Dear Readers,
I’m happy that you’ve chosen to spend a few minutes with me today. It’s an important one for me as I mark seven years of alcohol-free living. Reaching this milestone brings a sense of calm and contentment that I never dreamed I’d feel.
For a long time, I thought sobriety was about giving something up. After all I’ve experienced since May 13th, 2019, I now understand it differently.
Choosing a sober life was about finally being willing to embrace all that my life presents – the pain and the joy.
This morning I was dead-heading geraniums in the backyard when it struck me how present I felt doing such a simple task. I’ve done it countless times before, usually distracted, rushing, or lost in thought. But this morning felt different.
I noticed the warmth of the sun on my skin, the rhythm of my breath, and the quiet steadiness in my body. Even when my thoughts drifted somewhere less peaceful, I was able to gently bring myself back again. That’s the thing about our thoughts. With awareness, we get to see our thoughts, and to choose which ones serve us and which ones don’t.
That might not sound like much. But for someone who spent decades trying to escape herself, it feels quietly extraordinary.
I almost take it for granted now – not having to endure the punishing side effects of excessive drinking. Seven years without hangovers, without waking in the early hours full of dread, without the exhausting mental negotiation that drinking creates. But if I’m honest, giving up alcohol wasn’t actually the hardest part.
The hardest part was learning how to be with myself without reaching for something to numb what I felt. Alcohol had helped me avoid that for a very long time.
On the surface, I looked as though I was coping well enough. I showed up for my family. I volunteered, studied, practised yoga, tended to my garden, held a marriage together and raised two beautiful children.
But internally, I was anxious, exhausted, and sad. It reminds me of a duck gliding across water. Calm above the surface while underneath, her legs are paddling frantically just to stay afloat.
That was me.
Therapy eventually became a lifeline. It took a while of uncomfortable sessions before I found a therapist I could trust and have a connection with. When I felt safe enough to open up, the hard work began. Slowly, I started to untangle beliefs about myself that had shaped my life for decades.
One of the biggest revelations was recognising how much of my energy had been spent focusing on what was missing. I began to see how I’d constantly longed for another version of my life. In my body I was in Australia, but my mind was stuck in Ireland, romanticising what I’d left behind while resisting the reality that Australia had quietly become home.
Every time I returned to Ireland, I felt out of place. The homeland I obsessed over in Australia no longer existed, and neither did the version of me who’d left it behind at eighteen.
That took me years to understand. When the understanding came, so too did the grief. I cried many a tear before finally coming to a place of acceptance, and that was only recently.
And somewhere along the way, I realised that I’d spent much of my life abandoning myself emotionally while searching for belonging elsewhere.
Sobriety forced me to confront that.
It also forced me to confront the impact my unresolved pain had on certain relationships. Some of which deepened as I changed and others, sadly, fractured.  I tried to repair what I could. While some things definitely healed, others didn’t. Healing isn’t linear and sometimes relies on factors that are not within our control.
I never imagined estrangement would become part of my story, but sobriety has a way of clarifying what can no longer survive dishonesty – especially our relationship with ourselves. That clarity has been painful at times. But it has also brought enormous peace.
These days, I spend far less time thinking about what is missing and far more time appreciating what is already here. Sunday was Mother’s Day here down under and my daughter surprised me with the featured bouquet. They’re sitting on the kitchen bench beside me as I write this – a quiet reminder of how much beauty can grow from lives that once felt chaotic.
I’m sixty years old now. When I look back at the stress and chaos of my twenties and thirties, I honestly wonder how I made it this far at all. And yet somehow, here I am – healthy, deeply loved, and this week celebrating twenty-two years of marriage to a man who has walked beside me through all my ups and downs.
Damien gave up alcohol too when I did. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to support me. I don’t think either of us fully understood at the time how much our lives would change because of that one decision.
So, this piece is also for him.
Thank you for the life we’ve built together. For being solid as a rock, for your loyalty, your humour, and for standing beside me through the messier parts of becoming.
Interestingly, many of these themes found their way into the novel I’ve spent the past few years writing. Perhaps that was inevitable.
Because in the end, sobriety didn’t make my life easier.
It simply made me present enough to finally live it honestly.
Thank you for being here.
Love,
Gill x
P.S. If you’d like to follow along as I prepare to publish my debut novel later this year, and aren’t already one of my cherished subscribers, then please feel free to subscribe below.
