I always aspired to be. I may not be perfect or even close, but I’m doing my utmost. Some days still pose challenges, but I understand that every time I confront my life directly rather than dulling it with a bottle, the journey becomes more beautiful. It may not be simple, but it is always worth it.
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In summary, my last hangover marked the beginning of my recovery journey, leading to a life filled with connection, joy, and purpose.