The First 30 Days

I like to say I’m a perfectly ordinary alcoholic, and I took a perfectly ordinary path to sobriety. Meaning I had more than a few “first days” before the one that stuck. But before I share anything about my first day, I need to say this: quitting can be dangerous. If you’ve been drinking every day, detox isn’t optional; it’s medically necessary. I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen what can happen when people try to quit alone. Seizure. Heart attack. Stroke. If there’s any doubt at all, call your doctor before you try to stop by yourself.

Accordingly, my own first day of lasting sobriety began in a hospital. My wife had arranged for me to check in, but there weren’t any open beds. The staff told my wife that I shouldn’t stop without them, and so I needed to keep drinking until a spot opened up. I naturally took that as “doctor’s orders” to hit the bar. I don’t remember much about getting to the hospital that night. I said goodbye to my family, they gave me a handful of pills, and I went to bed.

When I woke up, a nurse told me my blood pressure had been so high the night before that I was “in stroke city.” I was forty-three years old and already a stroke risk. Terrifying. Fear is common in early sobriety, but the difference between showing up afraid and showing up ready can be boiled down to one thing in my experience, and that’s surrender. By the time I reached that hospital bed, I was out of ideas. I’d tried moderating, switching drinks, spacing them out, quitting cold turkey (again, bad idea). Nothing worked. I was sick of drinking, sick of myself, and finally willing to do whatever anyone told me to do. I didn’t know what recovery looked like or what I’d do with all the time I used to spend in bars, but for the first time I was open to finding out.

What surprised me most about those first sober days wasn’t how hard it was. It was how good it felt. The people I met in the recovery community were happy. They were laughing. They looked free in a way I hadn’t felt in years. Once I stopped fighting and just followed directions, relief set in—quiet and deep. Maybe that’s what they mean by the “pink cloud.” Whatever it was, it felt like peace.

Physically, I started healing fast. My blood pressure came down. I slept through the night. I could enjoy a meal again. I remember someone saying to me, “the light is back in your eyes”. I hadn’t realized how far gone I was until people started noticing I was coming back. For the first time in years, I didn’t crave alcohol. The obsession was just … gone.

But quitting isn’t the end. It’s step zero. Alcohol wasn’t my problem. It was my solution. Stopping just exposed everything it had been hiding. Anxiety, depression, shame. Once the fog lifted, I had to start facing all of it. I’ve come to believe most mental health diagnoses made in active addiction are incomplete at best. Once the chemicals clear, you finally meet the real you.

Even without alcohol, the craving doesn’t disappear. It just moves. Sugar. Spending. Overworking. Anything that scratches the same itch. Six years in, I still catch myself doing things “alcoholically.” I’m honestly not sure how many wristwatches I own. I can never run out of diet soda. On Halloween I ate enough candy to embarrass a child. Recovery has taught me to recognize those patterns for what they are. The same compulsion in a different form. The solution is the same: take direction, stay honest, stay connected.

And for me, staying connected is the most important part. Some people try to do it alone, and I rarely see that end well. Maybe they stop drinking, but they don’t get free. Sobriety isn’t subtraction. It’s addition. You don’t just remove alcohol. You fill your life with things that make alcohol unnecessary. Joy, gratitude, serenity. Those are the antidotes to addiction.

One of the best parts of early recovery is how ordinary life starts to feel extraordinary again. A hot cup of coffee. A quiet walk. Being able to buy your kid a new pair of shoes. Recently I was sitting at a red light and there was a woman with a long gray braid crossing the street. She smiled at me, and I thought of my wife. Everything she endured, everything she forgave. I felt this surge of gratitude that we get to grow old together. Six years ago, I was drinking myself toward a stroke or a divorce. Now I can sit at a stoplight and feel lucky to be alive. That’s grace.

Sobriety changes your relationships. Some people cheer you on. Others drift away. That’s okay. It’s not about you. The ones who stay, those bonds grow deeper. You start showing up. You learn to set boundaries and respect the boundaries of others. And then there’s the recovery community itself. The people who understand you without explanation. I have met people that I know will be friends for life. Family, really.

I can’t say I remember the exact moment I checked into detox, but I do remember the first moment I truly felt sober. I was driving to work along a freeway I’d driven hungover a hundred times, and I suddenly remembered all those mornings. Sick, anxious, debating whether to stop at a gas station for a beer or call in sick. And then it hit me. I didn’t have to feel that way anymore. I never had to feel that way again. I wasn’t hungover. I wasn’t obsessed. I was just a regular guy on the way to work. The gratitude hit me so hard I almost had to pull over. Seeing through the tears was a challenge. That’s when I knew recovery wasn’t just possible. It was mine to keep.

In that moment I knew that if I could get and stay sober, I could do anything.

One Day at a Time

Treatment. Day One.

My first day in treatment we went around the room introducing ourselves, and a nineteen-year-old cocaine addict said he was celebrating sixty days clean. At the time, I had just seven (and five of those had been in detox). Two months seemed impossible. My first thought was that he had to be making it up. But of course, my thinking was flawed. I didn’t need to stay sober for two months. I only needed to stay sober today.

That’s really the essence of recovery. We can’t undo yesterday and we can’t act on tomorrow. The only choice we ever actually have is the one in front of us. That’s why “one day at a time” is more than a slogan—it’s survival. Thinking about forever is overwhelming, but deciding to go to bed sober tonight is manageable.

When I first heard the phrase, my reaction was half agreement, half eye-roll. On one hand, I understood the logic. On the other, it felt like nonsense. Before I stopped, I couldn’t imagine what life was going to look like without my daily trips to the bar. That thought alone nearly broke me. My addicted brain was already looking for ways to convince me I couldn’t do it. Over time, I came to see why this simple phrase sticks around. It works.

Building Strength in the Everyday

Our minds are rarely in the present. We’re either trapped in regret about the past or lost in anxiety about the future. For me, anxiety was always the bigger problem. Alcohol seemed like the perfect solution to calm the storm. But the truth is, there’s very little I can do about tomorrow. For me, staying in the present moment is the opposite of anxiety, and the more I practiced “staying here and now”, the more manageable sobriety became.

Recovery, I’ve learned, is a lot like solving a puzzle. You don’t have to finish it all at once. You build it piece by piece. Staying sober forever is impossible. Only staying sober right now is doable. When the urge hits, the question isn’t “how will I survive forever without a drink?” Rather, it’s “what’s the next right thing I can do in this moment?” Sometimes it’s taking a breath. Sometimes it’s calling a friend. Sometimes it’s saying out loud, “I want to drink, but I won’t right now.” Each time you do that, you’re adding another piece to the puzzle, and it’s a puzzle that you never have to be finished putting together.

I take a lot of comfort in that.

Every day in treatment we would read the daily reflections from a book called 24 Hours a Day. One entry (from July 31, if you’re interested) has stayed with me: “Anyone can fight the battles of just one day. It is only when you and I add the burden of those two awful eternities—yesterday and tomorrow—that we break down.” That truth hit me hard. I didn’t have to stay sober for sixty days, or even sixty hours. I only had to do today.

Addiction has a way of whispering lies. It tells us we’ll never make it. It convinces us we’ll fail eventually, so why not fail now? That’s the disease talking. The way to silence it is to commit to just today. I can even tell myself, “Maybe I’ll drink tomorrow. But today I won’t.” It sounds like a trick, but it works, and it builds strength one day at a time.

More than just sobriety. A way of living.

Living this way isn’t just a phrase. It’s a practice. In the beginning, my practice was simple: journaling, reading reflections, talking to other alcoholics. As I grew, it expanded into meditation, exercise, focusing on nutrition and sleep, and staying connected with my community. The details have evolved, but the principle hasn’t. Do what works today, and tomorrow will take care of itself.

Of course, life doesn’t stop throwing curveballs. Cravings come, anxiety creeps in, unexpected problems hit hard. That’s why having a daily practice matters. We don’t build these habits for the easy days. We build them so that when life gets messy, the routine is already there. Living one day at a time becomes automatic, something you fall back on without thinking.

And here’s the thing. This principle isn’t just for sobriety. Philosophers, spiritual teachers, and mystics have been saying the same thing for centuries. Life only happens one moment at a time. We addicts may have to master it to survive, but the payoff is universal. What begins as a survival tactic becomes a way of living more fully.

So when I think back to that nineteen-year-old with sixty days, I realize he wasn’t full of it. He was just doing the same thing I needed to learn how to do. He was stringing together one day at a time. When you do that long enough, those days add up into something incredible. They add up to a life.

No One Can Tell You You’re an Alcoholic

I honestly don’t remember the first time I heard that phrase. Probably because I’ve heard it countless times over the past six years. It’s a familiar line in recovery meetings, but the reason it sticks with me isn’t just repetition. It’s the truth behind it.

Sure, there’s a clinical definition of alcoholism, and people throw the term around all the time. Parents, employers, loved ones. People even joke about being an alcoholic after one too many nights at the bar. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about the real thing. The person who has a problem with drinking. A problem they can’t solve on their own.

And the reality is, no one else can make that call for you. In my experience, it’s almost impossible to get sober for someone else. Yes, people often enter recovery under pressure. An employer’s ultimatum, a spouse’s threat to leave, a judge’s order to attend meetings. But there’s a difference between going through the motions and engaging in recovery with the true intention of getting and staying sober. The first can be forced. The second has to come from within.

For me, honesty was the dividing line. I spent years trying to convince myself that I could control my drinking, trying every angle I could think of. But deep down I was lying to myself. I told myself I could solve it alone. And I couldn’t. It wasn’t until I looked in the mirror and admitted to myself you can’t do this without help that everything changed. That was the moment I became willing to listen, to follow directions, to “suit up and show up. “ Whether or not it made sense to me. Whether I wanted to.

That decision—to admit the truth to myself—was fundamental. It was the doorway to everything that followed.

Why Labels from Others Don’t Work

Having someone else label you an alcoholic often backfires. If my wife had told me directly, “You’re an alcoholic and you need help,” I probably would have let her leave before I admitted she was right. That’s hard to say, but I know myself enough to believe it.

Instead, what broke through was a question: “Don’t you want this to stop?” That question pierced my defenses. The truth was, I did want it to stop—I just didn’t know how. Saying yes to that question was my first real moment of surrender. It was the first time I admitted I was powerless, the first time I allowed myself to believe that help was not only necessary, but possible.

Living Into the Identity

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I decided, I’m an alcoholic, but by the time I walked into my first AA meeting, I had no trouble saying, “Hi, my name is Richard and I’m an alcoholic.” By then, owning that identity was a relief. It gave me a place to stand.

Over time, though, my perspective has evolved. Today, I sometimes introduce myself by saying, “I’m Richard, and I’m grateful to be sober today.” It’s not that I reject the term “alcoholic.” In AA language, I certainly am one. But my alcoholism is bigger than just my inability to stop drinking once I start. That’s a topic for another day, but the point is, the label itself is less important than the decision to seek help.

The Inner Conflict

Anyone who has googled “How do I know if I’m an alcoholic?” knows the experience: clicking through checklists, ticking off boxes, and coming face to face with the obvious. For me, the internet’s verdict was always the same: Of course you’re an alcoholic.

And yet part of me resisted. Intellectually I knew it was true, but emotionally and spiritually I kept denying it. It felt like lying to myself. The only comparison I can make is being a kid, swearing to my parents that I didn’t break the lamp, or eat the last cookie, or say the F-word—knowing full well I did. That feeling of dishonesty chewed me up inside.

Alcoholism gave me the same feeling. At 2 or 3 in the morning, wide awake and pouring down beers I didn’t want just to fall back asleep, I knew I was lying to myself. I knew I was prolonging the inevitable. That inner dissonance—knowing the truth but refusing to accept it—was the misery I carried until the day I finally admitted it to myself and asked for help.

The Bottom Line

No one can tell you you’re an alcoholic. They might see the truth. They might plead with you, threaten you, or even force you into treatment. But the only moment that matters is when you admit it to yourself.

That moment of surrender is where recovery begins.