Searching for Belonging at the Bottom of a Bottle

One year sober, and what I’ve learned about friendship, boredom, and being present in my own life.

I learned early that choosing yourself can cost you. Large parts of my life have reinforced that drinking means belonging—sometimes by choice, sometimes by circumstance.

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.

Me and my bestie who has been by my side through it all (almost 27 years).

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.

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🧰 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.

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📖 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.

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🎧 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.

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✍️ 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.

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☀️ 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.

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📱 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.

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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.

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