“How do you finally stop worrying? You realize that the version of yourself that will be able to handle every situation that might arise in your life will be born in the precise moment that situation comes to be. No matter where your path might take you, or where you go, the version of yourself that you will need in those moments will emerge right as you need it and not a second before. You cannot call upon all of the parts of yourself to exist at once. Different versions of you are needed for various aspects of your life. Find peace in knowing that you are more than one thing, and within the layers of who you are-both visible and invisible-exists a strength that is equal to or more powerful than anything you may come to face.”
– Brianna Wiest, The Pivot Year
Today marks four years of continuous sobriety—a milestone that feels both miraculous and grounding. At 34, I was so consumed by alcohol that I developed alcoholic liver disease, yet here I am, sober with a healthy liver. It’s a victory I honor deeply, but I also hold space for the truth: today is just another day in the lifelong journey of recovery. Sobriety isn’t a magical fix; it doesn’t shield us from life’s hardships. But it does offer clarity, resilience, and the capacity to face life as it is.
This clarity has been my anchor this past week as I navigate a heart-wrenching reality. My 85-year-old mother in Costa Rica fell and broke her hip, requiring surgery. Since then, complications have set in, and yesterday she was found unresponsive. At nearly nine months pregnant, I can’t travel to be by her side. I can’t hold her hand, speak to her, or comfort her. Instead, I sit here, folding tiny baby clothes and waiting for WhatsApp updates from my older sisters.
With my momma.
The uncertainty is crushing. Thoughts crash over me like relentless waves: Was our last conversation truly the last? Did I hug her for the final time when I said goodbye? Will she ever meet my daughter, Amara? The pain radiates through my spirit, raw and unyielding. But amidst the ache, I realize something profound—there is no pull to escape this grief through alcohol. It wouldn’t lessen the hurt, nor would it honor the love I carry for her.
Reflecting on my father’s death in 2018, I see how sobriety has transformed my ability to endure loss or the possibility of it. Back then, I traveled to Costa Rica in a drunken haze, narrowly sobering up for his funeral. I was riddled with shame—sneaking aguardiente to numb myself, only for my mother to find it the next morning. She looked at me with disappointment and hissed, “Why are you drinking so much? You’re going to end up like your cousin (who died from drinking).” Her words stung, but my addiction muted their weight.
Now, as I face my mother’s declining health, Brianna Wiest’s words resonate deeply: “The version of yourself that you will need in those moments will emerge right as you need it and not a second before.” Sobriety has given me the tools to face whatever comes next—not with fear or avoidance, but with grace. Whether my mother miraculously recovers (and I’m rooting for that) or these are her final days, I know I can stand in this truth without alcohol, even as it feels like an emotional roller coaster.
Just yesterday, my sisters walked into my mother’s hospital room to find a priest giving her last rites. Yet this morning, she was awake and alert, complaining about a headache and asking for coffee. This roller coaster of emotions, of hope and uncertainty, is exhausting, but I know I am ready to face whatever comes next.
As I move into my fifth year of sobriety, I carry with me self-trust and confidence. Life will continue to test me, but I now meet it with an open heart and steady resolve—because sobriety has shown me that I can.
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Recently, I overheard someone who clearly knew little about addiction say, “If you have a problem with alcohol, just stop drinking.”
If only it were that simple. People wouldn’t be revolving through treatment facilities, finding support in sobriety groups for years, and wrestling with the relentless pull of addiction if stopping was just a matter of will. This week, I had the chance to share a piece in a writing class led by author Marion Roach Smith, where I spoke candidly about how consuming and difficult it is to live with alcohol addiction.
Check it out below.
After five weeks in rehab, there I was, facing my dismissal day tomorrow. Deep down, there was that familiar, sinking feeling. I felt it every time I tried to convince myself I was heading back to “normal.” I tried to replay everyone’s kind words, but I couldn’t find any comfort in them. Reaching into my bra, I pulled out the sleep meds I’d stashed there, swallowed them quickly, and hoped sleep would take me away from the gnawing sense of impending doom.
The next morning, my friend who’d been looking after Cruz since I’d gone into treatment was there, waiting to take me home. I stepped into the sunlight, and we hugged tightly. It felt so good to be held by someone from the outside world again. We went straight to the grocery store, where the smell of cilantro in the produce aisle made my mouth water. I filled my basket with bright fruits and healthy snacks, determined to keep up the balanced eating habits I’d learned in treatment.
But the drive back to my house was a blur. Though I was sober, my mind felt foggy. My friend came in with me, did a quick sweep of the house to make sure there were no hidden bottles, then hugged me and asked, “Alright, girl, you gonna be good?” I hesitated, my mind spinning, but I forced a nod. “Yeah, it’ll be tough, but I’ll be good.” As I shut the door behind her, I turned and looked around my house, my supposed sanctuary. All I could see was emptiness, the painful echo of broken dreams.
So, it’s just you and me, I thought, staring at the silent rooms. Just me and this house full of ghosts. I went to turn on the TV, but it was dead—I’d fallen into it drunk one night, breaking the cables. I opened my laptop, but immediately shut it again at the sight of a picture of my late boyfriend, smiling and carefree. I moved around the house, from chair to couch, but everywhere I sat felt hollow.
Then, like the first drop of a storm, the thought of drinking slipped into my mind. It quickly spread, filling me with a fiendish desire I couldn’t shake. I knew I shouldn’t, knew it was dangerous. But the rationalizations came fast. I can order a bottle and just hold it, I don’t have to drink it, I told myself as I scrolled through the alcohol delivery app, adding a bottle to my cart. I can pour it down the drain after a few sips, I reasoned as I completed my purchase.
I reactivated my old routine of pretending everything was fine. I called my sister, my voice upbeat. “Hey! Just letting you know I’m finally home … Yeah, it’s definitely weird … I promise I’ll call if anything … Yeah, I’m going to bed early, I’m just so sleepy…” I texted a few friends, letting them know I was “good” and going to “bed.” It was only 7:30 PM. I was not going to bed.
The bottle was in my hands, then at my lips. The burn of alcohol slid down my throat, making me gag; I’d forgotten the sting. I drank straight from the bottle as if I’d stumbled upon water in a desert.
I had left the protective cocoon of treatment—a so-called fortress meant to shield me. I was supposed to emerge as a butterfly, ready to soar, but my wings were still crumpled. I crashed hard. Lying flat on the floor, “Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues played on repeat, each verse carving deeper into my soul:
Never reaching the end Letters I’ve written Never meaning to send…
I took one last breath, closed my eyes, and let myself slip back under, drowning once more in the dark waters of my addiction.
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Before I quit drinking, fear had me in its grip. It wasn’t just a passing worry—it was the invisible thread pulling every string in my life. I lived with the constant dread that my secret relationship with alcohol would be exposed, so I masked it by excelling in every other area. I was always the first to arrive at work and often the last to leave. No deadline was missed, no project detail overlooked. No matter how sick I felt from last night’s drinking, I powered through the hangovers, desperate to keep up the illusion that everything was fine. That fear—of being found out—was stronger than any withdrawal symptom.
I’ll never forget the day one of my students, Zavion, blurted out, “Ms. Dueñas, you smell like alcohol!” He said it with the carefree honesty only a middle schooler can muster, smiling as if he didn’t realize the weight of his words. I quickly turned away, my stomach knotting with anxiety, hoping he’d be distracted soon by the chaos of the classroom. While Zavion probably forgot the comment in minutes, I carried it with me, a stark reminder that I was always walking on the edge of exposure.It wasn’t until later that I realized the most dangerous part of my life wasn’t the fear of being caught—it was the fact that I was slowly killing myself in silence. I had a choice: either keep living in fear or face the truth and reclaim my life. For me, that meant going to the extreme and writing an Op-ed that went viral, spilling my truth to the world. But not everyone has to go that route.
If you’re keeping this deadly secret to yourself, know this: you don’t need to broadcast your struggles to the world, but opening up to someone can make all the difference. That one conversation could be the difference between isolation and support, between feeling lost and finding hope.You just need to tell someone—one person who can support you. That simple act can transform your journey from isolating in fear to finding real help.
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“i want to apologize to all the women i have called beautiful
before i’ve called them intelligent or brave
i am sorry i made it sound as though
something as simple as what you’re born with
is all you have to be proud of
when you have broken mountains with your wit
from now on i will say things like
you are resilient, or you are extraordinary
not because i don’t think you’re beautiful
but because i need you to know
you are more than that”
― Rupi Kaur
Confidence is not something I was born with, nor was it something I was taught to have. Growing up, the message I received—both at home and from society—was clear: as a little girl with a complicated relationship with food, I was only acceptable if I was thin. From a young age, I found myself in a relentless battle with my body, constantly trying to mold it into something it wasn’t.
As a young woman, I took drastic measures, undergoing weight loss surgery in the hopes that it would finally give me the self-esteem I desperately craved. I believed that if I could fit into the narrow box defined by societal standards, confidence would naturally follow, and life would become easier.
But reality had other plans. Food had always been my comfort, and after the surgery, when food was no longer an option, alcohol quickly took its place as my go-to escape from life’s stressors. My body changed, but my mindset did not. I hadn’t done the internal work needed to believe I was worthy, and despite the weight loss, I remained trapped in a cycle of self-doubt, still feeling not good enough.
This mindset led me to settle into unhealthy romantic relationships. I would tell myself things like, “What if Keith is the best I could do?” even after catching him with another woman. Or, “Maybe Matthew will do better this time,” ignoring the fact that Matthew knew better all along but chose not to change.
The shame surrounding my growing addiction to alcohol kept me silent, further cementing the false belief that I was not enough. Even though I earned accolades like being named the 2019 Kentucky State Teacher of the Year and the 2019 Woman of the Year in the Louisville community, these honors meant nothing when I looked in the mirror.
It wasn’t until I found the courage to let myself be fully seen—owning the fact that I was a woman battling alcohol addiction—that my confidence and self-esteem began to blossom. Speaking openly about my addiction not only led me to the resources I needed to get and stay sober, but it also gave me the strength to walk away from anything that didn’t serve me—jobs, relationships, and any space where I didn’t belong.
I finally understood that I didn’t need to force myself to fit into any mold—whether it was a societal expectation or a toxic relationship. With the clarity that comes from an unclouded mind, the old narratives lost their power.
Embracing my recovery from addiction became the foundation for building my confidence and self-esteem.
Reflect: What do you need to foster your confidence and let it grow?
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I recently came across a powerful message from Dr. Nicole LePera (you can follow her on Instagram) that I shared with a group of sober women. Here it is:
Reminder for recovering “good girls:”
You can stand up for yourself and let someone know you won’t tolerate certain behaviors.
When someone is rude, you don’t need to laugh it off or pretend it’s okay.
“I don’t find that funny” lets people know that joke didn’t work for you.
You’re not too sensitive because you express how you feel.
If someone doesn’t accept your answer, it’s not a cue to keep explaining. It’s a sign they don’t respect boundaries.
While all these points are important, I want to focus on the first one about standing up for yourself.
At a doctor’s appointment this week, a medical assistant went to take my vitals. I noticed the blood pressure cuff she was using was too small for my arm and mentioned it. She dismissed my concern, saying it was fine. When the reading came back high, I knew something was wrong since my blood pressure has been normal since quitting drinking. I spoke up, insisting by saying, “I need my blood pressure taken with a cuff that fits my arm. That is not my blood pressure. I check it myself in the mornings at home.” After some reluctance, she found a larger cuff and retook my blood pressure, which then showed a normal reading.
This experience reminded me that medical professionals, despite their expertise, are human and can make mistakes, making it crucial to be an active participant in our own care, rather than just a passive recipient.
Before sobriety, I often let others dictate what happened next in our interactions, even if it wasn’t what I wanted. My secret addiction to alcohol made me feel unworthy of defending myself. Convinced that I didn’t deserve protection, whether it was with family, friends, romantic partners, or even in medical settings, I let others’ voices override my own.
Recovery has helped clear the fog that once clouded my mind, allowing me to reconnect with my body and find my voice. Sobriety empowers us to actively participate in our interactions, whether with loved ones, colleagues, or professionals. It helps us listen to and trust ourselves again.
Remember, your voice matters, and you have the right to stand up for yourself.
Reflect: How has standing up for yourself evolved? Is this a strength of yours or is this something you are still working on?
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It’s a common worry: “I don’t want to be left out because I don’t drink,” or “If I skip happy hour or a boozy meal, will I stop getting invited altogether?” Many people face these thoughts when they’re changing their relationship with alcohol but still want to socialize with friends who drink.
A person who is strong in their recovery can go anywhere and be fine, but the question remains: how do you know if you’re ready to accept an invite like this?
This week, I had the opportunity to go to a dinner filled with belly laughs with my colleagues who drink, and this was how I knew I would be fine.
Whoever you are breaking bread with should know you’re not drinking. When you’re navigating social events while maintaining sobriety, it’s crucial to let someone in the group know that you’re not drinking. They don’t need to know your full story or personal traumas, but having at least one trusted soul in that group aware of your choice provides a sense of accountability and support. For example, my colleagues knew from the moment I walked into my job interview that I wanted to model recovery for college students. They know alcohol is not an option for me, period. While my situation and how open I am about my story is unique, the principle remains: you can’t do this alone, and someone should be aware of your decision not to drink. If you don’t feel safe communicating a plan to not drink to at least one person in the group, maybe you’re not ready to say yes.
Examine your attitude about people who do still drink. When you see others drinking, do you feel a longing for what they are having? Or is there some rage that rises up in you where you want to cry and scream at the world, shaking your fist as you bellow, “It’s not fair that I can’t drink?”
If seeing others drink makes you yearn for what they’re having or fills you with resentment, it might be best to decline the invitation until you’re more secure in your sobriety. Recovery isn’t always sunshine and rainbows, but if you struggle to recognize that your relationship with alcohol is not the same as your peers, and you feel a strong desire to drink, protect yourself and stay home until you feel stronger.
On the other hand, have you seen the light now that you’re sober and wish sobriety on everyone? Is it nearly impossible to wrap your mind around the fact that people you know still ingest this poison into their bodies? If your sobriety has made you want to preach its benefits to that friend as they get ready to consume a flight of shots, and you find it hard to understand why others still drink, it’s also wise to stay home. Recovery is your journey; what others do with their bodies is their business. Social events are not the place to silently judge or try to convert others. Remember, at some point, you were in their shoes. Gifting myself moments of joy with my colleagues was only possible because I focused on enjoying their company and humor without judgment.
Have an exit strategy. Just as my teammates knew I wouldn’t be drinking, they also knew I wouldn’t be out late. Giving yourself permission to leave whenever you’re ready alleviates the pressure of ignoring your body’s signals when it’s tired. Stressing your body increases the risk of wanting to drink, so it’s important to honor your limits and exit when you need to.
Accept that you’re on this path, which will look different from others’ journeys. Acknowledge that you’ll need to order a water, choose from the mocktail section of the menu, or ask for an alcohol-free version of a cocktail. Any awkwardness that may come from advocating for your unique needs is well worth waking up the next day without worrying about what you did the night before. I wasn’t born to be just like everyone else, so when I start to worry about standing out, I remind myself that I wasn’t meant to conform in the first place—neither were you. When you join sobriety support group communities, including spaces like The Luckiest Club, where I host meetings, you get to see that you aren’t alone.
Ultimately, everyone finds their readiness for certain experiences at different times, if ever. Maybe you have zero desire to partake in a social event where alcohol is served, or maybe you don’t feel ready yet. Wherever you are, it’s fine. You grow at the pace that’s meant for you, not on someone else’s timeline.
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This guest submission comes from one of my Writing to Heal students, where participants find the courage to heal by facing their stories, often for the first time. I am deeply grateful to Jorgie for his vulnerability and so proud of the growth in his writing from Week 1 to Week 6 of our program.
Content Warning: Physical Violence and Language.
A truth I learned about myself while working with my therapist, is that I was addicted to “codependency”, and nobody could tell me shit otherwise. I was heavily relying on my relationship with my ex-partner and people throughout my life, so my therapist explained to me, “People (Bodies), Places (Alcohol), and Things (Pills) were “wants” of mine, not “needs.” My assumption was that as long as I was in school and working that, I was doing ok, and that my societal expectations were being met. My needing assistance is ok if I need help and support from my family and friends, not be an “Emotional Vampire” and drain the life forces from the people that I love and care about. Afterward, I started to take responsibility for the actions that I had always avoided. Through sobriety, I was more “Present,” and my awareness heightened, and I was able to think more clearly and not depend on Alcohol and Pills for escapism and avoidance.
Codependency started blooming from childhood because even though I had a roof over my head, sometimes, with the chaos at home, the roof would constantly shatter over my head, shake the walls, and I always hid from loudness. My parents fought constantly; my dad would hit my mom, pinch her, and pull her hair, and in retaliation, my mom would explode with rage and break dishes in the house. The screaming and the sounds of flesh hitting flesh caused huge knots in my stomach, that is, until this day, whenever I hear loudness, my sensors go up. I hid, avoided, and exploded. My parents loved me, unfortunately they did not have the resources and coping skills for communication, embrace and peace due to Intergenerational trauma passed down from my grandparents and my great grandparents.
Every time there was chaos in the house, I always ran into my bedroom, jumped on the bed, forced my face down on the pillow, and sobbed. Consciously I went in there to hide because it was the only door in the house with a lock on it and a big bed to keep me afloat and protect me like a fortress from violence. The knots in my gut that were corralling around like vines with thorns on it, made my stomach so heavy, it was like swallowing a bowling ball, the heaviness would not go away, until the fights subsided. It was like my throat was dry as the desert, could not swallow, forcefully exhaling my breaths out of my cracked quaky lips which only stayed lubricated from my tears rolling down my cheeks. I was a “Professional Hider” with my heavy breathing and uncontrollable sobbing, while the background noise continued with my parents screaming, yelling, fighting, dishes breaking, and empty threats.
As I got older, I became an “Emotional Vampire”. The chaos that ensued at home did not fill me with love, only dread. Everyone within my proximity, I would suck their energy like a mosquito, and not getting enough blood. If they did not answer the phone, I would give them hell. If they did not answer my text messages I would ignore them for days, even weeks. Being alone and in my thoughts, I absolutely could not do it, so I always bombarded my friends with phone calls to hang out, get high, drunk, and numb out. If my friends did not meet my expectations to hang out or even talk, they would meet the “Brown Eyed Bitch”. Even though they loved me, they just found me relentless and exhausting and would ignore me. I will show them!
The Brown Eyed Bitch (BEB) was the life of the party; everyone always needed Jorgie at the party to hype it up, twerk upside down, vomit and be a hot damn mess. Like two sides of a coin, there was the “Jorgie” side, and the “BEB” side. If I called a friend and they did not answer, beware if I leave a voicemail, “Oh so you did not answer your phone? Ok! I see how it is, Celebrity! Let me ask you, are you on an EGOT? Do you have an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar or Tony? I don’t think so so why didn’t you pick up the fucking phone?!” If the BEB texted, and there was no response, then it becomes…
“Hello?”
“Are you there?”
“So now you’re ignoring me?
“Ok watch!”
“Wait until I see you”
“Bitch”
“Love you!”
If my friends could not fill my love tank, then “bodies” would. So I started to randomly hook up with strangers online, and on blind first dates, that just led to Blackout Sex. The embrace, hugs, and kisses that I did not get from home, I would look for complete strangers who would fill me up, never see them again, and move on to the next one. It was not until I went on a blind date that finally, a spark was formed when I met my future partner, when we went to the movies to see Inception. We really enjoyed each other’s company, so we went on many more dates, and ended up together for the next 12 years. Unfortunately, towards the end of the relationship, we were both drinking and using, and what I saw in my parents as a child was now something I did with my partner. The yelling, slapping, kicking, disagreements, it was like a cycle of violence all over again into my adulthood.
In the beginning, we were goo goo gaga for each other, love at first sight, the perfect couple. Finally, I felt at peace in my life, and I had a life I could share with someone,spend the rest of my life with, and create a future together. Unfortunately, we found a hobby together, which was drinking. We drank everyday, then one day my partner gave me a pain pill, and my life drastically changed from there. I was hooked, it was like no other feeling I ever felt, and I needed more. Those feelings intensified, so when my partner was not looking I would go into their bag and steal their pills. Finally completing my trifecta of: body, alcohol and pills, I was set, and my life was like that for the whole relationship with my partner at the time. Avoided my family, no Communication with my friends, and Exploded with fury at my partner.
To understand the demise of our relationship is for me to explain how it comes crumbling down piece by piece, until it was glass shattered all over us, that we were cut with each blade, and we had scars all over of our body, and yet we were both in denial that “everything is OK”. In the Beginning of our relationship, I felt like I was floating on air, I was happy all the time like a kid at the Amusement park, the joy, endless conversations that made me feel like finally I was not alone. Unfortunately, alcohol came into the picture, and we were always arguing, sometimes I could not even stand their ass, and wanted them out of my sight. Like a gnat that was in my face, and I wanted to smack the shit out of it and get it the hell away from me! Our conversations would be filled with such love and care. The beginning of our wonderful partnership was like….
“Hi babe, how was your day?”
“I miss you”
“I love you”
“Let’s go have dinner, where would you like to go?”
Drastically, over time, the relationship was crumbling; we were drinking daily, and the BEB was more present than Jorgie.
“Hey did you fold the laundry?”
“Did you take the dogs out?”
“Did you clean up the dog shit?”
“Yeah let’s go eat and get it over with”.
On June 5, 2022, my ex of 12 years kicked me out of our shared Townhouse. Months later, I would send them a text saying, “Thank you for doing that; you kicking me out was doing me the biggest favor, and I am sober now”.” I know deep deep deep down in my heart that if I stayed in that relationship I would not be sober. My therapist asked me “What would happen if you stayed in that relationship?” I said, “I would be dead”. Now I am 2 years sober, and it is one of my greatest accomplishments that I have ever done for myself, by myself.
On June 6, 2022, I moved back in with my family; they opened their arms and welcomed me back home to heal, detox, and recover. Fortunately, this time back home, I informed my family members that I had boundaries; I was still in recovery and currently medicated. My mom spoke to my dad and told him that I needed my space and that any disagreements between them should be resolved on their own and not get me involved like a referee when I was just a child. What I did a lot as a child, though, turned me into a Voracious Reader as an Adult, and it was not until I found “QuitLit,” which is interpreted as (Literature of Quitting Drinking), that I began to dive into the readings, journaling, and self-reflections. I felt less alone and connected with other people online and on social media. Afterwards, I decided to seek out a therapist, and it has been vital to my growth and mental health. Reconnecting with my Family (Repairing the damages done to each other many years ago, through support and communication), reading, community, and therapy are the glorious components that have kept me sober. Taking it one day at a time, it is not easy, but I keep going.
About the author, Jorgie: I’m a kindergarten teacher who’s been an educator for 16 years. I am two years sober, and proud of it. I like to do writing on the side, and have two dogs and one cat.
Jorgie has recently created a Substack to continue to share his work, and you can follow him on Instagram here. His IG stories are so fun to follow!
A friend recently opened a discussion on the topic “courage over comfort” in a sobriety support meeting, and reflecting on that message was incredibly healing for me.
For me, choosing courage over comfort means being willing to try again, even when there’s a risk of heartache.
In January, I experienced a miscarriage in my first trimester. It was a devastating blow that left me in a very dark place for a while.
Someone asked me, “Why would you try again? Why risk exposing yourself to that pain if you might miscarry again?”
Sure, choosing not to try again would be the safer option. I wouldn’t have to worry about new, uncontrollable factors entering my life. There would be a sense of certainty. But being safe also keeps me limited to a small range of emotions, much like when I was drinking.
We deserve to feel the full range of human intensity. Cutting myself off from potential negative emotions out of fear also blocks me from experiencing the deepest joys. That kind of limiting safety is something I don’t want.
Here’s the thing: I’m not actively seeking heartache, but I’m not scared of it either. My recovery journey has equipped me with the tools to face anything and trust that I can get through it. My miscarriage in January taught me that recovery doesn’t exempt us from life’s tribulations but transforms our ability to navigate them. I understand that my sobriety owes me nothing—I trust it enough to know it has equipped me with the means to handle life’s challenges without needing to escape.
Not only that, but I am in a place where I trust my body fully. From the time I was a little girl, I was conditioned to put so much energy into trying to transform this body without realizing all it’s capable of and without recognizing its infinite wisdom. This body has gotten me through so many moments I didn’t think I would survive, so I have full faith that she will act accordingly in my journey moving forward. I just have to lean into her, listen to her, respect her, and treat her with care. If my body chooses to carry a pregnancy, I trust her, and if she doesn’t, I trust her, too. She’ll make the big decisions for me, not fear.
What about you? How do you approach choosing courage over comfort in your own life?
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I came across a quote by Dr. Brené Brown that really resonated with me, and I felt moved to share it here: “True belonging doesn’t require that we change who we are. It requires that we be who we are.”
You might already have a little voice in your head saying, “But Jessica, being myself led me to be outed from a space and actually made me feel isolated and not a sense of belonging!”
I believe that authenticity will not lead you to belong among people who are wrong for you. If people can’t tolerate the discomfort your true self brings or if their values are so misaligned with yours that you never agree on important matters (not like debating pizza toppings, though I might have to unfriend you if you’re anti-pineapple), it might be worth exploring if those people are right for you. Why force yourself to sit at a table that was never meant for you? Maybe your table is elsewhere, or you can create a new one for others to join.
Now, that little voice might come back and counter with, “But Jess, sometimes being authentic hurts others’ feelings, and they get upset with me. How can I be real without hurting others?”
I’m curious about what kind of “hurt” feelings you’re referring to because we can be true to ourselves without tearing others down. The only context where I can imagine authenticity hurting someone is when setting a boundary that someone doesn’t like, and they feel hurt because they’re being denied a certain type of access to you. Boundary setting can happen as a result of practicing authenticity, but let’s be clear: disappointing someone with a limit isn’t the same as tearing someone down. Being true to ourselves doesn’t require us to inflict pain on others. I’ve encountered people who claim to be “honest” or “real” when they’re actually just being hurtful. We can be honest without intentionally causing harm to others.
So, with that said, what if we adopted the perspective that belonging is about being authentic? How would our approach to others change if we fully embraced our true selves? Where might we find ourselves fitting in?
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I really wish I had a camera was a thought that lived in my mind the entire time I was at one of the treatment facilities I stayed at in 2020.
I spent five weeks in this facility, and though my memory of my arrival there is spotty, there are several snapshot moments of this experience I hope I never forget.
This is one of them.
“Karaoke? Here in a rehab? No way. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I laughed while chatting with my friend Andy. Andy is this massive 6’5″ radiant personality I still get to text with to this day. We were in line for lunch at the cafeteria after finishing one of our group therapy sessions. There were eager murmurs among fellow residents that one of the staff members said she would bring in a mic and speaker set if we, the people who miraculously hadn’t killed themselves in recent weeks, were willing to do karaoke during her shift supervising us on Friday night.
It was early summer in 2020. After flipping my car upside down on Bardstown Road in Louisville, KY, I ended up in this treatment facility. The idea of going from barely wanting to be alive to singing into a mic in front of other people without a single drop of alcohol in my body was wild. I mean, I had to be locked away in a treatment facility because I couldn’t bring myself to stop drinking safely. Now, these people want to get me to sing along to a song on a microphone?
So many thoughts ran through my mind in response to this idea: What if I’m not fun to others and I just bore them? I’m not good enough to get up in front of others and just be. I like my singing voice, but I’m scared it’s not good enough to be a strong voice and that I can’t be silly enough to be comically bad for karaoke. Is there even such a thing as fun without alcohol? I’d like to watch others try. I love karaoke, but me? Sober? I’ll have to pass.
As we sat down to eat, Danielle, the staff member the buzz was about, approached our table. As usual, she was beaming, “Did y’all hear about karaoke on Friday? You ready, Jess?” She looked me in the eyes and smiled, which slowed the racing panic of my detoxing brain.
Danielle always put me at ease because her lived experience instilled hope that this repetitive cycle I found myself in would one day stop. In Drowning in Shallow Water: Chapter 1, I share how I learned that Danielle had also lost her partner to a drug overdose. Despite this loss, she was sober and working with others. Danielle gave me hope that I could find joy and love after losing my boyfriend, Ian. Her lived experience and confidence in how she conducted herself made me think, Maybe I can try this karaoke thing on Friday night.
I turned my face to Danielle, smiled while hesitantly shrugging my shoulders, and said, “I really don’t want to do it, but since you’re putting it together, Danielle, I’ll try it.”
“You won’t regret this, Jess!” Danielle declared.
And dammit, she was right.
On Friday night, Danielle came in for her shift. She decorated the residential lounge area, turned the overhead lights off, and connected her karaoke machine to her phone. As the music started playing and I felt the bass of the music vibrate a little bit, the sensory experiences began to take me back. The thumping with the darkness and the flashing lights from the machine took me back to being at a bar or club.
But I wasn’t at the club. I was in treatment.
One of the younger residents, Elly, got up to do a song. In our therapy groups, she was often disengaged and rarely used her voice. I assumed she did not want to take up space, so I remember my curiosity when I saw her awkwardly standing before us, her hand on the mic and the other on her hip. We waited for what felt like ages, and then the words came. Elly took a deep breath, closed her eyes, gripped the microphone with both hands and came to life.
I wish I could remember the song, but I don’t. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. What mattered was that Elly was freed beyond the walls of the treatment facility in those few moments. As she danced and performed as if she was on stage somewhere else, I elbowed Andy next to me, and I held up my hands as though I was holding up a real camera and took a snapshot of Elly.
So, what happened afterward?
After letting herself be seen, Elly started to speak up more in groups. And me? I did eventually sing, too, just not on that day. 🙂
On the left, me doing karaoke in my active addiction. On the right, karaoke sober.
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