There was a time when alcohol felt like my answer to everything. Stressed? Have a drink. Sad? Drink. Celebrating? Definitely drink. It became a part of my life so quietly that I didn’t even realise how much space it had taken up. But somewhere along the line, that drink I reached for to unwind started to become the thing I needed just to feel vaguely okay.
And when you’re dealing with depression, that’s a dangerous line to blur.
I was a heavy drinker for years. It wasn’t about wild nights out or wild parties. Most of the time it was just me, a bottle, and a need to turn the world down a notch. Eventually, my body gave me a reality check—diabetes. I had no choice but to pull back. That moment forced me to take stock of what I was doing to myself, physically and mentally. And for a while, I was proud of that shift. I felt better, clearer, more like me.
But then, my mum died.
Grief has a way of breaking the dam, doesn’t it? And suddenly I found myself back in old habits, almost instinctively. Drinking wasn’t just about pain—it was about comfort. Familiarity. And it worked… for a while. It softened the sharp edges. But underneath it all, I knew I was slipping. Not into oblivion—but into avoidance. And avoidance never really heals anything.
There’s another layer to this, too. My last relationship was built on drink. It was our thing. Our routine. Our rhythm. Nights together always had a bottle open. It became how we coped with life and with each other. Looking back, that really saddens me. We could’ve had so much more—real conversations, real connection—but instead, we blurred it all with booze. I don’t want that again. I deserve more than that. And so does the next person I love.
But here’s the twist: this story isn’t a sad one. Not anymore.
Yes, alcohol was a crutch. Yes, I’ve had relapses and dark days. But through it all, I’ve learned more about myself than I ever did during those hazy nights. I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about being flawless—it’s about recognising when you’re lost and having the guts to turn around.
These days, I’m kinder to myself. I drink occasionally, but with awareness—not with desperation. I check in with myself more. I sit with my feelings instead of running from them (most of the time, anyway). I write. I walk. I breathe. I talk to people. And slowly, the fog has started to lift. It’s not perfect—but it’s better. It’s real.
Most importantly, I’ve started to feel proud again. Not just because I cut back on drinking, but because I’ve finally started choosing myself. My health. My peace. My future.
So if you’re someone who’s leaning on drink to get through it—please know you’re not alone. And also know: it doesn’t have to be this way forever. You can change. You can heal. You’re allowed to rewrite your story—even if you spilled a few drinks along the way.
Alcohol might’ve been part of my past, but it won’t define my future. I’m walking forward now, with a clearer head and a much fuller heart.
And that, for me, is the real win.