I’ve been sober 6 months, and I feel fine! Up until then, the longest I’d gone without drinking was 31 days, white-knuckling and isolating, until joining the fun again. Strange how quickly I’d bounce back to my previous level of drinking. Making up for lost time, I suppose. Truthfully, I haven’t enjoyed alcohol in years, suffering from heartburn, brain fog, headaches, and worry that I might’ve said something hurtful or stupid. Or, worse, I’d forgotten something serious told to me in my inebriated state. But I continued imbibing for the same reasons many do—to fit in, or at the very least, to not stand out.

Solving both of these issues, I now quietly order near beer or club soda with lemon wedge served in a cocktail glass. And for hosting at home, I bought special goblets, so no one’s the wiser. The rest of the time, I stick with water.

My experience isn’t unique. Many of us have similar stories of partying hard in our twenties: acting like fools, becoming increasingly obnoxious, getting sick, and/or stumbling to bed. But for some, including me, it continues into our thirties, and forties, and so on. Life events, big or small, happy or tragic, became excuses to drink. And, I was convinced I didn’t have a problem by comparing myself to those who drank more than I, yet still functioned. Dumb, but effective.

Thinking back to my 18th birthday, legally drinking with friends at dive bars in Texas after a high school dance, I wish I could tell myself, “It’s all hype. You won’t miss anything if you choose not to drink.” Would I have listened? Doubtful. But I still wonder what I might’ve accomplished had alcohol not been so much a part of my adult life. I think my biggest fear was I’d be too boring or too bored if I didn’t have alcohol to ease my awkwardness. I’ve come to realize it caused me to be both.

But through all my angst, I’d ignored the bigger issue. Genetics! As I aged, alcohol troubled me in ways it had done my father. I became angry, belligerent, and came dangerously close to ruining a dear friendship by projecting my grievances, those I hated in myself, onto someone else. Repairing that relationship will take time, but I’m willing to do the work, because it means that much to me. But, something positive arose from the ashes. That terrible incident, six months ago, was the catalyst I needed to quit an abusive habit.

But, wait, there’s more! Giving up alcohol was only the beginning…

I’m walking again! 5-6 days weekly. 60+ minutes or 3+ miles per session, whichever is longer. Bonus: It’s a great way to catch up on movies and/or listen to new and/or favorite music. On rainy days, I’m on the treadmill. In dry weather, I walk the neighborhood.

I’m getting my daily dose of fruits and veggies—the easy way by blending them altogether. You’d think with my being vegan, this wouldn’t be an issue. But my go-to meals are usually filled with legumes and grains, because I don’t like the taste or consistency of cooked vegetables. And I rarely reach for fruit, as protein bars are my usual snack.

There are tons of recipes to choose from, but I keep mine as simple as possible: 2 cups cooled green tea, 2 kale stalks, 1 banana, 1 cup frozen berries, 2 tbsp. ground flaxseed, 2 tbsp. shredded coconut, 2 tbsp. pumpkin seeds, and 1 packet Liquid IV (orange). On occasion, I add half an avocado and/or 1 cup creamy oat milk. Yum!

After six months of sobriety, and one full week of veg/fruit juice and walking, I feel so much more alive! My mind is sharper. My body is stronger. My spirit is lighter. Plus, these habits will keep me healthier as I transition into my elder years. And, best of all, I’m no longer interested in or tempted by alcohol. Thank goodness!

When I moved to Seattle from Arlington, Texas in September 1989, I was ill prepared for the rapidly decreasing daylight, SAD inducing gray skies, and an entire month of rain in June. Spending most of my free time alone, I gained twenty pounds with a steady diet of top ramen, Minute rice, and wrapped cheese slices. Working 10 hour days and countless weekends hadn’t helped me find friends. Nor, it seemed, had my thick southern accent.

Taking pity on me and/or tired of the whining, my boss suggested I join his ski club to meet new people and become familiar with surrounding areas. I told him I was an abysmal skier and that my muscles had atrophied. He dismissed my excuses, assuring me the ski club offered various activities throughout the seasons, including movie nights, happy hour meet & greets, leisurely bike rides, and summer concerts at the zoo. Convinced and a wee bit excited, I signed up for an inexpensive carpool trip to Mt. Baker for spring skiing. And, while others careened downhill in freezing temperatures, I lounged in an overstuffed chair at the lodge and read by the fireplace. The slight difference from my normal routine was that I socialized at dinner.

On the Saturday night of the trip, a woman and I got to talking about dating. While sipping beer, I answered her rapid fire questions. What’s more important, humor or ambition? “Humor.” How do you feel about divorce? “Depends on the circumstances.” Age preference? “The closer to mine, the better.” Little did I know she already had a person in mind. On Monday night at the club’s annual elections, held at the now-defunct Rainier Brewery, she introduced me to John. I was immediately charmed by his genuine smile and easygoing personality. And, we were both Star Trek fans!

I remember the moment I fell in love with John. Mere months into our casual dating, the ski club hosted a boat cruise for an evening on Lake Washington. We both wanted to go, but complications arose when my company scheduled a last-minute work event. For logistical reasons, John and I talked about meeting at the dock, but the time would be tight, and the boat wouldn’t wait for me. Anticipating my anxiety, mostly due to directional challenges pre-GPS, John drove the exact route I’d need to follow and noted every single turn. Knowing him now, I believe he would’ve stayed behind if I hadn’t arrived in time.

Two years after we met, John and I moved in together. And in 1996, we spent most of our savings on the down payment for a pre-WWII, 1980s-updated, Cape Cod in Ballard. Whatever funds remained, and with a little ingenuity and tons of help from friends, we held our wedding on a lovely summer afternoon in our backyard. We couldn’t afford a honeymoon, and every time we paid the mortgage, we said, “Hooray! We can stay in the house another month!”

Fast forward to late 2020, and we were extremely grateful to still be living in this house, especially after a difficult year. And, we were pretty dang proud of ourselves for doing a great job of keeping the property maintained on a shoestring budget. But, on December 21st, a heavy rainstorm pummeled an already saturated earth, and groundwater flooded our fully-finished basement. Ours wasn’t the only flood in the area, nor was it the worst. Employees at professional water extraction companies were stretched thin, and we waited hours for help. It took 10 days for all the flooring to be removed and for the basement to completely dry.

After rerouting two downspouts, we thought our troubles were behind us, but on January 2nd, the basement tried to flood again. For 16 hours straight without food or sleep, John and I used two shop vacs to remove 900+ gallons (approx. 7500 pounds) of rain water. By morning, we held the water at bay on the north side wall in our TV room. On this go around, a beautiful storage bench, custom-built and installed by John’s brother, was destroyed. It had been protecting our skis and gear, but it also covered what we’re now calling a “babbling brook” in the broken cement. Once a temporary sump pump was in place, the floor dried. Cause of this near-flood? Another ineffectual downspout. But during closer inspection, we found multiple maintenance issues in and around our house—ones we’d been too complacent to notice.

As with anyone who’s been in a long term relationship, John and I have good days and bad. Often, we’re amazed at the luck that brought us together and led us to our ideal home. Other times, we’re on the brink of uncoupling and selling this money pit. Most times, we’re skating from one joy and challenge to the next as we go about our daily lives.

At our wedding, the promises John and I made to each other came naturally, because we’d already clocked five years. But what about our new partner? Our home? “For richer.” “For poorer.” “In sickness.” “In health.” By saying “I do” in our backyard, we essentially committed to the house as well. It’s taken good care of us over the years by keeping us safe and warm. Our time has come to reciprocate by making it healthy and whole again.

According to a Chinese proverb, “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.” This is our year of healing the past and preparing for the future as much as fate allows. We’re a powerful team, we three. Here’s to the next 25 years together, mes amis!