9 Years Sober

One day you won’t think about it so much. It’ll just be who you are.

Jen Corrace, Sleepwalker

Today, I am nine years sober.

I wasn’t going to send a newsletter this week, had been planning to give myself the week off because I haven’t been feeling great, but when I woke up this morning, I had the urge to write, so hello, hi.

I spent last weekend in Santa Fe at A Writing Room retreat. It was my first time visiting Santa Fe, but also the first writing retreat I’ve been to in ages, and the first time I’ve presented at one. First, Santa Fe is special. I’d heard this, and it’s true. The food was incredible. Highlight was La Mama (thank you

Elena Brower

for taking me). I loved it so much that I ran there for a quick second round before catching my flight Sunday morning. But, really, every place was fantastic.

Typically, when I travel for work, I hole up in my hotel room when I’m not on. I’ll come out when I present or teach or sign or whatever it is I’m there to do, but otherwise: bye. I need the quiet and the reprieve. So, aside from a few people I knew I wanted to see and talk to at this retreat, I expected it to be the same. But, no! I met new friends on the first night (

Alex Elle

,

Ryan Spear

, Roda Ahmed, Kemi Nekvapil: I love you!) and found myself wanting to spend time with them the rest of the weekend: walking around, finding each other in the conference room, sitting together, eating out, talk-talk-talking.

Alex, Roda, and I walked around Santa Fe for *years* trying to locate coffee.

From L: Elena Brower, Kemi Nekvapil, Alex Elle, Ryan Spearman at Alkemē (also fab).

Me and Elena, dorking out.

It was so unexpected and nice to feel this way, to not fly solo, to genuinely want to spend time and have fun doing it. It was a rare gift. I’m still glowy from it.

I returned home on Sunday evening and have spent the week, aside from work, caring only for the cats. T is traveling for work and Alma is with her dad. I miss them both, but it’s given me time to rest, think, and bask in a house where the only mess that’s made is mine.

Last week, I officially wrote the first words of my next book, book number three. 386 words! I’ve been planning, outlining, pinning notecards everywhere, researching, reading—doing all the not-writing things that are important for writing a book—but it was time to actually begin. The words are shit, and that’s okay. Honestly, I’m terrified about fully entering this room, which is what it feels like to me to write a book: you go into a room and you don’t come out until the book is done. No matter where you go physically, you’re still in that room mentally. The room can be magical and exciting, but mostly, it’s stuffy and boring. If you leave the room, you lose the connection, and then going back is brutal, like trying to get on a moving horse. So I’m in the room of this book now, but barely. Today, I plop myself down and stay. Send prayers.

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Sobriety. Nine years sober. What do I want to say about this?

A friend asked me the other day if getting married this time feels different than the first.

I laughed. “It’s a whole different life,” I said.

I have a teenager now instead of a five-year-old. I’m in my mid-forties, talking about perimenopause and Botox. I have a completely different career. I paid off all my debt and have a retirement account. I don’t run anymore because my body can’t take it, but I lift weights. I have cats.

By the passage of time alone, I’m in a different era, but everything good has come from sobriety, not time. Without that turn, nothing good exists. Most of all, I am genuinely, deeply, okay. On the inside.

It takes so much effort and work to really change. So much single-pointed focus, determination, and struggle. For years, I thought every day about drinking or not drinking. It was consuming and hard and, frankly, pretty miserable. Life felt small and tight. It felt sad. But underneath, with all those days of simply staying away from that one thing, a universe began to open up inside me. Once the booze was gone, it took work: emotional labor, willingness, humility, therapy (so much therapy), learning, unlearning, time, time, and more time.

But then, eventually, one day, I didn’t think about it so much anymore. And that’s what I want to tell you today. If you’re at the beginning of your own change: keep going. One day you won’t think about it so much. It’ll just be who you are.

Thank you so much for being here. I started Love Story one year ago next month, and it’s been so good for me. Hopefully, for you, too. Next week, we’ll get back to our Bigger Yes series, for paid subscribers. If you want in on that, subscribe below.

Love,
Laura

You are reading Love Story, a weekly newsletter about relationships, recovery, and writing from Laura McKowen. I’m also on Instagram, and have written two books. I love engaging with you in the comments, which are open to paid subscribers, and you can subscribe here or give a gift subscription here.

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