When Ninety Days Feels Like a Knife Fight: Sobriety. Jesus. And a whole lot of emotional whiplash.
Ninety days sober!
Three months of saying “no” to the thing that used to own me, and “yes” to Jesus—sometimes with tears running down my face, sometimes with my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Everyone says milestones are supposed to feel like standing on top of a mountain. But right now? It feels more like standing on the battlefield after the fight—alive, yes, but bruised, bloody, and still catching my breath.
This past Sunday, I missed church for the first time since I found my church home. Not because I was lazy, not because I “just didn’t feel like it.” I woke up with a migraine so vicious it felt like my skull was splitting in two. I wanted to fight through it, I wanted to worship anyway—but my body said no. So I stayed in bed. And I cried. I cried because not being in that sanctuary with my people—my family in Christ—felt like a loss. Like the enemy stole a piece of my week. Between the constant emotional battles, the triggers that sneak up on me, the fear of what’s ahead—and now these headaches that slam into me out of nowhere, leaving me feeling like a prisoner in my own body—it’s no wonder I’m running on fumes.
And then there’s the landmine I didn’t see coming. My favorite pastime—concerts—has turned into my biggest trigger. The lights, the crowd, the bass pounding in my chest… it used to make me feel alive. Now it feels like a war zone. Memories of cold drinks in my hand, the smell of alcohol everywhere, the “just one won’t hurt” whispers sneaking in like snakes. I walk in thinking I’m safe, and five minutes later I’m wrestling thoughts that want to drag me back to hell.
Now I’m staring down another test: the Erie County Fair. Sounds innocent enough, right? Fried dough, rides, games. But for me, it’s also beer tents planted in the middle of it all—bright, loud, and buzzing with the smell of temptation. Sure, you can’t leave the tents with a drink in your hand, but that doesn’t make it easier. Just seeing people lined up, laughing with their plastic cups, smelling it in the air—it hits me like a wave. I want to go. I want to laugh, eat too much sugar, and not let alcohol steal another thing from my life. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Part of me is already rehearsing my escape routes. And I hate that fear still thinks it has a say in my life.
I try to tell my husband how all this feels, but the words get tangled. How do you explain that something you once loved now feels like standing under a flashing neon DANGER sign? How do you make someone see it’s not about being weak, or overdramatic, or “just getting over it”? I want him to understand, but sometimes I catch that look in his eyes—the one that says I’m different now. And maybe I am. But different doesn’t mean broken.
The truth? I am different. Jesus is rewriting me, one page at a time. And it’s messy. Some days I’m on fire for Him. Some days I’m clinging to Him by my fingernails. But He hasn’t let go. Ninety days in, I’ve learned this: the enemy is still loud, but my God is louder. Every “no” I speak to alcohol is a “yes” to the life He’s calling me to live.
Maybe the fair, or the next concert, will be the one where I finally don’t flinch walking through the noise, the smell, and the flashing lights. But the truth is—I’m not there yet. I don’t feel relief. Not yet. Some days, it still feels like I’m barely holding on, like every step forward is through quicksand.
But here’s what I do know: I’m not walking this fight alone. Jesus is my crutch when my legs want to give out. His strength is the only reason I’ve made it this far, and His hope is the only thing that keeps me showing up for the next day.
So no, I don’t have all the answers or the peace I’m craving yet. But I have Him. And that’s enough to keep me fighting—for ninety-one days, for one more day, and then the next. Because He’s not done with me yet.
