One. Year. Sober.

I drank my last drink September 15th of last year, after a nine-month bender that saw me through family trauma, sexual assault and the unraveling of the post-divorce life I was building.

Inside that deep terror, I drank Sauvignon Blanc deep in the couch cushions of my favorite friend’s home, whose smells and softness were familiar and safe. I drank tequila in bars and at parties where my friends twinkled. I spewed vomit in parking lots and driveways and on nightstands and bathroom floors. I went to lunches that turned into happy hours that grew long and dark. I cried on barstools, and watched my familiar life grow smaller in the distance until its taillights blinked and it was gone.

Only wine could quiet that girl who needed to be wrapped up in that glow of friendship, to be taken in, to be understood and to have someone stand up to say, “You are not alone.” Liquor could shut her up, but never for long.

A year ago, I had to stand up for me. I had to find my voice. I had to say, “Even if I am alone, I won’t be afraid to take up space.” Even if no apology is ever given, I’m still worthy of one. No – I tried but I couldn’t hate myself back to life. I had to love my own self sober. In defiance.

I remember September 15th in stark clarity. I was desperate, consumed with self-hating thoughts, full of angst, self-pity and so much shame. Do you know what it feels like to want to peel your own body off like a too-tight jumpsuit? To want to escape your own flesh and a mind that liked to replay violence and cruelty on a never-ending loop? To feel a finality that tells you it will never feel different, that you will never be safe, that you will never be heard or cared for or loved?

On the night of the 15^th, I lay in my bed, wine-buzzed, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. I thought, “I need to publish something,” just to see my name in a by-line and feed off the buzz that came with it. “I need an award,” I thought, believing that if I invited some outside forces of validation, they might penetrate and quiet the anguish I couldn’t escape.

In a moment I only now recognize as a miracle, a foreign thought entered instead.  It said, “You need to stop drinking.” I sat up straight. You know that feeling you get when you know something is true? My heart was beating fast in my chest. I knew it was true.

It was midnight. I sent a message to the only person I knew who’d stopped drinking. Riding that miracle, he immediately responded and spoke to me deep into the night, giving me the first glimpse of hope and light that I could remember. I understood two things that night: this was going to be a grueling, uncomfortable journey and that I hadn’t lost control of my drinking because of sexual assault or betrayal or loss, but simply because I was an alcoholic.

And a strange thing happened. I took unsteady, nervous steps, hands wringing, nervous ticks cropping up new, with a sudden insatiable appetite for bakery products and found I was being held up on all sides by a small group of real, quiet supporters. I concentrated on me, on doing good, on learning to pray and trying humility on for size.  I repeated a simple credo: Only good people get access to me. Just love. Only love. This has been the key to unlock everything that makes my life beautiful and steady today. My circle is small, but it is solid and true. My values have come into focus. The shame that used to consume me is steadily being replaced with self-respect.

The life that left me made way for this one.

Now imagine what next year could bring.