Tag: wellness journey

Hey, hi, hello! Happy Friday!

Today I want to talk about my sobriety. I’ll be honest, I have very bittersweet feelings about it. On one hand, I am incredibly proud of myself. Like, over-the-moon proud. Not just because I saw what needed to be done and did it, but because I’ve done it on my own, cold turkey.

I decided I wasn’t going to drink or smoke anymore and, with the exception of that small glass of champagne at dinner last weekend, I haven’t since November 17th. I haven’t sought out a drink, I haven’t ordered one, I haven’t made one. I haven’t smoked a bowl or lit up a joint or taken a gummy. I am actively getting sober all on my own, and that is huge.

And at the very same time, I am grieving. Drinking, vaping, and THC have all been woven through my life and identity for years. Letting them go feels like losing old (very toxic) friends. Two things can be true at once: I’m deeply proud of myself, and I’m deeply sad.

My complicated relationship with alcohol

Drinking has been part of my life since I was 18. Even before I had my first drink, I already had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol in my head. I built this story that alcohol would help me fit in, make me “cool,” make me easier to be around. I believed that if I could drink a lot, people would be impressed by me.

I sought it out at parties, with friends, anywhere I could. I wanted to feel buzzed, if not outright drunk. I wanted to escape, even though I never would have called it that back then. I told myself I was just “taking the edge off” or being social. It felt like a tool to turn down the volume on my anxiety and my overthinking. If I had a drink in my hand, I convinced myself I was easier to be around, less awkward, less “too much.”

I drank whether I was out with friends or at home by myself. I was drinking almost every single night unless I was sick, and even on those nights, I felt sad and disappointed that I “couldn’t” drink. Looking back, it’s painfully clear that I was actively numbing feelings I didn’t want to deal with. It was always easier to pour another glass of wine than to sit with myself and admit something needed to change.

A long chapter with nicotine

Before I ever started drinking, there were cigarettes. I started smoking when I was 17, another desperate attempt to numb big feelings and try to fit in or become someone I thought would be easier to love.

When I got to college, it really took off. I was smoking about a pack a day and I thought I was so cool for it. I was a moody English major at UGA, so of course I framed it as leaning into the “aesthetic.” I knew it was bad for me, but I told myself, “I’m young, I’ll quit later, it’ll be fine.” I loved the ritual: going outside, taking a break from everything else, just focusing on the cigarette. I really did love it.

When I turned 23, vaping started becoming a thing and I tried it. Almost immediately, I switched from cigarettes to vapes. I could smoke inside now—big win, right? It was terrible and great at the same time. I vaped like a chimney until I was 31, and then when the negative side effects (like a perpetual sore throat and feeling constantly off) outweighed the high, I decided to quit. I quit cold turkey—no patches, no gum, just done. The withdrawal was absolute hell, but I did it. And I was so, so proud.

Then, about two years ago, right after I created distance with my family and fell into heavy grief, I started hanging out with a new friend who vaped. One night, after a little too much wine, I asked if I could just have one puff. I told myself it was no big deal. Huge mistake.

She had a disposable with her and offered it to me to keep since there “wasn’t much left.” I told myself I could control it. Spoiler: I absolutely could not. As soon as it ran out, I bought more. Before I knew it, I was vaping like a chimney again and ordering them online in bulk so I’d never run out.

Very quickly, I was right back in addiction. I felt ashamed, disappointed, and embarrassed. I had been so proud to have quit, and then I threw all that work away for “just one puff.” I leaned hard on vaping again as a coping mechanism, and it was unhealthy on every level—physically, emotionally, mentally.

Finally, a few months ago, I’d had enough. I threw all my vapes away. Again, the withdrawal process was hell, but I got through it. Twice now, I have quit nicotine cold turkey. I think that experience gave me the courage and proof I needed to admit that I could also get sober from alcohol and THC.

My long love affair with THC

I started smoking weed toward the end of college, and pretty quickly it became a daily thing alongside the alcohol. Once again, I told myself it made me fun and interesting and that people would be impressed that I smoked and drank as much as I did. I wore it like a badge of honor, when really it was a giant red flag.

I leaned on THC heavily for a long time—not just for my anxiety, but also for my appetite. When I was struggling to eat, I told myself that weed “helped.” And sometimes it did make me hungry. But by the time it kicked in, I was usually too tired or out of it to make a real meal. So most of the time, I ended up eating tons of ultra-processed snack foods that only made everything worse.

When I was going through chemo, I grabbed onto THC even tighter. I didn’t want to take all the prescription anti-nausea meds; I didn’t want more chemicals in my system than I already had from chemo. Weed was a more “natural” option, and it worked quickly for the nausea, so I convinced myself it was good for me and that I needed it.

Up until very recently, I was numbing myself daily with some mix of alcohol, THC, and nicotine. Now that I’ve stepped back, it’s very clear how much that contributed to my burnout—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I was running from myself in every direction.

Realizing “cutting back” wasn’t enough

For a while, I tried to compromise with myself. I said I would only drink on weekends. I’d only smoke before meals “so I could eat enough.” I tried to negotiate with my addictions like they were reasonable roommates instead of what they really were—escape hatches that kept me stuck.

But the more I “cut back,” the more I noticed I was counting down to the next time I was “allowed” to have a drink or smoke. My whole brain would orient around that next moment of relief. And as soon as I realized that, I knew I had a bigger problem on my hands.

So I made the hard decision: no more “cutting back,” just no more. No more nicotine. No more THC. No more alcohol. Cold turkey.

I am incredibly proud of myself for that. And I am also very much grieving. These vices became huge parts of my personality and my routines. They were my constant companions when I felt lonely, overwhelmed, or “too much.”

Two things can be true: proud and grieving

Last night, I got really sad about all of this. Not because I doubt my decision—I know this is the right choice for me—but because I am finally allowing myself to feel the grief beneath the habits.

I’m sad for the younger versions of me who didn’t believe she was worth quitting for. The versions of me who didn’t think she had the strength to stop, who was so afraid of her own feelings that she’d rather numb them out every single night than risk being “too sensitive” in front of anyone.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been told I was “too sensitive,” like it was a character flaw. So I adapted. I learned how to shove big feelings down and drown them in a glass or a puff or an edible instead of letting anyone see them. It felt safer to numb than to risk being shamed again.

Now I’m realizing that if I truly want to heal, I have to learn how to feel my feelings in real time, in their full intensity, without immediately reaching for something to shut them off. And in order to do that, I have to let go of the things that help me numb.

So that’s what I’m doing. And it is hard. It is also beautiful. Two things can be true at once.

Learning to actually feel my feelings

Last night in bed, I was thinking about all of this and I realized I wanted to write about it today. I decided I was finally ready to share this part of my journey in detail here.

As I lay there, specific memories started surfacing—times when I wanted to drink, times when I drank way too much, times when I wanted to smoke, times when I got way too high, and most importantly, the “why” underneath all of it. And instead of shoving those feelings back down or distracting myself, I just let myself cry.

I breathed through it. I let my chest ache. I let the tears come. And then, surprisingly, the wave passed a lot quicker than I expected and I was actually able to fall asleep pretty easily afterward.

I’ve cried a few times while writing this post too. Same thing—it moved through me faster because I didn’t slam the door on it. I let the energy move instead of trying to hold it in or cover it up.

Letting myself feel my feelings sounds like the most basic thing in the world, but for me, it’s brand new. I’ve struggled with this my whole life. So being able to do it even a few times feels huge. And I know I’m only able to do it now because I’ve given myself the space to get sober. I’ve taken the numbing mechanisms off the table so I can actually hear myself.

I am incredibly proud of myself. I am also grieving. Two things can be true at once, and I am making space for both.

Let’s talk about it 💬

Have you ever given up a habit, coping mechanism, or identity that felt like “part of you,” even when you knew it wasn’t healthy? How did you navigate the grief and the growth that came with that change?

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If you resonated with this, I’d love for you to stick around. I’m sharing my healing journey in real time—sobriety, nervous system healing, inner child work, and learning how to feel my feelings without numbing them out.

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Love always, Bailz 💜