Sobriety Diary: Weeks 7–10—The Messy Middle

The high of early sobriety has faded, and what’s left is the quiet work of becoming someone new.

Dates: September 8th–October 5th

Days Sober: 70

Seventy.Days.Sober.

You know those nightmares where, for a split second after waking, you still think they’re real? I dreamt that I drank—that I fumbled my 90-day challenge. As I woke, I felt a deep sense of dread and shame. When I finally came to, I was shocked at how profound the feeling of disappointment was.

Will She or Won’t She?

I’ve had various comments along the lines of “when you’re drinking again,” and then the person starts rattling off the alcohol-fuelled activities we’ll do. I know it’s well-meaning, but I get a twinge in my stomach. I feel that’s a very subtle but clear gut reaction indicating I’m unsure about my future with alcohol.

Recently, my mum bought wine at the store we always go to. They obviously haven’t seen me in a while, no longer reaching for the Spanish reds, and asked how I was doing. Mum told them I’m not drinking at the moment, and when they asked if I was ever going to drink again, she explained she didn’t know but hoped one day I would sip champagne and share a glass with her, here and there.

We’ve imagined it often: sitting in her new apartment’s plunge pool, sipping champagne with a view of the Alps. I can already feel the heat of the water mix with the coolness of the winter air, feel the stem of the champagne glass in my hand and the crispness of the bubbles hit my tongue (please be Ruinart Blanc de Blancs).

It’s a scenic, romantic view. But I can’t promise when I’ll be able to partake.

What’s becoming clear is that it's unlikely I’ll celebrate reaching day 90 by uncorking a good bottle of red wine. It seems wildly contradictory to do that.

And why shouldn’t 90 days turn into 100?

Still, I’m at a crossroads, and so I’ve enlisted the help of a new therapist to explore my new relationship with alcohol.

We’ve only had three sessions, and in the third one, I asked her point-blank, based on what I had told her, should I never, ever touch alcohol again? She said no, but that given the transformation I’m on, it could very well be that I end up in a place where I simply don’t want to have it anymore.

Writing publicly and honestly about my relationship with alcohol places an enormous amount of scrutiny on myself. I can practically feel the eyeballs on me, waiting for me to post an aesthetically pleasing Instagram of a glass of champagne so they can say, “Ha! See! She’s not so holy,” or “tsk, tsk… that girl really shouldn’t be drinking.” Or worse, if I continue my streak, I risk becoming someone’s accidental sobriety mascot—a promise I never made to anyone.

The Moderation Question

A few weeks ago, I tried my hand at a non-alcoholic cabernet sauvignon. It was like drinking battery acid, so I poured it down the drain. I tried the non-alcoholic “rosé champagne” my mum had bought for me as a “hurrah, your bunion surgery is done.” It was cute sitting in the sun on the terrace with my bandaged foot propped up on pillows and a flute of something sparkling in hand, but it was just pink sugar water—optically festive, but not super exciting.

With my newfound 24/7 clarity, I’m going, okay, there are clearly a lot of benefits to not drinking, and I’m happy to make that a long-term thing. But I’m also having a hard time accepting that I’ll never sit in a candle-lit wine bar again, sipping a deep red while immersed in intimate conversation. And before you say, “Oh, it’s the intimacy you’re craving,” I’ve been out plenty during these last 70 days and sat in ambient bars and restaurants with great conversation to know that’s not what I’m missing. I truly miss the experience of tasting an exciting new red wine.

At the same time, when I imagine having alcohol again, part of me feels I’ll be wildly disappointed in myself for breaking the streak, and I probably wouldn’t enjoy the inevitable fuzziness.

While I feel my relationship with alcohol has fundamentally shifted, the question is, can I reintroduce it moderately without losing myself to the social buzz that once defined my weekends? That answer may lie in my growing dedication to my physical health.

When I view alcohol through the lens of belonging, I crave connection. Through the lens of health, I crave discipline. And if I want the body—and life—I say I do, there are no shortcuts. You can’t drink three bottles of wine a week and call it self-care.

A Gateway to a New World?

When you stop drinking, you get a lot of time back. I’ve spent mine reflecting on what I actually want life to look like. While I want it hangover-free, I also want sobriety to show up physically—to look as good as it feels.

I’ve always wanted a lean, toned body, and I’ve known for years that my love for wine massively impacted my ability to sculpt this physique (so does PCOS, but that’s another story). Now that I’ve removed the last culprit, I’ve been taking a keen interest in what it takes to get lean.

I’ve lifted consistently for a year. My health has improved, my weight has dropped, but the muscle definition I wanted never appeared.

Suddenly I’m elbow-deep in Instagram fitness influencer pages, using calorie calculators, understanding macros, and I’ve started weighing my food. While this might seem disordered, it’s not. All fitness people seem to agree on something: small calorie deficit, lift heavier, get enough protein. I simply had no idea how many calories or grams of protein I was consuming, and it was eye-opening. Turns out I wasn’t getting enough protein, and by undereating the first part of the day (I thought I had been doing well here), I was overeating in the evening. My nightly obsession with inhaling almond butter started making sense.

I shunned fitness accounts for years—partly because they reminded me that I lacked discipline and partly because I didn’t know how to separate healthy ambition from old eating disorder patterns. With new motivations, curiosity, and compassion, now I can.

These fitness accounts all have a unified message when it comes to alcohol: it sabotages weight loss and lean muscle. It’s not that I didn’t know that, but now that I’ve removed the noise of wine, I’m ready to listen to the choir. Before, I just put in earbuds.

About eight years ago, a personal trainer challenged me to go three months without alcohol to reach the body I wanted. I chortled, said no, then continued to do my kettlebell step-ups.

During this 90-day experiment, I’ve thought about him often. I think he’d be proud.

What Comes Next

Ten weeks of no alcohol, and I feel like I’m standing on dry land (no pun intended). The first few weeks were tough—my thoughts collided as they tried to make sense of this new normal. I know I don’t want to go back to my liberal weekend pours, but I also know I’m not ready to flash sobriety chips either. Right now, it’s about finding balance—honouring my pace without bending to those who want me to drink again or those who want me to swear it off forever.

Maybe one day I’ll sit in my mum’s plunge pool, and we’ll clink our champagne glasses. Then, as the sun sets and it gets colder, we’ll go into the kitchen. She’ll ask if I want a glass of wine, and I’ll say I’m okay because I genuinely don’t want any more.

Maybe one day I’ll meet my friends for drinks, and after two Aperol spritzes, I’ll be happy to call it a night.

Maybe one day I’ll sit in a dimly lit wine bar, holding hands with the love of my life, and after a glass or two, we’ll walk home hand in hand.

But maybe I’ll just enjoy the plunge pool, the company of my friends, and the love of my life without the liquor at all.

Only time will tell.