Somewhere in the multisphere lives a version of me who’s still drinking.

I think about that person a lot.

Two versions of me in the multisphere, both 47 years old. Both of us still have two kids, ages 10 and 12. But that’s where the similarities end.

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Because while I quit drinking in December 2017, this other version of me never did.

It’s not bad enough, she tells herself.
I’ve got it under control.

I picture that version of Celeste, and she is no longer married. Her husband and father of their kids packed up and left with them years ago. Maybe he leaves after a fight—a brash argument when she’s in a blackout.

Or maybe he leaves after ultimatums, begging, and pleading don’t work. When he realizes her problem is bigger than anything he can control. And he doesn’t want to watch her deteriorate before his eyes. Before their kids’ eyes.

She still sees the kids, but their relationship is hanging by threads. Her boys still love her fiercely, but they feel betrayed. Like she chooses alcohol over them—and always will.

She tells herself that’s not true at all. She would do anything for these boys, and always has! She needs the alcohol to show up for them at all. Don’t they see? It’s not her versus them… It’s them versus the world. And alcohol helps her cope. They simply don’t understand.

All the while, her drinking gets worse. Her tolerance builds like a dam in a storm, and everyone waits, terrified of the day the dam will inevitably break.

Her health has declined significantly over the last eight years. A healthy, energetic middle-aged woman shackled by a daily poison drip. The consequences of those years have added up to more doctor visits and alarming lab test results.

She carries the years on her face, in her eyes, in her gait. She wonders why everything is just so damn hard. The world is out to eat her alive. She still believes, despite the doctors, her family, and the test results, that alcohol makes things manageable.

Even as she becomes progressively lonelier, she starts to isolate more. Visits from her boys are welcome, but even then, she longs for a different kind of company.

Her mom tells her, “Your dad had his stroke at 52… is that what you want for your life?”

And she thinks, crumpled in the bedsheets of a 3 a.m. wake-up call of sweats and nausea, “I don’t know how to live any other way.”

How I wish I could hug that version of me, suffering and broken. I would tell her it’s not too late to start today. It’s never too late to have hope.

I would tell her about life in my sober dimension. Days that aren’t heavy with shame and grief. Relationships built around trust and connection. And always, always the sun rises to promise a fresh start—another chance to try again—regardless of our past.

That version of Celeste isn’t better or worse than me. She’s not smarter or dumber. She’s the same person who, in a sliding-doors moment, chose a different path. And that doesn’t define her, and it doesn’t have to debilitate her.

The gift of sobriety is in its evergreen state. We can choose it whenever and from wherever. We can show up strong and secure, or broken and gutted. And no matter what, it welcomes us with open arms. Because we know, deep down, we are coming back to ourselves.

We are coming home.

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When people ask me when I knew it was time to quit drinking, I often share a story about a visit to my kids’ pediatrician, a month or two before I quit.

We were visiting the doctor because my three-year-old had been struggling at preschool. He showed behavioral challenges that got him in trouble: aggression, defiance, and outbursts. My husband and I started attending parenting classes and reading books like The Explosive Child and Parenting Strong-Willed Children. But we felt stuck and frustrated. Scared and hopeless. A lot of the experiences in the books weren’t relevant or our results never turned out the way the books suggested.

Is there anything more discombobulating than our first realization as parents that much of what our children do is beyond our control?

So at night, in between the dinner prep and the diaper changes, I sipped my Cabernet greedily. I earned this feeling; this headspace decompression. This warm hug in my chest. It was the only time where I could accept this lack of control, and give myself grace for otherwise never feeling like enough. A good enough mom. Employee. Wife. Person. It was the only part of the day where I opened myself to the possibility that everything might work out.

I didn’t drink all day. I never started before five. But I thought about it from the moment my eyes opened to the angry clang of the alarm. My head pounding from my overindulgence the night before. Misery til the clock ticked to that magical hour I’d determined acceptable to start to my emotional morphine drip. The paradox of drinking to cope with our motherhood struggles is we sabotage tomorrow’s coping. Wine in my Stanley, greedily chasing tomorrow’s regrets.

That day at the doctor’s office, the pediatrician rattled through a spiel he must have told hundreds of parents over the years. My son was too young for testing based on the descriptions I gave, and we would need to take the dreaded wait-and-see approach, returning in a few years if the situation continued.

I probably looked distressed. I know inside I felt any hope for clear answers or solutions crumble. “In a few years” sounded like eternity for someone living day to day, holding my breath til 5 pm, then sip to sip.

The doctor offered me some parting words. “Kids like these need three things: consistency, structure and a positive environment,” he said as I grabbed our coats and ushered my three-year-old out of the room. Those words spun through my mind like a news ticker on repeat.

Consistency. Structure. Positive environment.
Consistency. Structure. Positive environment.

What did it mean? What should I do?

I knew I’d need to make some significant changes at home, but my ideas initially fell to the obvious, like starting a new daytime routine, and leaning in with kindness and compassion. I probably broke out the Pinterest search bar for “healthy routines for three-year-old.” My alcohol use hadn’t been questioned, nor did I see it as a core issue at that point, but my conscience sat in a back booth waiting patiently. Another corner puzzle piece closer to revealing the bigger picture.

I quit drinking shortly thereafter for a different reason entirely (it’s detailed in my book), but that day at the doctor’s office clung on to my memories as I got stronger and more clear-headed in my sobriety. Days to weeks, weeks to months, the fruits of my labor evidenced by my skin, my energy, sleep patterns.

So many beautiful blessings from this new lifestyle, but none more sweet than my own parenting reconstruction.

Consistency. Structure. Positive environment.

No parenting book will ever tell you that the most radical impact we can have on our children is our own healing. Sobriety meant the stepping stone to positive, impactful change. Sobriety helped me provide the nurturing and foundation my children needed from their mother. My child’s behavior did not change when I got sober, but mine did.

I look back now on that day at the doctor’s office, realizing the pediatrician wasn’t telling me how to fix my child’s behavior. He was telling me how to fix my own.

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Five months sober, my husband and I flew to Cancun for our anniversary. All-inclusive. Drink dispense…

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I hope I never have to go back to Day 1 in my recovery. One time was hard enough, thank you! But if I could go back and do early sobriety differently, I would.

There’s an instinct in early recovery to prove you can handle it alone and without asking for help. I gave in to that instinct constantly, and looking back, I see the root of the problem. I treated recovery like something to survive instead of something to build support around.

Here’s what that looked like and what I’d tell my earlier self to do instead.

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Last week, we packed up our SUV and hit the road to Pinecrest Lake, our annual destination over the last five years for UC Berkeley’s alumni family camp. And while my oldest is not big on bugs, dirt, and walking through the woods at night, our youngest lives for this trip to the Lair of the Golden Bear.

My mom is a UC Berkeley alumna, and she used to take me here growing up, where we lived in tiny cabins and ate off trays in the dining hall, and screamed " No!” every time a staffer asked if “I can have your attention please.” If you’ve been following me a while, you know I’m over eight years sober, which essentially means I’ve never had a drink at the Lair of the Bear. Firstly, that’s kinda cool to think about. Secondly, I might have been the only one.

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What is the connection between camping and drinking that we have so ingrained in our social construct? It’s something I’ve thought about ever since my first sober camping trip, when I realized how counterintuitive drinking and numbing out while being in nature to essentially tune in feels once you quit.

The isolation from some of the parties and theatrics centered around drinking is not a new feeling for me. But I did find myself using some of my sober tools anyway. Playing the tape forward, looking for sober glimmers, and leaning into this idea of “being present” all played a role in my week at the Lair.

When I took my son and his friend to archery lessons, one of the adult guests said something that struck me. My son’s friend had been pulling out the worn arrows first, seemingly saving the new ones for last.

“Don’t save the best for last,” the man said when he noticed. “Use the best arrows first. Same with the string. Did you know that’s where the expression first and second string comes from?”

I’ve heard the analogy plenty of times. The first string usually refers to the best players on a sports team, but the expression comes from medieval archery, where archers carried multiple strings with them in case one broke. The “first string” referred to the strongest one, because for archers, a strong string could make the difference between life and death.

In that same vein, humans tend to delay gratification. We call it “saving the best for last,” and it’s why we save dessert for after dinner, pull out the china only for special occasions, and muddle through discomfort before we tell someone we need help.

I think we can be so hard on ourselves in recovery. We punish ourselves for reaching this point where we cannot manage our drinking. Some do it through self-sabotage: not reaching out for help, not talking to their doctor, or finding a support group. Others do it by not believing they “deserve” good things, avoiding mocktails or fun events they can’t imagine participating in without alcohol. And while it’s smart to avoid anything you might find triggering in early sobriety, at a certain point we need to ask ourselves what we’re really afraid of.

Are you afraid of pulling out your first string? Using your best tools, resources, and support systems first? Are you afraid of the possibility of success? Even more, are you afraid that a sober life is not only feasible for you, but it also introduces you to a better life altogether?

Teams don’t leave their best players on the bench at the start of a game. They use them, run them ragged. And when one of the players is completely wiped out, or they are sweeping the game, and there’s little chance of losing, they bring in the second string.

Use your tools. Call a sober friend. Find a sober support community. Bring out your best ideas, and commit your valuable time and energy to this commitment.

My son’s friend took the man’s advice. All of his shots were careful and well-aimed. He looked strong, given that it was only his third time attempting the sport. And when it was announced they’d each get one final shot, you better believe he took out the very best arrow from his quiver, and held his gaze steadily at the target.

Bullseye.

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This will be my ninth sober summer. Believe it or not, it’s amazing and I look forward to it more each year.

My first sober summer was a season of many firsts.

First sober camping trip.
First sober wedding.
First sober boat ride.
First sober beach day.

The triggers were BRUTAL. But they didn’t have to be. They were hard because I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t have my mocktails ready. I didn’t tell anyone I needed extra support to stay the course or that I was really scared. I didn’t have my sober toolkit on standby.

But you can be sure that after that first sober summer I learned my lesson. I would rather be over prepared than under. I would rather over communicate my needs than burn myself out. So if you are preparing for your sober summer, here’s what you should know.

1. Have an accountability partner. I don’t care who it is as long as you trust them. If you aren’t telling anyone yet, you can tell me! Or find a sponsor, or a sober buddy. They don’t have to be on your same journey but they do need to honor your choices and support you.

2. Prepare your sober toolkit. Bring your favorite non-alcoholic drinks or dessert. Set up fun rewards. Use a sober app to motivate and keep you accountable.

3. Do what you have to do. Need to skip the beach bonfire? Do it. Need to take a break on the camping trip for some down time? Make it happen. Literally walk away from triggers. Will people think you’re being rude? Whatever! I give you permission to do what you have to do to let alcohol go.

4. Distractions are your friend. Look, I know a lot of people say sobriety is about feeling all your feelings again (I say it too), but in early sobriety sometimes it’s just about getting through something. So distract yourself with a mystery novel or amazing podcast, put on a favorite playlist, play all the Candy Crush you need to. These early days are about not drinking, so don’t put too much pressure on yourself about anything else.

5. Do it scared (if you feel ready), but start small. Exposure Therapy means slowly introducing new things or experiences that you are afraid of, or in this case, triggered by. That means if you have to leave the beach after 20 minutes, try to stay longer the next time. It gets easier each time! I promise.

The best news is this first sober summer can be your last “first” sober summer. Next year it will be easier, and you will find new, beautiful ways to thrive that don’t include drinking.

I never want to wake up on a camping trip hungover again. I never want to make an ass out of myself at a wedding ever again. And I never want to put alcohol before making memories with my kids ever again. So I will have a sober summer.

I hope you will join me.

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I’m tired. Scratch that. I’m freaking exhausted.

I’m not just talking about the obvious exhaustion that comes with raising kids, an ebb-and-flow career, marriage, caregiving, and the mental load of holding everyone’s lives together while quietly trying not to unravel.

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Celeste: Welcome Laura!

Tell us about the book, No More Mediocre.

Laura: It’s a cal…

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Nightly wine, weekend binges, and late nights with fellow hard drinkers would still be my reality.

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When it was just me I was slowly killing, the hurt and pain caused by alcohol seemed inconsequential. After all, it was just me. I was never self-confident, and alcohol reaffi…

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The year was 2019. I was almost two years into my sobriety and new to writing about recovery. I had only read a few quit lit books …

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Last week, I posted my sober story on Facebook to celebrate my eight-year soberversary. I received a message from someone who said their child had asked them to quit d…

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What else happens right around that time? Perimenopause.

Why is that?

First, there are the obvious reasons someone might consider…

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Sometimes, I get stuck here, in this visceral pang somewhere between nostalgia and defeat. That fickle feeling of deprivation tickles my chest with visions of what could have been, mulling the possibilities.

But I don’t stay here. And every day, my time in that mental purgatory gets markedly shorter. There’s a trick I use, the same trick I’ve been using since I quit.

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Yesterday my mom and I took the kids up the mountain to feed the Chickadees. We do this every now and again, once a tradition with my late mother-in-law, who loved to bird watch and name the wildflowers we would pass along the trails.

Once we found a good clearing, we passed out the birdseed and each of us opened up our handfuls of birdseed to the sky. Then we would wait. Lo and behold, chickadees would make their way over. Cautious and hesitant, they would swoop down and perch on our fingers, grab a seed or two, then fly back to the safety of the tree branches to feast.

These moments are magical, and not just because of the birds. It’s the way the sun beams through the trees to make dancing shadows on the forest floor. It’s the shapes of trees that resemble arches, letters, and even animal silhouettes. It’s the sounds of the wind whipping through pine needles, the pitter-patter of chipmunks who want a taste of the goodies we’ve brought for the birds this afternoon. Or the random mushroom that’s made its home on a dead log for the season.

It’s countless, magical glimmers you can only see if you’re looking. Only appreciate with your senses alert. You can only enjoy in their full glory when you’re paying attention.

There’s a social media trend that’s been going around the last year or two about “Glimmers.” Glimmers are defined as the opposite of triggers. They are small moments that spark joy or peace. 

We hear so much about triggers, and in recovery, triggers can feel overwhelming and extremely heavy. 

I love this idea of looking for glimmers in early sobriety, because while the triggers are real and palpable, glimmers are also everywhere and reminders that what we are doing is impactful. Encouragement that we are going the right direction. 

Glimmers to look for in early sobriety: 

Waking up in the morning feeling fresh and energized
The first sip of coffee
Seeing a sign - A butterfly, a text from someone at a serendipitous time, a kind gesture by a stranger
Feeling present with your kids
Hearing your kids playing in the other room
Catching a special moment between two people
A delicious meal or dessert
Sliding into bed with fresh sheets

In parenting, my husband and I worked with behavioral specialists to implement a 5:1 ratio. Five positive interactions for every correction. The intention was to ensure our relationships were more driven by positive interactions than negative ones. We hoped to encourage our children to feel affirmed by what they are doing on task and motivated by what worked, instead of discouraged and reprimanded by what didn’t. 

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I’m rarely surprised when the latest celebrity DUI mugshot pops up on my feed (except for Mary Lou Retton—that completely shocked me). I can recognize a friend or acquaintance spiraling long before the rock bottom, or divorce, or even death.

When a friend told me her husband moved out of their shared home, proclaiming himself an alcoholic to her shock, I shook my head in knowing. I later told her I could just tell he had a drinking problem. It was the way he held his beer. The looks he gave the server. The rapid eye darts from her drink to his, then to the bottle. This was a man with alcohol on his mind.

When another friend told me her partner told her on the first date, “My ex-wife wouldn’t let me drink, so I appreciate your grace,” she said it like a compliment. But I heard something entirely different. I knew without even meeting him. Here my friend envisioned his ex-wife as some sort of shrew, but I saw wisdom in her words. My friend divorced him a few years later after she learned he would regularly hit the bar on his way to school pick up.

So it came as no surprise in watching the latest season of Love is Blind (Warning: Love is Blind spoilers up to episode 10) my spidey senses tingled watching Anton sneak a drink after just meeting his fiance face-to-face for the very first time. I saw an addict.

If you don’t know the premise of the reality show, a group of people date in pods with walls between each other so they cannot see one another. They have the opportunity to fall in love with each other for their personality and overall vibes. If they choose to get engaged, their appearances are revealed and they get to see if the physical chemistry reconciles with their emotional one.

Anton had just met Ali, a gorgeous, bubbly brunette who seemed captivated by Anton’s sexy demeanor, and now… his tall, demure physique. They hugged and kissed, popped open champagne and toasted the beginning of their new lives together. But when it came time to part ways, Ali looked on longingly, hoping to catch a parting glance or even an air kiss from her now real-life fiance. Anton, on the other hand, only had eyes for the open champagne bottle.

Why did Anton’s dash to the bottle make the final cut on the show? Because it would feed into a later relationship challenge between Ali and Anton when Ali noticed all the booze in their newly shared apartment had gone missing.

The 12-pack.
The Coors light.
Even the tequila.

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It started, as it does with everyone and Liz, with reading Eat Pray Love, when I, too, was recovering from a harrowing divorce, my forehead pressed to the cold tile of the bathroom floor. I read that book and felt absolved of my crime (if getting divorced before I turned 30 was one, which, in my mind, it absolutely was). Maybe I could eat and travel my way out of this discomfort, too? Author’s note: turns out I couldn’t, but I could drink a lot.

Years later, when Liz Gilbert announced her relationship with a woman, on the heels of my other Gen-X heroine Glennon Doyle revealing her own homosexuality, I, too, had a “WAIT — maybe I am a closet lesbian too” moment. Didn’t we all? No. Ok, anyways…

And then, one magical fall day at a conference in Chicago for women in recovery, the one and only Liz Gilbert came to give the keynote presentation, and she yet again blew me away with her stories. The way she could take my feelings and arrange them into a work of art, like a word charcuterie board.

I’m a married heterosexual woman, but I would be anything for Liz.

Or maybe I’m just a love addict.

Or so Liz would have me believe as I read her new book All The Way to the River, a book I believed was about her self-described soulmate Raya and their devastating love affair a half dozen years ago. But at its core, this book is not a memoir or a love story. It’s a book about addiction and recovery.

You didn’t know Liz Gilbert was an addict? Well, she is. She really, really is. And I hate that she spends so much time in the book determined to prove it to her readers, because Liz… I believe you.

Yet I imagine Liz has had to spend most of her writing career post Eat Pray Love having to prove herself. She had to prove her hit book wasn’t a one-off with every book she’s written since. She had to prove her marriage was the happy ending she’d promised her readers with her book Committed. And now, she shares through countless mentions of stories from “the rooms” of 12-step meetings and recovery vernacular that she is one of us. An addict. Powerless. A friend of Bill.

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