Some Recent Emails

Dear Former Self,

Ah, where to begin? It feels like addressing a distant friend, one who’s both intimately known and weirdly estranged. These first 30 days without the siren call of alcohol, they’ve been an odyssey, haven’t they? A journey through turbulent seas, where each wave of craving threatened to capsize our resolve. But here we are, standing—a bit wobbly, perhaps, but standing nonetheless.

Do you remember day one? The fear that gnawed at our insides, whispering that we couldn’t survive without our liquid crutch.

That first night was a battle, where every tick of the clock was a reminder of what we were denying ourselves. But we made it, didn’t we? With shaky hands and a heart drumming a frantic rhythm, we watched the dawn break, not with a bottle in hand, but with a cup of tea that never tasted so bitter and yet so sweet.

In the initial days, it felt like walking through a fog, where every step forward was a question mark. The world seemed too loud, too bright, too real. The numbness we’d cocooned ourselves in was gone, leaving us exposed and raw. Remember how the simple act of passing the liquor aisle in the supermarket felt like an epic feat? The bottles gleamed like forbidden treasures, promising solace and oblivion. But we walked past, heart pounding in our ears, clinging to the trolley like a lifeline.

It’s funny, in a not-so-humorous way, how the small things became mountains. The clink of glasses in a nearby café, the waft of alcohol on someone’s breath – these were our dragons to slay. And slay them we did, not with swords and shields, but with deep breaths and clenched fists.

Weeks two and three, they were a blur of emotions. We oscillated between anger and sadness, hope and despair. It was as if all the feelings we’d drowned were resurfacing, gasping for air. I remember the night we sat on the kitchen floor, surrounded by photos of days gone by, tears streaming down our face. Not tears of regret, but of awakening, a poignant mix of loss and liberation.

And let’s not forget the small victories – oh, how monumental they seemed! The first social gathering we attended, sober as a judge, the nervous laughter that bubbled from our lips, more exhilarating than any drunken chuckle. Or the morning we woke up without a hangover, the clarity of thought, the absence of guilt – it was like seeing the world in high definition for the first time.

Now, as we stand at the threshold of a month, I want to say I’m proud of us. Proud of the resilience we’ve mustered, the demons we’ve faced. The road ahead is long, and I won’t lie—it’s daunting. But we’ve taken the first steps, and that’s something, isn’t it?

So, here’s to us, to this journey of rediscovery, to the battles won and those yet to come. We’re stronger than we ever gave ourselves credit for. And remember, in the moments of doubt, in the times when the cravings claw at our resolve, we’ve got this. We really do.

With love and newfound hope,

Lucy

Lucy Hook (Washington, D.C.)

I used to joke that I could see clearer through the bottom of a bottle. Truth is, I was adrift in an ocean of booze, watching my life wash away with each wave of intoxication.

Family dinners became minefields of tension. Friendships withered on the vine. Every morning brought a fresh hell of regret and a desperate reach for the hair of the dog.

Then came the hangover that broke the camel’s back.

I woke up on a Wednesday, my mouth tasting like I’d licked the floor of a dive bar. The sunlight stabbed at my eyes, and as I fumbled for my phone, I saw a barrage of missed calls and angry texts. Another blackout. Another night of God-knows-what.

Something snapped.

Maybe it was the realization that I had forgotten my niece’s birthday party. Maybe it was the voicemail from my brother, raw with disappointment. Whatever it was, I knew I was done drowning.

The first few weeks of sobriety felt like learning to walk again. Every craving was a battle, every social event a minefield. But as the fog lifted, I started to see the world in technicolor again.

I picked up the phone, fingers trembling, and dialed a number I’d avoided for years. My best friend from college answered, her voice a mix of shock and cautious hope. We talked for hours, tears and laughter flowing freely. It was the first real conversation I’d had in years, and it felt like coming home.

Emboldened, I reached out to others. My sister. My old mentor. Even the neighbor whose flowerbed I’d drunkenly destroyed (twice). Each connection felt like a victory, a treasure more valuable than any bottle.

Six months in, I faced my Everest: calling my brother. The same brother who’d seen me at my worst, who’d cleaned up my messes, who’d finally walked away when it became too much. I expected anger, maybe even the click of a phone being hung up. Instead, I got silence, then a choked, “I’ve missed you, sis.”

We talked until dawn broke, unraveling years of pain and misunderstanding. By the time we hung up, something fundamental had shifted. The rift between us hadn’t magically vanished, but there was a bridge now, fragile but real.

Today, my life is richer than I ever imagined possible. Sobriety isn’t just about not drinking; it’s about building a life so full that alcohol becomes irrelevant. Every milestone—be it a month, a year, or just making it through a tough day—is celebrated not with a toast, but with genuine human connection.

I’ve learned that the world isn’t clearer through a bottle. It’s clearer through the eyes of those who love you, who’ve seen you at your worst and still believe in your best. And that clarity? It’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever experienced.

Angela Moore (Sunshine Coast, Australia)

My journey to sobriety took me on unexpected paths, and one of the most surprising changes was in my finances. As I committed to a life without alcohol, I discovered that clarity and focus were not just words but tools that helped me take charge of my financial future. One of the first victories was seeing my credit score improve—a small number on paper but a huge boost to my self-confidence.

Quitting alcohol wasn’t just about sobriety; it was about rebuilding my life from scratch. The sober social circle I found became my lifeline. They cheered me on as I made strides toward financial stability, offering support and practical advice that kept me on track.

One of my proudest moments came when I secured a car loan. It was something I never thought possible during my drinking days, where money slipped through my fingers like sand. Getting that loan wasn’t just about buying a car; it was proof that I could set a goal, work toward it diligently, and achieve it—step by step, day by day.

Each financial milestone mirrored my personal growth in sobriety. The discipline I learned from staying sober translated into managing my money responsibly. Budgeting became a way to plan for the future rather than just reacting to the present. It gave me a sense of control over my life that I hadn’t felt in years.

Financial independence brought more than just stability. It brought a sense of freedom—the freedom to make choices based on what I wanted for my future, not what my addiction dictated. I started exploring new opportunities, considering career moves and educational pursuits that I had long put off.

The journey wasn’t easy. There were setbacks and challenges along the way, but each obstacle became a chance to prove to myself that I was capable of overcoming anything. With the support of my sober friends and the determination I found within myself, I pushed forward.

Today, when I look at my improved credit score or drive my car that I worked hard to finance, I feel a deep sense of accomplishment. These tangible symbols remind me of how far I’ve come and the strength I’ve discovered within myself through sobriety.

Sobriety is about reclaiming your life, rebuilding what’s been broken, and discovering a resilience you never knew you had.

In conclusion, my journey to financial stability through sobriety has been a testament to the power of perseverance and the support of others. It’s a journey I continue every day, with new goals and aspirations on the horizon, fueled by the clarity and purpose that sobriety has given me.

Rowyn Dudley (Henderson, USA)

There was a time in my life when alcohol was my constant companion, and my escape. It was also my prison. To quit, I read the book, “This Naked Mind” by Annie Grace. I never imagined a book could offer the key to my shackles.

The author talks about many things that pierce the fog of alcohol dependency, but what struck me most was her insight into the unconscious mind and how it influences our drinking habits. She explains how our subconscious beliefs about alcohol, shaped by society, advertising, and personal experiences, keep us trapped in a cycle of drinking, even when we consciously (and desperately) want to escape.

This realization hit me like a bolt of clarity. My entire life, I had been bombarded with messages suggesting that drinking was glamorous, a rite of passage to adulthood, a way to relax, and a social necessity. These messages had seeped deep into my psyche, dictating my actions without me even realizing it.

Armed with this new understanding, I began the hard work of reprogramming my subconscious. Every time I craved a drink, I paused to dissect the craving. Was it truly a desire for alcohol, or was it a response to stress, loneliness, or boredom?

Slowly, I started to unravel the web of lies I had been told, and had told myself about alcohol.

The journey wasn’t smooth. There were days when the old beliefs fought back, tempting me with the false promise of just one drink. But I held on to Annie’s words, using them as a mantra to guide me through the cravings. I also started journaling, (a practice she advocates for) to confront and rewrite the subconscious beliefs that had kept me in bondage for so long.

As the days of sobriety stacked up, I began to notice changes.

I was sleeping better, my skin cleared up, and the fog that had clouded my mind for years started to lift. But the biggest change was in my relationships. Freed from the haze of alcohol, I could see how my drinking had erected walls between me and my loved ones. Sobriety allowed me to start dismantling those walls, brick by brick.

One vivid memory stands out from my early days of sobriety. I was at a family gathering, the kind of event where I would usually be clutching a drink to navigate through the social anxiety. But there I was, sober, feeling every emotion without the numbness of alcohol. It was terrifying and exhilarating. For the first time in years, I was fully present, connecting with my family on a level I thought I had lost forever.

“This Naked Mind” was more than just a book for me; it was a lifeline. It showed me that sobriety wasn’t about deprivation but about liberation. By understanding the role of the unconscious mind in addiction, I found the strength to break free from the chains of alcohol.

Just know that change is possible. It begins with understanding not just the physiological impact of alcohol, but the psychological grip it has on us. “This Naked Mind” offers a path to freedom, one where sobriety isn’t a sacrifice but a gift we give ourselves.

Anonymous

The diagnosis was like a cold hand gripping my heart—end-stage liver cancer, a direct consequence of my relentless pursuit of oblivion through alcohol. The doctor’s words echoed in a hollow chamber of disbelief and regret. “You have only months left,” he said, his voice a detached note in the symphony of my impending demise.

My journey to this precipice was paved with the clinking of glasses, the amber glow of liquid deceit filling my glass night after night. I chased the high, the escape, the numbing of pain that life doled out in spades. But with each swallow, I was etching my fate, crafting my end with the precision of a master artisan.

The rock bottom wasn’t a singular moment; it was a series of tumbling descents, each more desperate than the last. I alienated those I loved, squandered my health, and danced with death as if it were a partner leading me in a waltz of destruction. Yet, even as my body protested, with jaundiced eyes and a swollen abdomen, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—halt my descent.

Now, confined within the sterile walls of a hospital room, I’m haunted by the ‘what ifs’. What if I had heeded the warnings? What if I had seen the terror in my loved ones’ eyes not as judgment, but as care? The ‘what ifs’ are a torment, a chorus of voices singing songs of a life that could have been.

To those who find themselves on the precipice of where I once stood, teetering on the edge of decision, I offer this: It is not yet too late for you. My story is a beacon, a lighthouse warning of the rocks that will dash your life against the shore of mortality. The grip of alcohol is unyielding, but so is the power of choice. Choose life, choose to fight, choose to turn back from the path I tread.

My legacy will not be one of triumph, but if my tale can steer even one soul from the maelstrom that claimed me, then perhaps, in the ledger of life, there will be a line of redemption.

Remember, there’s always a last call, a moment when the night ends. Don’t let that last call be your life’s final chapter. Turn the page, seek help, embrace the morning light of recovery. For you, unlike me, it is not too late.

Declan Rhodes (Cork, Ireland)