No Place Like Home

A while back, I decided to break up with alcohol. I’ve always been open about it and May marked three years. It’s hard to believe I’ve gone that long without, when it was once so ingrained in my immediate world. My family, my friends, my coworkers. We drank to celebrate, we drank to mourn, we drank just to be hospitable. We drank to loosen up, we drank to unwind, we drank to bond with the plethora of people who cross our paths. Alcohol flowed through our lives so naturally, we just opened the flood gates and let it pour in. Wherever we were, whatever we were doing. It was NOT raising your glass that raised so many eyebrows. It was moving against the current that created resistance, that made us skeptical, that had us questioning intentions. NOT drinking was foreign to us, and building that dam was like learning another language. It takes time to catch on, before it finally clicks.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped counting the hours, the days, the months, but I can’t help acknowledging the years. Whole years feel tangible. Like I’m really getting somewhere. And maybe that’ll stop one day – I don’t know. But for now, drawing that line on the bottle is a measurable victory. And somehow, I thought it was logical to embark on this challenge in the middle of a pandemic. While normal people were staying in, taking off their masks, tilting their glasses, and potty training their COVID puppies, I was living in my pajamas, eating ice cream by the pint, and looking like my dog died. And then, my dog really DID die, almost a year into this new walk of life. I was floundering. I wanted to drown my sorrows. But so many kind-hearted people reached out and proved to me that I could float. Even during a pandemic. Even when my dog died. Even then.

And now, I get the same question over and over. For three years, I didn’t know how to answer it. “Do you miss it?” Do I miss the alcohol in my life? And it surprises me when I realize I don’t. I don’t mourn the bottle, but I do miss the blinders and the ease of hiding behind a mask. And I still miss my dog. I’ve become marginally fluent in this second language, familiar with new territory, but it doesn’t change the place I call home. It’s not the alcohol I miss – it’s the MOMENTS. It’s the feeling of settling in, being welcomed. It’s embracing who I am – all of me. I didn’t notice how homesick I was when I surrounded myself with distractions. How far I’d strayed in pursuit of connection. How somewhere along the way, I sat down to rest and got stuck. Life’s direction isn’t linear, but I just stopped growing until I wasn’t moving at all.

The moments I miss are the times when we show up and believe we really see ourselves. When we’re present in our bodies, in our minds, and we meet ourselves right where we are. But those moments evaporate when you reach for a crutch, when you lean on it heavily and pretend not to see the obstacles in your path. There’s no such thing as liquid courage – it’s only false bravado. The conversations you have, the confidence you feel, the connections you make, are all emptied out by the drink in your hand. You won’t find yourself there, no matter how engaged you feel. It’s only in the moments of truth. When we’re authentic, when we’re vulnerable, when we accept ourselves completely. That’s when we come home. And there’s no place like it.

We talk about dogs living in the moment, loving unconditionally. We watch them eat, sleep, dream, play. And I do believe they grieve – in their own ways. And they still feel fear, at times. They have anxieties and insecurities, but their natural state is in balance. It’s proven that with a little guidance, discipline, affection, they come back to it. It’s not a choice – it’s just who they are. They’re present in everything they do, without question. It’s automatic. It’s their native language. And we can only strive to do the same – with a little guidance, discipline, self-care. It’s never automatic. We always have a choice. We have to REACH for our moments. Or at least, learn to recognize them for what they are, draw them out, and hold on like our life depends on it. Because it does.

What I never realized while I was drinking, is that alcohol doesn’t enhance these experiences – it eventually prevents you from having them at all. Those great conversations at “Happy Hour,” those brilliant epiphanies, that confidence we’re attracting, isn’t real. Those connections we’re making, that security we’re feeling, isn’t real. The ability to squelch our inhibitions, take off our masks, and throw caution to the wind, isn’t real. That peace, that escape we cling to at the end of a hard day, just isn’t real. But believing I’m capturing those moments – that’s what I miss. Having that crutch to lean on when I don’t want to walk on my own. Having something to take the sting out, something to soothe my nerves, something to sedate me when I just need to sleep. Believing I’m capable of creating my own joy, feeling purposeful, expansive, and full. That’s what I miss. Those moments.

But alcohol only masquerades as a solvent. In truth, it doesn’t fix any of those things – not in a way that’s authentic and productive. We think we’re boosting our moods, expanding our comfort zones, but we’re just building fences and limiting our horizons. So, while I miss that something to help me let my guard down, something to drum up “fun” as I knew it, something soothing to calm me when I’m anxious, lift me when I’m down. While I miss building “Me” time around liquid self-care, it’s only a guise. I have to find another way. I have to seek solace by turning within, squeeze satisfaction from a different experience. Because you can’t leave something behind without moving toward something else. You can only eat so much ice cream and have so many dogs.

And we all have our moments. We learn to recognize what truly makes us happy. We figure out what it means to draw boundaries without caging ourselves in. We find bits of ourselves scattered along the way, and we start putting those pieces together. Eventually, we have a foundation to build on, one that’s grounded in the present and facing the future. Then, we can finally come home to ourselves and really believe there’s no place like it.