265 Days Sober. Royal Rumble - I’m Still in the Ring.

I’m 265 days sober today, and I don’t feel proud in the way people expect. I feel exposed. Sobriety didn’t arrive gently or wrap things up neatly—it stripped off my armor and told me to keep showing up anyway. Everything hits harder now. The noise, the silence, the feelings I used to drown instead of deal with. There’s no buffer anymore. I feel all of it, whether I’m ready or not.

Sobriety doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens while the person I love—my husband, my person—still drinks. Not destructively. Not to hurt me. Just comfortably. A beer cracked open after work. A routine that used to be ours. And I’m left standing in the middle of that reality, managing jealousy, grief, frustration, and craving all at once, trying to stay sober in real time inside my own home. That tension lives in my chest more often than I’d like to admit.

It also follows me out into the world. I’ve had people I call friends stand inches from me, reeking of beer, eyes glassy, breath heavy with alcohol, and ask me why. Why am I sober. What happened. What’s the real reason. Like my pain is a riddle they’re entitled to solve. Like my sobriety exists for their curiosity. And in those moments, my skin crawls—not because of the question itself, but because of the entitlement behind it.

They don’t ask with care. They ask because they’re uncomfortable. Because my sobriety puts a mirror in front of them they didn’t ask for. Suddenly I’m the awkward one. The buzzkill. The problem in the room. I’ve had people compare their sobriety to mine. Their break. Their pause. Their “I stopped for a bit and was fine.” Like we’re swapping tips. Like this is a competition. Like if they handled it one way, I should be able to handle it the same. And it’s not just friends—it’s family too.

I need to be clear about this: NO. This isn’t a shared challenge with shared rules. This isn’t willpower versus discipline. This is my wiring. My history. My trauma. My mental health. Years of coping mechanisms that finally stopped working and a nervous system that said enough. This is my luggage—every piece of it—heavy, overpacked, and earned the hard way. When someone tries to measure their sobriety against mine, they’re not listening. They’re minimizing. They’re trying to make my story fit inside something more comfortable for them. I won’t let that happen anymore. This isn’t a contest. It’s survival. And it’s mine.

This is where my faith actually lives. Not in defending myself. Not in over-explaining. But in holding my ground. Following Jesus doesn’t look like escape for me—it looks like staying present when everything in me wants to disappear. It looks like choosing clarity over numbness, even when clarity hurts.

It isn’t lost on me that day 265 lands on this year’s Royal Rumble, the kickoff to the long road toward WrestleMania. The Royal Rumble runs on a number draw, but the order itself is kept close to the chest. Surprise is the point. You don’t know what you’re walking into—only that once it’s your turn, you’re in it. That’s what sobriety feels like for me. No countdown. No calm entry point. Just stepping in while emotions are already flying, relationships are strained, and wounds are still open, choosing again and again to stay.

Elimination in the Rumble is unforgiving. One wrong moment, both feet hit the floor, and you’re out. That’s what triggers feel like in real time. There are days I walk through my front door already on the ropes—not because I want to drink, but because I want the feelings to stop. Miller Lite used to mean I could exhale. Patron used to mean I could disappear. Now I’m sober, and everything stays. Every trigger. Every emotion. Every unresolved thing sobriety drags into the light.

There are nights I sit parked in front of a liquor store, bargaining with myself, wishing I wasn’t this aware. Sobriety doesn’t just take alcohol—it takes my ability to escape myself. And Patron still whispers, promising quiet, promising numbness. Sobriety means I hear that voice clearly now. Sobriety means I have to say no, even when I feel unsupported, even when I feel painfully alone.

This isn’t something I survived. This is something I’m still in.

Wrestling reminds me why I keep choosing this. I think about CM Punk, straight edge as a boundary, not a brand—a refusal drawn for survival. I understand that now. And I think about AJ Lee, unapologetic about living with bipolar disorder, anxiety, and depression, naming what her mind does to her and staying anyway. I see pieces of myself in both of them. What I don’t always have is the kind of support they give each other.

Empathy, in practice, looks like staying present when someone is unraveling—not numbing yourself while they fight to stay standing.

In the Royal Rumble, no one wins early. The winner isn’t crowned because they dominate every second. They’re crowned because they stay. They take hits. They survive close calls. They don’t let both feet touch the floor.

That’s sobriety. That’s faith. That’s the work.

Two hundred and sixty-five days sober doesn’t mean I’ve won. It means I’m still in the match. Still hanging on. Still here.

And today, with all the feelings, that’s enough.

-M.J.