Recovery, Sobriety, and Self-Love

Six years sober and now I know the difference between escape and freedom.

This month, I celebrate six years of sobriety.

It feels different to say it now than it did in the early days, back when every milestone felt uncertain, like it might slip through my fingers if I didn’t hold it tightly enough. Back when I still wasn’t sure who I was without alcohol.

Six years feels steadier. Embodied. Solid. Integrated.

And it carries the weight of the seven and a half years I had before I decided to experiment with drinking again, before I gave in to my curiosity, thinking, I might be different this time.

I’m grateful for all of it.

The sobriety.
The relapse.
The contrast between the two.

Because without that contrast, I wouldn’t know how sweet a life grounded in recovery can feel. And without the sweetness of sobriety, I might still be mistaking numbness for peace.

There was a time when alcohol felt like freedom.

I remember the way it dulled the sharp edges of my self-loathing thoughts. How it quieted the constant hum of social anxiety. How it let me step outside of myself—to feel lighter, more relaxed, and then to feel the dark nothing.

For a while, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because what started as relief slowly became a trap. The same thing that gave me permission to exhale eventually became the source of my deepest shame.

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from waking up and trying to piece together who you were the night before. From replaying conversations. From wondering what you said, how you sounded, who you might have hurt.

From promising yourself, never again, and then finding yourself right back there.

Alcohol gave me an escape from my emotions.

And then it gave me more emotions to escape from.

Recently, in some shadow work I’ve been doing, I uncovered a belief I didn’t realize was still quietly shaping my life.

It took me back to being a little girl.

To the time my dad began to start a life with my stepmom and her daughters.

My parents had been divorced for years but somehow I felt abandoned. There’s a logical, adult understanding of what happened.

But children don’t process things logically.

They make meaning.

And the meaning I made was this:

I’m not worth fighting for.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that belief rooted itself deep inside me. It showed up in the way I moved through relationships. In the way I braced for people to leave. In the way I tried to become easier, quieter, and accept what was unacceptable.

And in the way I reached for anything that could make me feel temporarily free from that ache.

Last week, I taught a class in Y12SR, Yoga of 12-Step Recovery, on Satya, or truthfulness.

We talked about the courage it takes to tell the truth. Not just the obvious truths, but the deeper ones-the truths we’ve built entire identities around avoiding.

Recovery gave me the space to start telling the truth about my life.

Sobriety gave me the clarity to see my part in it.

And this season is asking me to go even further and question the stories I’ve carried for years.

To ask: Is this true?
Or is this something I learned to believe in order to survive?

That question has been showing up in unexpected ways.

Lately, I’ve been experimenting with muscle testing as a way of tuning into my body to uncover emotions that may be stored beneath the surface.

One day, I tested for the presence of trapped emotions.

Yes.

The emotion that came up was disgust.

I asked if it was mine.

Yes.

If it was generational.

Yes.

If it was something I had absorbed from my environment.

Yes.

I paused, feeling the weight of that, and asked if I needed to know more.

Yes.

I asked if the disgust was related to body image.

Yes.

I felt my chest tighten.

I asked, Have all the women in my maternal line felt disgust toward their bodies at some point?

Yes.

Tears started forming before I even asked the next question.

Do I need to know more?

Yes.

So I asked, Have all the women in both my maternal and paternal line carried this disgust toward their bodies?

Yes.

And I lost it.

I wept as I stood there, feeling the weight of generations move through me, pulsing through my body. It didn’t feel abstract. It felt alive. Tangible. Like something that had been waiting to be acknowledged.

Something that had been passed down quietly, without words.

And in that moment, I realized

Some of what I’ve carried was never just mine.

There’s another principle in yoga philosophy: Ahimsa, or nonviolence.

It’s often talked about in terms of how we treat others but it also applies to how we treat ourselves.

Our thoughts.
Our inner dialogue.
The stories we repeat.

Loving myself now means not continuing to harm myself with beliefs or emotions that were never mine to carry alone.

It means looking at that younger version of me, the one who believed she wasn’t worth fighting for, and meeting her with compassion instead of judgment.

It means honoring the women who came before me without continuing the cycle of quiet self-rejection.

Lately, life has felt heavy.

I’m moving through the messiness of a breakup. Learning how to co-parent in a new way. Grieving the loss of family members.

Some days, it feels like everything is being asked of me at once.

And if I’m honest, anger has been a constant companion.

But anger isn’t the enemy I once thought it was.

Through recovery, and through God’s grace, I’ve learned that anger can be a signal. A source of energy. A call to action.

It’s what helps me set boundaries.
Speak truth.
Choose differently.

What once felt destructive is now something I’m learning to direct.

Six years ago, I chose sobriety again.

But this time, it wasn’t just about quitting alcohol.

It was about coming home to myself.

About learning how to stay present, even when it’s uncomfortable. About feeling what I used to numb. About telling the truth even when it shakes the ground beneath me.

Today, I feel like the truest version of myself yet.

Not because my life is perfect.
Not because I have everything figured out.

But because I’m no longer running.

I love who I am.

And maybe more importantly, I love the girl I used to be in my messiest, most uncertain moments.

The one who was hurting.
The one who was searching.
The one who didn’t know where she belonged.

She’s the one I’m fighting for now.

And this time

I’m not leaving her behind.