Life Without Alcohol: An Honest Reflection

The last month has passed in a whirlwind of excitement. Emma had a move-up ceremony in June at her new high school. Parents and grandparents gathered in the gym to watch as our kids marched in, sat down, and walked forward to receive a certificate that they had moved up and into high school. Emma wore a beautiful dress and a pair of my heels, which made her look more like a woman than ever. I cried and thanked God, and took deep breaths.

A few days later the kids had an end-of-school-year party at the lake and about thirty kids jumped in and out of the water, paddle-boarded, and ate chips and drank pop. I threw pizza at them as best I could.

A friend from the ship came for a visit. We talked and talked. She swam. We reflected on our lives. Faith. Religion. And so much more. It was glorious.

We hosted a 4th of July party and many beloved friends showed up at the lake.

The last few days, we’ve stayed close to the house, in and out of the water with friends and family, with the paddle boards, the sail boat, and the noodles. Olive has taken up swimming and believes she’s the new Michael Phelps.

Honestly, it’s been wonderful.

My younger sister, who lives in Australia arrives tomorrow evening with her three sons, and I am so excited I can hardly contain.

There is so much joy in this life. If we pause and look out, we’ll see it. We’ll catch the moments and they do, indeed, take our breath away.

The thing that struck me the other day, as I was looking at life, is that I have done all these things in the last season without a drop of alcohol.

Back in January when I did my 100 days, I sometimes forgot I was doing 100 days without alcohol. Then when it came to an end, I vacillated back and forth, drank several times, and then on June 3, 2018 I said good-bye to wine for a good long while.

I quit.

John and I had gone out the night before and I’d had two glasses of wine. Nothing big, but the next day I felt wrong. There, sitting in my chair in the corner of my house, sipping on my coffee, I had what I needed. The achingly difficult work of self-care, of numerous painful decisions, and of choosing to do the hard labor of making a ruthless inventory of my life had finally paid off. I had what I needed, on the inside, to look round about me and say, I don’t need this anymore. I am finished.

I’m a month-in-a-half in and sometimes I want a glass of wine. There are moments when I feel like the outsider, staring at something I used to be a part of. When that happens, I pause and say, “It’s okay. This is your choice, and it’s a choice that is bigger than this one moment.”

Most of the time I feel relieved. I have not woken up one single time in ages and asked myself, “Did I say the wrong thing after I drank that glass of wine? Did I over-talk? Did I drink too much?”

I have realized that wine or no wine, I’m a talker and sometimes I say too much. I’m learning to be okay with that. To be at home with all my different selves.

I’m learning to settle into the ebb and flow of emotions, to the heartache that comes like a storm, and to sadness that washes in with the tide, and pools around. To hope that rises like mist after an awful thunder storm, when the sun breaks through the clouds and you know it’s all going to be all right. You take stock of what you still have, and realize that what you still have is going to be enough.

I am realizing anew that joy is mostly a choice, which sounds funny, I know. But there are many times when I have to make a deliberate choice to enter into the moment and choose to live. Choose to dive in, play in the water, laugh, take a deep breath and count the blessings. I could choose to sit on the sidelines and watch joy pass me by. I don’t want to do that, anymore. I want to live.

When I decided to quit drinking, for good, I didn’t have many words to explain it, to grapple with the weight of my choice. I only knew that it was time and that I was finally ready. To live into the weight of my life and simply be okay with it. I wasn’t sure how much I would write about it, or even if there’d be much to say.

What I didn’t expect, was this: Somehow or another, life without alcohol is slipping into plain, ordinary life. That is more glorious than anything I could ever try to explain.

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