Sobriety Series: In Celebration of 4 Years Sober, Announcing a New Offering

As I approach the start of sober preschool, I feel nostalgic for early sobriety and am creating something for anyone trying to quit a thing.

Dearest Reader, 

On February 11th, I’ll be four years sober from alcohol. This—my imminent enrolment in sober preschool and the fact that so much time has passed since the first months of pandemic lockdown—hardly feels real.

But yes. My sober birthdate is February 11th, 2020. So, with the approach of 2024, here we are. I’m practically a four-year-old.

And while the last few years seem to have flown, my last drink and early sobriety are fading from memory. I don’t miss the drinking (I mean, sometimes I do—but rarely). I do miss the intensity and aliveness of being newly sober. 

No surprise in this, really—I’m overall prone to nostalgia. No matter how difficult a time or place or relationship from my past, give me space and I will miss and think of it fondly. It’s not even that I forget the hard parts. It’s just that, with distance, I grow to treasure them and see where they led. I pull naturally and fully towards forgiveness (at least of others; not always myself). I see a bigger picture from afar and from the future. My heart breaks and opens and fills. 

All to say, my heart’s been longing for those early days of sobriety lately. So much so that I’ve contemplated giving up something else in an effort to find my way back. But I know that will be a different experience—not better, not worse, just not the same. 

Early sobriety for me was a special container. I was living alone during a rather hardcore lockdown in Victoria. My ex-husband (with whom I’d reconciled from afar) was supposed to fly back to Canada on March 17th—just as all borders closed, closing non-Canadians out.

We were going to try again: living in the same country and city, being in relationship. Instead, flights cancelled, we entered lockdown on opposite sides of an invisible wall: him in Anacortes, Washington; me on Vancouver Island, a moored ferry ride away. Come August, when “just two weeks” had become “just do what you’re told,” I agreed to get remarried online via an officiant in Utah (somewhere neither Randy nor I have actually been). Seven years after our first marriage—with divorce and much heartbreak in between—we again said I do. He got the papers and would get into Canada.

But truthfully, secretly, I welcomed the delay and feared his eventual arrival. Even in non-sober times, this would’ve been the case—I’m a deeply solitary creature; our history was difficult. In those first months of sobriety, locked down alone except for two cats, I savoured and needed this. This container of time for just me and sobriety. This container of spaciousness without worrying: “How will I manage being around him without drinking?” (Randy doesn’t drink and has been sober himself for more than two decades. Still. I don’t find it easy to be around people; drinking made it easier.)

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I had enrolled in an online Sobriety School founded by Holly Whitaker the fall prior and, during lockdown, was in the follow-up aftercare program. I was devouring quit lit and dipping into manifestation lit like it was my second job. I was writing a memoir. The fridge was covered in Sober Girl post-its. I was numbing hardcore with work at the college (which had moved onto Zoom). I was…

Happy? Yes. I was happy. Maybe for the first time in a long time. 

Not everything was perfect. The present and future were deeply uncertain (I mean, aren’t they always). But those months of early lockdown and early sobriety and having the luxury of solitude and seclusion all felt like a gift. 

Eventually, Randy arrived. Eventually, lockdown eased. Eventually (in 2022), we moved to Nova Scotia and back in with each other. Except when writing, I barely think about alcohol anymore. Off the page and in daily life, it’s just not a thing. 

I understand this—this forgetfulness and disinterest in a drug that once owned too much of my thoughts and my body and soul—to be good. I understand it as a goddamn miracle and something I once thought impossible. And yet, I miss the newness and rawness and possibility of the old days. I miss early sobriety’s magic. I miss how it cracked me wide open. 

Image of me by Rachael Shrum

And so, to recapture a little of that, a new offering.

The first Sunday of every month, starting in January, paying subscribers of Sober Soulful will receive a special, heart-rendered offering. This is most of all for folks in the early phases of giving up a thing (whether alcohol, another substance, or a particular behaviour) and will include:

• A love letter overflowing with care and support from my heart to yours—reminiscences from my own early days and a reminder that you’re not alone; we’re in this together.

• Links that I hope will support, expand, and inspire.

• An invitation to join me and others in the comments, where you’re welcome to share and connect (or just quietly witness).

My intention is to keep this simple, loving, and full of grace. My intention is for us to come together in a small act of remembrance, recognition, celebration, and magic. The small things count for a lot. The small things are what make us. 

So. If you’re newly quitting a thing—or if you, like me, feel nostalgic for early sobriety gone by—I invite you to join us. 

If you won’t be joining us, I still appreciate you! The reality is, most of us don’t have the funds to become paying subscribers of every newsletter we’d like. (Wow, do I feel that right now—in this season of financial “surprises” and difficult choices.)

As a free subscriber, you’ll still receive at least one essay a month. You’ll also receive my utmost gratitude and love for being here. Truly. I know my language seems extra sometimes, but I feel and experience the love that pours onto the page. As Randy put it recently: “You really are super-cheese. You really feel that.” Yes. Yes, I do. 

Thank you for being here. I’d love for you to leave a comment and have some suggestions (but feel free to freestyle):

• Do you have a sober birthday we can celebrate? (Doesn’t have to be a year count. Every day matters. Every non-numerical win or milestone does too.)

• Do you have intentions around quitting something (a substance or behaviour) now or in the new year?

• If you’re already sober, what was early sobriety like for you? Pink clouds and rainbows? Grey skies and joyless? Something else?

And, if you’d rather not share, no pressure. Either way, in lieu of sending birthday gifts :), please tap the little ♡.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you. I love you. 
Dana