In grade 7, my best friend for my whole life up to that point started drinking to fit in with some new friends we’d met at our new school. It happened at one of these new girls’ birthday parties—we were 12, and she had an older sister—I think between 14 and 16. A bottle of vodka began getting passed around with an orange juice chaser. I didn’t want any part of it, so I removed myself and went to another room alone.

It was the first time I remember choosing myself over belonging.

Coming home the next morning from the sleepover, I was extremely conflicted. I felt the weight of it and wanted to tell someone but I didn’t want to rat out my friends. After about a week, I ended up tearfully coming clean to my mom about it all. Eventually, those new “friends” cut me out. With that, I lost a 12-year friendship and all the friends I had at school.

I chose myself, and it cost me.

From that point on, my high school story didn’t include alcohol. Luckily, I had my friends from dance who helped bridge the gap while I found new friends at school. I fell in with a new group of friends, and they didn’t care much that I didn’t drink—it was no longer a prerequisite to friendship.

My 18th birthday was the first time I’d ever been drunk. After years of being on the outside looking in, drinking became a part of my life.

Somewhere along the way, fitting in started to matter more than choosing myself.

After high school, I started hanging out with a group of people I knew from work. I was working hard to be “the cool girl” who could keep up with the guys. I was known as “the loud drunk girl”—a label I wore proudly at the time. I felt included—fitting in with the older friends I looked up to.

I wasn’t choosing myself anymore. I was choosing approval.

My first relationship sprouted from this group and these alcohol fuelled nights and lasted through my early 20s.

I spent those years babysitting a heavy drinker, only properly joining in when I wasn’t trying to figure out how to get us home safely after a night out.

That time was also spent reinforcing the choice of belonging. Continually choosing someone else who was never choosing me.

The breakup came. I held onto my childhood and college friends. I slowly let the work friends and my first relationship go, and with that, the try-hard “cool girl” bullshit. This was the first step in choosing myself again.

You would have thought my past relationship would turn me off alcohol, but after it ended, I saw it as my opportunity to have the fun. I was very much a social drinker at this time, and it stayed that way for a good while—which I think was working okay.

Fast forward to the pandemic, where I think most of us were regularly finding the bottom of the bottle. And then, after we were out, it didn’t really quit for me. I wasn’t yet living with my partner, so I was at home on my own most weeknights, and boredom always won.

It became my way of entertaining myself. I liked the way it made me feel in the moment. Then I’d wake up hungover, go to work grumpy, and some days, back-to-back, I’d cycle and do it again.

For the most part, it was only about two times a week I was doing this to my body. I was definitely not an everyday drinker, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t a problem drinker—because I was. I know if I started up again tomorrow, I would fall right back into the trap.

Eventually, the cycle became something that was impossible to ignore. I was being difficult at work. I was picking fights with people I cared about. I wasn’t showing up for friends and family the way I wanted to. I was trapped in a loop and I couldn’t get out.

I told a friend of mine—who at the time was 15 years sober herself (more now as I write this)—that I was drowning, and she used her knowledge and experience to help me. I will always be grateful for that tea-filled, tearful chat. From that conversation, I opened up to more people in my life and started talking about it online.

If I didn’t talk about it out loud, it wasn’t a problem. When I actually started talking about it, it became real.

I fell off quite a few more times after those tough conversations, but I kept coming back to it. I had people to be accountable to.

There wasn’t a dramatic rock bottom. Alcoholism is more insidious than that. I didn’t like who I was becoming, and the last time that happened, it took me too long to find myself again. That scared me more than quitting ever did.

At 12, I chose myself over a bottle of vodka and lost everything I thought was important. Somewhere between then and now, I forgot I could do that.

And so, a year ago, I stopped drinking.

The first few months were uncomfortable. I had to relearn how to sit with boredom instead of trying to conquer it. I picked up journalling again to get my feelings out instead of just drowning them. I had to learn how to say no to drinks—and how not to over-explain why. It wasn’t impossible, but it was deeply uncomfortable.

Every time I fell, I asked myself why I was doing this, and why I wanted it to end so I wrote them down. On my harder days, I kept coming back to my why:

1. I want to be fully present in my life.

2. I don’t want to cause harm to myself or others.

3. I want to be the best partner I can be.

4. I want to be healthy for my future children.

5. I want to be a person people can count on.

The biggest win, I’d say even to this day a year later, is the time I’ve taken back. I get up earlier and see the sun rise. I spend time writing. I have space to see my friends. I didn’t realize how much energy I was spending on recovery—not just from hangovers, but from the emotional weight of drinking and regret.

Sobriety hasn’t been a magic fix, but that’s actually not the point. Being sober allows me to face all that’s uncomfortable about life head-on, without the crutch of alcohol. When I’m feeling overwhelmed, I know why. When I’m tired, I rest. When I’m bored, I sit with it—or I find something that fills me up.

I also learned that I don’t need to prove myself, period. All along this journey I didn’t shed all my friends, just the ones who wanted me to be someone else. The people who matter stayed. The rest faded, and that is actually okay.

Funny part is, something that was a big part of my social life for over 15 years, I don’t miss at all. I’ll feel myself getting nostalgic for the ease of it, but it’s quickly contrasted with the aftermath—the morning after—and I get prickly again. I do not miss the cycle and self-loathing, not one bit.

One year sober feels like only the beginning—a foundation to build on and protect.

I don’t know what the next year will bring. I just know that I don’t need alcohol to belong—to others or to myself.

🧰 My Sobriety Tool Kit

I didn’t do any of this alone, and below I’ve included some tips and resources that helped me make it through the mess. It’s not an unstoppable formula, but these things definitely made the year steadier.

📖 This Naked Mind

This book by Annie Grace changed my whole perspective on alcohol in just over 250 pages. Technically less, since I stopped drinking about halfway through. It allowed me to see alcohol as a poison, not as something that was enhancing my life in any way.

🎧 Sober Awkward

It’s truly an honest, funny, and relatable take on navigating sobriety. Realizing that what I was going through was very normal helped ease my anxieties. It also explored spaces I hadn’t yet put words to.

✍️ Journalling

Sitting with my emotions and calling them out on paper really helped. Even before I completely stopped drinking, I can see myself pleading for change in the pages of my journal. People are only now talking more about all the emotions you have to sit with when you’re working on sobriety. There’s no more drinking the stress or sadness away—you have to relearn how to regulate your emotions, and journalling has always helped me with that.

☀️ Morning Time

I come from a long line of early risers. Often when my whole family (and I mean my whole 25+ squad) is up at the cabin, I’ll wake up early-ish and my mom is already up having her morning tea with her four siblings and my nanny, chatting and laughing. I always thought there was something so special about that, and as I stopped drinking, I realized my body has naturally shifted to early mornings. It’s given me peace to start the day, and let me tell you—nothing feels better than waking up without regret.

📱 Accountability

A handful of people who knew what I was trying to do. Saying it out loud made it real. Like I mentioned, having people in your corner that you care about and don’t want to disappoint is key. On top of that, the people who are going to cheer for you through it all—the 365-day milestones, but also the one-week milestones.

The two friends I asked to be in my corner during a particularly busy time at the beginning of this journey have celebrated me the whole way and are treating me to lunch tomorrow in celebration of my one year sober. Those are the kind of friends you keep around.

I hope this helps even one person on their own journey of sobriety. It may feel impossible, but it isn’t—and you’re worth every attempt.

Content Warning:
This essay contains discussions of severe anxiety, panic, health anxiety, emotional distress, and mental health challenges. Reader discretion is advised.

How do you live when you think you’re dying? A question I had to face for months during a dark time earlier this year.

I’ve dealt with health anxiety on and off before, but it usually passed quickly. That changed after my parents and I got COVID in early March, and my mind spiraled.

For most of that month, I cried almost every day. I cried in the bathroom at work, when my mom picked me up, and whenever I was alone. Every little sensation in my body felt like a sign of something catastrophic. Heart palpitations? Must be heart problems. Lower back or abdominal pain? Ovarian cancer. Persistent tension headaches? Clearly a brain tumour. The only time I felt any relief was when I was asleep, and even then, it felt like I was escaping, not resting. I was utterly exhausted. I went through the motions at work, barely eating, living just to make it to the end of the day so I could collapse into bed.

It was obvious to those around me that something was wrong. I snapped at people, later apologizing for my irritability, but deep down, I knew this wasn’t sustainable. I was spiraling, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

Anxiety has been a part of my life for a long time, but I’ve always been able to pull myself out of it. This time, though, I was stuck, completely helpless. I was already doing everything I could to manage it, but it was like a heavy, unrelenting cloud hung over me. No amount of yoga, journaling, or deep breathing seemed to make a difference.

How I Normally Cope:

• Yoga

• Deep breathing and meditation

• Journaling

• Physical activity

• Routine

• Healthy eating

• Getting enough sleep

Extra Steps I Had to Take:

I moved back in with my parents, and the relief of not having to be alone, or worry about what I was going to eat, was immense. It was one less burden to carry.

I scheduled another session with my therapist. In that session, she reassured me that I wasn’t going crazy and that what I was experiencing, while terrifying, was valid. Sometimes, just hearing those words can make all the difference.

I also reached out to ADAM and joined a support group. The six-week program connected me with four others who were also struggling with anxiety, and those conversations turned out to be some of the most meaningful I’ve ever had. There’s a sense of understanding that only comes from people who’ve been in the trenches too.

Finally, I made a doctor’s appointment to discuss medication. My doctor was incredible. She didn’t just hand me a prescription, she took my concerns seriously. She ordered blood work, an EKG, a pelvic exam, and an ultrasound to make sure there were no underlying issues. When she did prescribe the medication, the relief I felt was indescribable. For the first time in months, the weight began to lift.

I’m not dying. I can finally breathe again, smile again, and live again.

This experience has taught me a lot about the strength it takes to ask for help. Sometimes, even with all the right coping tools in place, we need more support than we think, and that’s okay. It’s okay to lean on others, to reach out, and to recognize that some storms require more than just riding them out.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t linear. Some days are better than others, but even on the harder days, there’s hope. I’m not where I was a few months ago, and that alone is a victory. Life is starting to feel possible again. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.

I miss her laugh, the kind that touches the lines around her eyes.
I miss her love, the kind she extends to everyone around her.
I miss her positivity, the kind she exudes as she splashes through every storm.
I miss her energy, the kind that allows her to jump in on anything.
I miss her eyes, the kind that shine bright blue and full of life.

I miss her, but she will come back.

Her laugh will touch ears again.
Her love will be shared again.
Her positivity will swirl through the room again.
Her energy will last the week again.
Her eyes will spark with life again.

She will come back.

She will be scarred.
She will need to be loved.
But she will be happy again.

I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry for missing or pushing back deadlines because my brain can’t focus.

I’m not sorry for missing social gatherings because I don’t have the nerve to leave the house.

I’m not sorry for not reaching out to friends or family because I don’t have the energy.

I am sorry to myself for not being honest about what I needed sooner.

A reminder for me and anyone reading: you are strong, you are important, and you are loved.

I’m burnt out. I’m tired. I’m sad. I’m angry.

A daily reminder that whatever you are feeling is valid. I’m tired of not being able to do every aspect of the job that I love. I’m sad for all the frontline workers who I’m sure are utterly exhausted. I’m angry that not everyone is doing their part to keep our community and province safe. I am BURNT OUT! I feel hopeless but I will continue to do my part, I will get my second vaccination, and I will keep showing up for others and this community.

I hope you’re all staying safe and doing all that you can. Sending my love if you need it.

I’m doing my best, and that’s ok.

I’m trying my best at being a good friend but some days I’d rather curl up in my bed than get on another Zoom call. And I need to remind myself that I can’t be a good friend to others if I’m not good to myself first.

I’m trying my best at work but some days the littlest issues become my biggest stressors. And I need to remind myself that I’m learning new things in a very disconnected way.

I’m trying my best to be excited about every new day but some days I just can’t. And I need to remind myself that not all days have to be good.

We are in a pandemic, hitting the wall is real, burnout is real, not being able to cope with your regular daily life is real. Remind yourself that you’re doing your best, be okay with saying “no,” and breathe.

I had a trying week mentally last week and I feel it spilling into this week already. I took a step back to look at my problem areas. This is something I’ve taught myself to do along my mental health journey. Basically, it’s me looking back on the last week or so and understanding when I felt my worst and trying to connect it to an event or action.

Last Wednesday I had 3 drinks while I watched some shows with my sister. Normally that doesn’t have any sort of adverse effect on me but the next day, while I was not hungover, I was in such a mood.

Instead of listening to what my body was telling me, I doubled down. I didn’t drink on Thursday night but I stayed up far too late and Friday I was met by my attitude again.

I sort of isolated myself in my room for Friday night and Saturday because I know better than to bring that ‘tude out into the world. After feeling my feels I talked with my family about it and instantly felt a little bit better.

In the moment I don’t always see these things and make those connections. We are in an extremely trying time and especially seeing temps of “feels like -40” over the last week just made it all worse. I’m being gentle with myself, I’m not drinking, I’m trying to get good rest, I’m doing my yoga, and I’m (virtually) going to my first therapy appointment of 2021 this week.

Remember to be kind to yourself and take things day by day but also try to understand yourself.

Let’s talk about mental health. A show got me last night… Modern Love on Amazon Prime is a series based on a New York Times column by the same name that explores relationships, love, and connection.

Episode 3 is called “Take Me as I Am, Whoever I Am” and starts with Lexi in the supermarket looking for “Mr. Right.” She’s bubbly, outgoing, and finds Jeff in the peach aisle. They make a date for Thursday, and Lexi goes off to work.

Lexi is bipolar. Thursday rolls around, and Lexi’s hit a low. She goes on the date but appears disinterested. She comes out of her low a couple of days later and calls Jeff to come over for dinner. She’s ecstatic, cooks a big dinner, gets dressed up, but as she’s putting on mascara in the bathroom, she feels the low pulling her. She asks herself in the mirror to keep it together. Then the mascara tube slips into the sink as she collapses on the toilet. Her buzzer sounds, and she makes a move for the door, desperate for love, but sinks to the floor and sobs in the fetal position.

That’s when it got me. It reminded me of all the times I’ve broken down in the shower, couldn’t get out of bed, and sobbed on the cold bathroom floor because I wanted that love. I tried to put myself out there, to date, and I wanted to prove to others that I was trying. But my anxiety always managed to get its claws in me—I retreated and stopped trying.

It was really hard, extremely isolating, and very lonely. It’s still something I struggle with, but some tricks for me have been:

• Being open and honest about my struggles. Even if it’s just a post like this.

• Finding someone I’m willing to push through these debilitating anxious moments for. The person I was willing to go on date two with.

• Being vulnerable and honest with him about what I’m going through and hoping he doesn’t run away (he didn’t). The right people will try to understand—they’ll support you. The right people will stay. Period.

None of it has been easy, but hopefully bit by bit it will get easier or more manageable. All that to say, I really enjoyed that episode of Modern Love because I saw myself, and sometimes we all need a reminder that we’re not alone.

How’s everyone doing? The last couple of weeks have been an anxiety-filled blur.

Yesterday was the first day of working from home. The last time we did this as a team was during an office renovation, and I hated it. As much as I’m an introvert, I’m also an extrovert. Humans are social creatures, and I need that face time with real humans—ain’t nothing like it. This time around, I’m in my own home, and with the constant cycle of COVID-19 news, I’m welcoming the quiet.

As a communicator, navigating this issue and finding the balance between being informed enough but not disappearing down the rabbit hole has been hard. Working from home allows me to consume as much of the news as I want, when I want.

We need to avoid going out as much as possible, and we also need to take care of our mental health while we’re all cooped up. Here’s how I’m trying to do that:

1. Get fresh air. You can still go outside. Go for a walk and leave the phone behind.

2. Do an online yoga class. Focus your mind on your breathing for at least 10–30 minutes.

3. Make good meals. If you’re like me, lunchtime meals for work aren’t always a top priority in the healthy department. Since you’re likely working from home, take the time and care to make something good for your body.

4. Read books. I can’t tell you how many times books have helped me escape reality for a little while—and man, it’s a nice vacation. My ultimate escape recommendation is Harry Potter.

5. Video chat with those you care about, or go to see them if it’s safe to do so. We need one another in times like this, so keep communicating.

Be kind. Stay positive. We’re in this together. Be safe out there.

My relationship with food isn’t great.

I’ve been reading Cognitive Behavioural Therapy Made Simple: 10 Strategies for Managing Anxiety, Depression, Anger, Panic, and Worry by Seth J. Gillihan, PhD. It’s made me think so much about my anxiety and start to pick it apart. It’s also made me want to talk about it, but I still struggle to actually do that (that’s what therapy is for). So, for now, I’ll write about it…

I’m constantly thinking about how I can help people understand my situation in a way that makes sense. Basically, mostly in date-like food situations, I get so anxious that I can’t take a single bite of solid food without gagging so hard that I eventually vomit. It’s not exclusive to dates; it also happens with friends and family if my head is in an anxious space, though this happens less frequently.

My anxiety has conditioned my body to be wary of food and to not always trust it. That sucks. Growing up, my relationship with food was amazing! I’ve always been tiny, but I could usually shock everyone with how much I could actually put away. However, because of bad relationships, self-doubt, and reinforcement of negative thoughts over the last several years, it’s often very hard for me to get excited about food. Eating has become a chore. I’ve started to “reward” my cravings by giving into them when they arise, as an attempt to bring that excitement back to food and eating.

I’m always conscious of how other people perceive my weight and eating habits, which spirals my anxiety more. Just please trust that I know what’s good for me. Trust that my bottom line is getting food in my body, period. If I push myself too hard and can’t keep my food down, that ends up being worse than if I only eat a cup of soup or a small salad and actually manage to keep it in my stomach during an anxious period.

It’s all a process, and it’s not fun or easy, but I really want to make this work and learn how to cope. There are people I care a lot about who I’m so ready to jump these hurdles for. Here’s to the journey.

Grieving as an adult is very different than grieving as a child. I’m not saying it hurts more, but you’re wiser and understand more. I lost my Papas when I was almost 13; this was my first experience with death. I grew up very close with him, always over for lunch and after school while my parents worked. He was very important in making me the strong woman I am today, and then all of a sudden—poof—that relationship is just gone. I think when you’re young, you don’t have the time to reflect and put it all together.

At the age of 29, I lost my uncle. When the photo above was taken, I was grieving that loss and just getting over my dad being in the hospital for something quite serious. I was struggling but doing my best to smile and be a good sport.

I had internalized so much of my grief and feelings, and for months I had a constant heavy chest, frequent heart palpitations, and full-on anxiety attacks. No one around me knew the full extent of my anxiety until I forced myself to talk about it with some of my family.

I’ve come a long way since then, but I just want everyone to remember to ask your loved ones how they’re doing. Simply opening that door can invite the start of an important conversation, a needed hug, and/or a cry. And to those struggling, I know it’s hard, but try your best to ask someone for help—you’ll feel better for it. Let’s take care of each other.