Nine Weeks Sober
Nine weeks sober. This isn't a number I obsess over but rather a marker of the ongoing fight I face every day. This season of my life has proven to be anything but easy—it's messy, sacred, raw, and full of contradictions. Some days, I feel like I'm barely holding it together; other days, I catch glimpses of peace that assure me this path is worth every struggle. This is my journey, and Jesus meets me right in the middle of it—all the messy, clumsy, holy moments.
Since choosing sobriety, I’ve lost more than just alcohol; I’ve lost people. Friends who once surrounded me, who thrived on the chaos and drinking, have vanished now that I’m serious about my healing. Some were never truly friends—just drinking buddies, shadows that dissolved when the party ended. Others have cut deeper. One friendship in particular still stings.
They cried to me about wanting to change, about not wanting to be the person they had become. I offered them the one real thing I knew: to come to AA with me, to sit in the uncomfortable space where healing happens. But instead of understanding, they lashed out—mocking the program that’s saving my life, calling it a joke, and claiming that people there just want attention. Then, with infuriating certainty, they said, “You know I’m right.” That was the last straw.
They didn’t just hurt me; they hurt my family. They called my daughter by a nickname meant only for me—a private thing turned public. My daughter, now old enough to feel the weight of words, shrank under that misplaced familiarity. They made my daughter uncomfortable, catcalling her as if it were a joke, completely oblivious to the disgust on both our faces. Even their own child, standing there, seemed to feel the shame far more than any of us. Later, while I was inside, they snuck into my garage fridge and cracked open a four-year-old margarita behind my back, treating it like some reckless victory. I saw it but refused to give them the reaction they wanted. That night made it crystal clear—this friendship wasn’t healing; it was hurting me.
And that’s just one battle. Life presses down harder than ever. My youngest just turned sixteen. Sixteen. Sometimes, I find myself just staring at her, caught between awe and a gut-wrenching ache. The shame hits me hard—shame for the years I was too distracted, too disconnected, too engulfed by alcohol to be truly present. I spiral to thoughts of my older three kids—the moments I missed, the ways I failed them when they needed me most. The guilt is suffocating. I replay the mistakes, wondering how much damage my absence and numbness really caused. That pain is relentless and raw, a sharp reminder that time won’t wait for me to get my act together. It keeps moving forward, dragging me along, and I’m left trying to grasp hold of what’s left before more is lost.
Family has been another treacherous battlefield. Some of them don’t understand how fragile this season is for me. They crack jokes—trying to be lighthearted, but their words sting deeper than they know. I hold it all inside, but it chips away at me. Summer doesn’t bring relief either; it’s filled with parties where everyone expects me to show up with a cooler full of alcohol and be the life of the shenanigans. I can still be there, but sober—and that’s not the person they recognize. They’re disappointed, and I feel the weight of their expectations.
Even date nights aren’t easy. He still drinks, and I don’t expect him to quit. But we’re on different paths now, and that difference creates distance. I sometimes feel like I’m letting him down, like I’m not enough without a drink in my hand to lighten the mood. There was a time when we could kick back, share a few laughs, and enjoy each other’s company over drinks. Now, I sit across from him while he enjoys his beer, and I can’t help but feel like he might see me differently. It’s like the fun we used to have is gone, and I worry that he thinks I’m not as much fun anymore just because I’ve chosen a different road.
Yet, through it all, I know that Jesus is here. He’s not a distant observer; He’s a steady presence in the chaos. In those messy moments when I feel like giving up, I recognize His love and grace surrounding me, reminding me that I’m not alone. I wish more people, especially that friend I lost, could realize this truth and embrace Him as I have. If they could lean on Him, they might find the strength and comfort that I’ve discovered through my journey.
I’m grateful that I opened my heart to Jesus, allowing His presence to guide me through the challenges. Each day, I lean on my relationship with the Lord to navigate this difficult season, relying on His strength to carry me forward. I appreciate the resilience I’ve found within myself, and I think about others who have faced their own battles—people who stumbled but ultimately found their way back to hope. Their journeys show me that it’s okay to be imperfect and that growth often comes from confronting our flaws head-on.
As I work hard to prove to myself that I am ENOUGH and WORTH the battle, I realize this journey isn’t about perfection; it’s about progress. It’s about showing up, even when I’m broken, and choosing to keep going. I’ve learned that my worth isn’t tied to my past mistakes or the opinions of others; it’s rooted in the understanding that I am loved.
When I stumble, I remind myself that it’s perfectly fine to be human. There’s strength in vulnerability, and I’m beginning to see that my journey is about more than just overcoming addiction; it’s about rediscovering who I am. I wish my friend could see how opening one’s heart to Jesus can lead to embracing scars and sharing stories that inspire hope and understanding.
In moments of doubt, when I question whether I can keep going, I find reassurance in knowing I’m not alone. Jesus walks with me through every trial, and that thought eases my worries. I find strength in acknowledging my feelings—the pain, the joy, and the confusion that piggy back on the shoulders of healing. It’s in these honest moments that I connect with others, realizing we’re all navigating our own paths.
This journey is about more than just sobriety; it’s about rebuilding my identity and learning to embrace life’s ups and downs. With Jesus by my side, I’m becoming the person I was meant to be—strong, resilient, and grateful for every step of the way. I hope that others, especially those who are struggling, can find the same comfort and strength in Him that I have.
Madge
