loss – Bottomless to Sober

“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.

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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“It’s not about feeling better. It’s about getting better at feeling.”
– Dr. Gabor Maté

Just a little over twenty-four hours ago, as I said goodbye to my family in Costa Rica at the San José airport, I felt a shift in my body, releasing gentle sobs. My partner, his mother, his son, and I had just cleared airport security, concluding a whirlwind week in Costa Rica. This trip, filled with emotional highs and lows, began with the sudden and heartbreaking death of my eldest sister, Sandra, on Friday, the 24th.

She passed away just an hour after we arrived.

Last Friday, my brother-in-law, Toti, who has been married to my second oldest sister, Lorena, since before I was born, picked us up and informed me that Sandra was “delicada” (delicate). I had noticed her silence in our “Hermanas” WhatsApp group chat over the previous few days and had promised myself I’d check in on her as soon as we got to Costa Rica.

“Y puedo ir a ver a Sandra?” I asked. “Can I go see Sandra?”

“No, vieras es que está delicada, y nadie puede entrar a verla.” Toti responded tenderly, explaining that she was in medical isolation due to her condition.

A familiar sinking feeling settled in my stomach. By now, I’ve experienced enough loss to recognize that sensation, the one that tells me something is profoundly wrong even before I have all the evidence.

My body knows when I’m about to lose someone before I do, and over time, I’ve learned to understand this intuitive language. When she warns me of an approaching loss, I cocoon myself in the reminder that there’s nothing I can’t face. So when Lorena called me within the hour to notify me of Sandra’s passing, I knew I was safe to feel the shattering blow.

A younger version of me would have been terrified to cry in front of strangers, especially in the middle of a coffee shop, where I was when I received the news. I would have fought the tears and tried to hold them back. Instead, I let my chest heave with sobs and let the tears flow freely. I allowed myself to feel the unfairness of losing my sister at 66 when many of our elders have lived well into their 80s. I cried for her husband, who has been with her since they were teens. They were supposed to grow old together—y ahora qué? And I cried for my mother, who, at 85, shouldn’t have to say goodbye to her child.

With my sisters and mom. Possibly around 2015.

Grief reminds us of all the “shoulds” and “supposed tos” that are shattered by the reality that we can’t control outcomes.

In Costa Rica, funeral services and mass are held within 24 hours of a person’s passing. So I paused my trip with my partner’s family to attend my sister’s services. One of the most moving moments was when my niece, Alexa, Sandra’s youngest, shared beautiful remarks in remembrance of her mother. She spoke of her mom being reunited with loved ones who had long departed and said she knew her mom was dancing to Cuban music in a heavenly space with my dad.

Though we had different fathers, my dad entered my Costa Rican sisters’ lives shortly after my mom came to the United States. He always helped my mom support her children left in Costa Rica. Papi was loved, especially for his generous heart and of course, love of dancing. So to hear his name called upon at my sister’s funeral moved me SO much.

For the rest of the week, I traveled with my partner’s family, introducing them to my family’s culture and letting them see me. There were times I needed breaks, times I needed to cry, times I needed to ground myself in the sand or sit in the rain. Two things can be true at once: I could travel to a country that holds so many precious memories for me and share it with others, while also feeling the familiar sensation of grief in my body.

I feel it daily—for my father, Ian, my little bean lost in January, and now, Sandra.

Sobriety allows me to move through all the feelings, even conflicting ones, without self-judgment.

There is no right way to grieve.

Playa Piuta. Limón, Costa Rica.

Reflect: In moments like these, how do you navigate grief and the rest of everyday life? Feel free to email me at jessica@bottomlesstosober.com and share your thoughts and experiences.

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Tag: loss

Four Years Sober Today: Facing Possible Loss Without Escape

“It’s not about feeling better. It’s about getting better at feeling.”