Like many mornings, December 24, 2022, began with a wine hangover.

The night before, I’d had a couple of glasses to unwind after yet another chaotic, fast-paced, nervous-system-frying day. It had become a routine — a Groundhog Day loop of giving 100% to everyone else while offering exactly zero to myself. I’d hustle all day, crash into “me time” with a glass of wine, fall asleep early, and wake up groggy at 6 a.m., only to do it all over again.

That morning, I loaded up on caffeine — my go-get-’em juice, my survival crutch — and stepped into the shower. That’s when I heard it: a voice, not out loud, but clear as day in my mind. Amid all the noise, one sentence cut through like a bullhorn in a crowd: “It’s time.”

I froze. Then, just as clearly: “No more drinking.”

Nope. I don’t like that, I thought. That would suck. Alcohol was woven into everything — family gatherings, social events, even work culture. Giving it up felt like giving up oxygen.

And then, I thought of my oldest daughter, Hannah. She had been struggling with alcohol for years. I wanted so badly for her to get help, to clean up the wreckage. And in that moment, I whispered aloud — barely audible but deeply certain — “I’m done.”

I had no idea how much strength that one decision would give me in the grueling years to come. And I had no idea the ripple effect it would create.

This isn’t the place to air anyone else’s dirty laundry. This is a space for my truth. So I’ll keep the details of my loved ones’ journeys brief and respectful, while focusing on the path I’ve walked.

Hannah is a shining light — all joy, curiosity, and love. But she’s also endured her share of pain. Like many do, she tried to numb that pain with substances that offered short-term relief but long-term damage. Life got messy. Complicated. Heavy.

When I made the decision to stop drinking, I didn’t make an announcement. I didn’t sit anyone down. I just… stopped. Quietly. Consistently. At the same time, I began gently encouraging Hannah to consider rehab. And while she wrestled with that idea, I quietly swapped wine nights for walks. I traded numbness for yoga, meditation, and breathwork. I started reading about Eastern healing and attending retreats. I got curious about peace.

In April of 2023, Hannah said yes to rehab. And we celebrated her decision like a high school graduation. We celebrated her sobriety like it was a new job, a fresh start — because it was. I could see the light returning to her eyes, and my heart beamed with pride and cautious hope.

That summer, on her 21st birthday — a milestone usually marked by bar crawls and hangovers — she chose to attend a breathwork retreat with me instead. That day alone said everything.

Then came Grif — my ex-husband and Hannah’s dad. He’d wrestled with alcohol most of his life, and after Hannah got sober, he made the decision to do the same. Slowly, he began showing up again — not just physically, but emotionally. His quick wit and hilarious personality, long buried under the haze, started bubbling back up. He became reliable, which was exactly what Hannah (and the rest of us) needed.

His sobriety lifted a huge weight off my shoulders — a burden I’d carried quietly for years. Now, he was carrying his own. He became a joy to be around again, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect: our first granddaughter was on the way, and she deserved present, safe, and sober grandparents. I needed a partner for what lay ahead.

Grif and I have rebuilt something solid. He joins us for holidays. He’s become close friends with Brandon and even helps with our renovation projects. He watches our dogs and our house when we travel. I’m beyond grateful to have him back in our lives. Our older girls now have a dad they can truly count on. And Grace — even though he’s not her biological father — talks to him almost every day. He’s been a steady supporter through her cancer journey, always just a phone call away. Watching him love our granddaughter with a clear mind and full heart is one of life’s quiet miracles.

Then there’s my parents.

My mom and dad are some of the kindest, most generous people you could meet. The kind of folks strangers speak fondly of even before they find out we’re related. But for most of my life, I couldn’t really see them — not clearly. Their light was always diluted through alcohol. It was like trying to peer through a foggy glass: I knew they were there, but they never felt fully present.

And then, in 2023, they both got sober.

There aren’t enough words for how much that has meant to me. For the first time, I truly know my parents. Their faces shine. Their eyes sparkle. Their personalities — the ones I caught glimpses of as a child — are now front and center.

My mom calls me regularly. She joins me at farmers markets and craft fairs. She comes to family events she once skipped and builds deep relationships with my daughters. She even calls them just to chat or hang out, even when I’m not around. We even took a trip to Yellowstone National Park together, a day I will cherish for the rest of my life. She’s become our family’s go-to garden guru — a role her own mother once held. Watching her step into that space has been an honor.

And my dad? He came back to life. He rediscovered joy. He took up hobbies again — dozens of them. In 2024, Brandon and he fulfilled one of his lifelong dreams by going halibut and salmon fishing in Alaska. In 2025, he reorganized his garage and turned it into a high-speed woodworking shop, complete with his own lumber mill. He’s involved in our family now, attending all our gatherings. And perhaps most touching of all — I’m realizing how much of me comes from him. Personality traits I never recognized are suddenly mirrored back to me. We are so alike. And now I get to know that.

So, what about me?

I told you this would be about my own experience with sobriety, so here we go.

You know those moments in life when you’ve just survived something brutally hard, and you look back and say, “I have no idea how I would’ve made it through that without so-and-so”? That’s what sobriety has been for me these past two and a half years. My quiet, constant companion. My anchor.

When I first whispered “I’m done,” I had no idea the strength, clarity, and resilience that decision would give me. I thought I’d sleep better, save a little money on wine and White Claws, maybe start working out again. I didn’t expect to become emotionally unshakeable. I didn’t expect to see life — and all its tiny miracles — with such crystal clarity.

I’ve learned to absorb reality as it is. To sit in it, like a cold plunge, breathing through the discomfort until understanding, compassion, and empathy rise to the surface. Sobriety didn’t just help me function — it taught me how to feel everything and not fall apart.

In these 2½ years, we helped Hannah through pregnancy-related and postpartum depression — complete with psychotic episodes. We helped her bring her daughter into the world. Then we fought beside her through a brutal custody battle. We helped her piece her life back together after a heartbreaking breakup.

Meanwhile, I was unraveling in my own way. I hit an identity crisis and decided to pivot careers. I started grad school with the goal of becoming a dual-licensed therapist: both a licensed substance abuse counselor and a licensed clinical professional counselor. I was reckoning with deep burnout and trying to rebuild from the inside out.

And just when I thought I couldn’t take one more hit, my back gave out — not once, but twice. Hospitalizations. A walker. Pain so intense it left me emotionally wrecked. I’ve spent nearly two years trying various techniques to rehab it, slowly rebuilding strength, both physically and mentally.

Then, just when I finally caught my breath, life whispered:

“Hang on to your britches — your youngest daughter has cancer.”

We’ve now been on this cancer journey for nearly a year — living in Salt Lake City while Grace undergoes chemotherapy and radiation, separated from my husband and the rest of our family back in Montana.

Sobriety has been my foundation. It has made me a rock for my daughters as they navigate the darkest seasons of their lives. It has gifted me the insight and emotional bandwidth to hold space for their pain, without becoming consumed by it. I’ve learned what radical acceptance truly means — and I’ve been able to model what it looks like to live it.

Through this horrendous, beautiful, brutal journey, I can honestly say: I’m thriving. Not because it’s easy — but because sobriety gave me the tools to grow through it. I don’t pity myself or my family. I’m genuinely grateful for the lessons this experience has brought us. I’ve chosen to use this time away from my Montana life not to sulk, but to heal. To grow. To be fully present.

Grace doesn’t see me through a foggy glass. She feels me — physically, mentally, spiritually — every step of the way. I am here. Our relationship is stronger than it has ever been. She’s told me I’m her best friend. She says she’s grateful for our “philosophical talks” about life. That alone would make it all worth it.

And I’ve begun to rediscover me. I’m writing again. My creativity is blooming. My back is healing. I’m riding my mountain and road bikes. I’m learning photography, painting, and pottery. I’ve even returned to jiu-jitsu. I’m practicing yoga regularly. I’m healing in every sense of the word.

So when people ask, “How do you do it?”
I smile and whisper:

“Sobriety.”

Sobriety didn’t just give me my life back — it gave me my family back. In choosing to clear the fog from my own mind, I unknowingly lit a path for the people I love to do the same. And now, we’re here: present, connected, and stronger than we’ve ever been. We’ve walked through fire together — addiction, heartbreak, illness — and we’ve come out the other side not just surviving, but thriving. Sobriety has been the quiet force behind it all, helping each of us return to who we truly are. What began as a personal decision became a family revival. And for that, I will always be grateful