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.