The big, fat, boozy lie that’s taken me more than 40 years to unpack

Deciding to quit was at once exhilarating and terrifying. Exhilaration at the possibilities of sobriety and terror at everything I was about to lose. My liver would no longer be adrift in a lake of Pinot Grigio, but would I ever enjoy life again?

Never one to do things by halves (see: “drinking”), I pitched myself headfirst into sobriety literature and sober-themed podcasts. There is something uniquely powerful about reading and listening to other people’s stories about struggling with alcohol. Every story is unique, yet at the same time every story is also the same.

Initially, I thought stopping drinking was just about, well, stopping drinking. And in those first testing days and weeks, it was. I had one job: don’t drink. And that was more than enough to cope with, especially as beer o’clock rolled around each day.

But as those weeks turned into months and I dived more deeply into the so-called “soberverse”, I began to appreciate that putting down the bottle was only the beginning.

After reaching the baseline of not drinking, I had to begin the hard work of considering why I drank in the first place, how to manage emotions without outsourcing that work to grog, and what to do with all the time I had been gifted now that drinking was no longer my No.1 occupation.

Getting sober left me facing myself with nowhere to hide. It’s a deeply confronting and uncomfortable place to stand.

And the biggest fear was how I could possibly socialise without a drink in hand.

There’s no denying alcohol is an enormously effective social lubricant. You need only witness the rising volume and change in body language at any gathering once the booze begins to hit to know that. And connecting with others is one of our most basic needs – the negative effects of loneliness on both mental and physical health have been well documented.

My first forays into sober socialising were terrifying. There was no easy way through, but gradually I got the hang of it, one sparkling water at a time. It was like reawakening a long dormant muscle, and I learnt new strategies: arrive early, leave when it starts getting messy, drive home and wake up fresh (and, maybe, just a little smug) the next morning.

And, trust me, no one ever notices you’ve slipped out the door.

Gradually, like the Russian doll I recall from my childhood on my aunt’s mantelpiece, the benefits of sobriety have unpacked themselves. Better sleep? Tick. Mental clarity? Tick. Anxiety tamed? Tick. A sense of peace and calm? Tick. Health benefits too many to list? Tick. Tick. Tick.

Will I ever go back? Hubris is one of the many enemies of sobriety. I would be a fool to say never. One of my favourite sobriety aphorisms (the soberverse loves a good saying) is that no matter how far you are down the road to recovery, you’re only the same distance from the ditch.

But I don’t want to drink again, and I have no intention of doing so. The only regret I have over this quite unexpected and delightful turn in my life is that it has come so late.

I mentioned this to Valli. “It’s never too late and you’re never too old,” she said.

And for the sober-curious, she had this advice: “If you’ve been thinking about it, give yourself a year to see what a sober life could be like. I’ve been sober 26 years and it just keeps getting better.”

A year ago I was terrified ditching the booze meant giving up practically everything I valued – fun, connection, spontaneity and even a lot of who I am.

It turns out I could not have been more wrong. I’ve given up one thing and got everything in return.

I’ll (not) drink to that.

Nick Galvin writes at: nickgalvin.net

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