My kids asleep, I drank until blacking out. Her words lifted years of shame

My first sip of alcohol was magical.

It wasn’t magical because of the company I was with or any milestone or coming of age or any enjoyment that television commercials and marketing romanticize as a reward for drinking alcohol with friends.

Alcohol was magical because of the way it made me feel—from the first sip. It hit my tongue and went straight to my brain, igniting a sensation that all was well, calm, and right in my world. I felt OK.

As a high schooler and high-achieving perfectionist who rarely felt centered or satisfied, I felt content. It was enchanting.

The mystique faded as fast as it arrived, and I learned to detest alcohol—for the feelings that showed up after the first sip.

The hangovers, the memory loss of the previous nights, and the guilt and remorse that accompanied mornings after drinking stuck me in a shame spiral that my friends and loved ones did not seem to experience or understand.

Still, from age 14 to 37, I continued to drink alcohol socially throughout high school, college, graduate school, being a newlywed, and then as a new parent.

I was successful at school, relationships, career, marriage, and motherhood. I did not exhibit signs that screamed “problem drinker” to those around me. I didn’t drink during my pregnancies or while nursing.

I lived in my own conflicted head, scheming ways I could quit alcohol forever—then rationalizing why it was no big deal, to accomplish two things: Satisfy my first-sip hit and blend into social norms.

My body was addicted to a pattern of spiking dopamine, and my mind was addicted to the comfort of fitting in.

Placing unattainable standards on myself and then beating myself up for not reaching them came naturally. My pattern was to decide never, ever, ever to drink again; bump up against that first-sip craving; and then counsel myself to chill out, take the sip, don’t be a perfectionist.

You don’t have a problem with alcohol—otherwise, people would tell you so. You have a problem with oversensitivity, overthinking, and being too hard on yourself. People have told you so. You’re going to ostracize yourself. Relax. Be normal and take the sip

Thus, the cycle—of craving . . . sip . . . obsession for more sips . . . hangover . . . guilt . . . shame . . . remorse . . . never again—would continue swirling.

I believed that since I couldn’t sip a martini then leave it on the bar the way women did in the movies, I failed. So I gave being a classy drinker my all, never realizing that working tirelessly toward my goal contradicted my image of a failed drunk.

I didn’t see the driven achiever in all of it. I didn’t notice that in every other area of my life discipline and willpower were not issues.

I woke up at 5:00 every morning to run before the kids woke, kept a tidy home, was chief administrator of our family finances, and flossed after every meal.

Yet I chose to focus on the one thing I couldn’t control, then vilified myself for it. The narrative of my life before finding a sober solution became: “I am an undisciplined monster who lacks willpower.”

I asked my doctor about my drinking, he told me there was no problem. I asked a therapist about it and was told I had a tendency toward addiction but did not have an addiction, so just be careful. I asked my pastor about it and was directed to a Christian version of the 12-step program. I asked the Christian 12-step program leader about it and was told my main problem was being codependent.

All the trying on my own to figure out how to moderate alcohol exhausted and almost killed me. There were too many nights when I would put the littles to bed, and continue drinking while cleaning the kitchen, or on Dad’s night for story time.

Too many nights ended with me blacking out, vomiting, then passing out. All in the privacy of our family home where only my husband would witness. Not every night. But too many.

I knew how to not take a first sip while the kids were awake, when I knew I needed to drive, and while I was functioning in all areas of momming and life. I did not know how not to take a second sip once that first sip was swallowed.

That is what people like me struggle with—the obsession for more sips after the first one. I become a different person than I was before the first sip, and that person is not who I want to be.

I wanted fiercely to be a dignified drinker. I told myself that practicing in private would make me better and more tolerant in public (I am laughing as I type).

I worked at it—made spreadsheets for my drinks, used baking tools to measure my intake, and created endless rules for my consumption, such as only beer and wine, only after 5:00 p.m., only on weekends, and more.

I thought if I could measure my intake, I could control it. I knew no one else like me who could not control their craving for more once they had taken a sip, so I believed I was a weak failure.

I wallowed in this limiting belief from high school until age 37 when I finally found a solution to the chaos. On a September morning in 2007, I walked into my first support meeting and began my recovery.

I stumbled into the group as a last resort. The previous night I had drunk red wine while doing three kids’ back-to-school paperwork after they went to bed. It was one of those many nights that the drinking didn’t go the way I envisioned.

On top of the guilt over drinking until I blacked out, I had shame that what I falsely believed “should” be a basic mom-task was overwhelming enough to necessitate using wine to ease the pressure.

In my mind, I was the only mom on the planet who couldn’t cope with the pressure of basic mom-things.

That was the night that enough was enough.

We each reach the limit of our pain thresholds differently. There is no magic requirement for hitting bottom. Even though my limit looked different than I thought it was supposed to, I knew I’d hit it once I woke the next day.

The women I met in that morning’s meeting were the first people to understand the unrest I felt in my soul. They got me and my relationship with alcohol. They articulately explained what I’d been searching to know.

These fellow strangers had walked in my shoes—on the same path the people closest to me throughout my entire life had not traveled. I felt home.

In that room dense with the smell of burnt coffee and promise, a woman in the group approached me and spoke the words that sent decades of shame flying off my shoulders: “It is not your fault. You have a condition. It is like an allergy.”

What she said next made my freshly unburdened soul so light I felt like a snow-white apparition hovering above the meeting room’s card table and folding chairs. “You never have to have another drink again.”

For me, a drink meant trying to control. I was tired and out of any more control. This was an unimaginable exhale.

I was ready to hear that I “never have to have another drink again.” Some people enter recovery and hear: “I never get to have another drink again.” Neither is right or wrong.

You’re valuable and worthy exactly where you are at. You could show up to recovery out of exhaustion for trying to quit on your own, like I did. Or you could show up because of a court order or a loved one’s nudge out of fear for you.

Quitting your thing may still feel like a chore instead of a relief, and that is what it is. Either way, you are brave for showing up instead of checking out.

I did not need more tips on how to drink with elegance or science-backed reasons for not drinking. I needed to know there were others like me—well-meaning achievers who’ve given the drinking culture their all and still cannot normalize alcohol.

I needed to know there is nothing wrong, immoral, or weak about me because of this, and I am worthy even though I am unable to moderate alcohol consumption.

The woman’s words—It’s not your fault. You have a condition. It’s like an allergy. And you never have to have another drink again—shifted my belief from “I am a monster because I am addicted” to “I am deserving of recovery, sobriety, and community because I am addicted.”

The clients I work with are high achievers. Some are recovering perfectionists. I help people navigate performance pressure and overcome self-sabotage. One of my coaching frameworks walks clients through the stories (what we can control) they attach to their circumstances (what we cannot control).

We must be vigilant about the stories we attach to the facts in our lives because they will become our beliefs. The narrative I attached to my truth shifted my belief about my self-worth and began my recovery.

As I learned how to embrace sobriety from people already embracing it with gusto, the confusing wave I’d been riding started to calm. With grit, persistence, and community, the fight to tread water became easier. The wave of addiction broke and carried me to shore.

I was finally free from the distraction of drinking, moderating, or not drinking alcohol.

I was exhausted from fighting to control something that clearly controlled me. I am one of the lucky ones. I found a solution before my kids experienced me drunk and before my private mental chaos became a public humiliation for me and my family.

My oldest child was eight when I got sober. I got to raise my kids as a sober mom. I see the trend of joking about “mommy juice” and frivolous comments about drinking to survive motherhood.

My love of motherhood is why I survived drinking, not the other way around.

For me, the shore of a sober life cannot be measured against what drinking provided me. Drinking only ever gave me something to do in a moment. Sobriety gives me a lifetime of experiences and memories.

In sobriety I write, I run, I belly laugh, I weep, I have extra time in my day, I love well, I grieve well, I remember things richly, and I experience feelings, sounds, smells, and sights in ways I never did during a drinking season because all my sensory receptors and brain cells were consumed with drinking thinking.

When we remove the obsession for alcohol or any stronghold that ensnares us, life lights us up with everything else! Every smile, heartache, hug, celebration— even back-to-school paperwork pressure—can be felt intensely in sobriety, and it’s all good.

The feelings—all of them—are what being alive and living all in is all about.

Some of us recover loudly—in hopes of preventing others from dying quietly. I wish I could choose sobriety for others. Since I cannot, I choose to share my story in case it resonates with someone who needs to hear it.

We are all experts at serving the person we once were. While I’m not an addiction expert, I am an expert at my own discovery, uncovery, and recovery story. This was part of that story—but there’s more to the story.

For the rest, grab a copy of my book Grace Yourself: How to Show Up for the Sober Life You Want. I’ll revisit you there.

Chris Janssen, MA, BCC, is the author of Grace Yourself: How to Show Up for the Sober Life You Want and a leading results coach in performance and mindset.

All views expressed are the author’s own.

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