Thirty-five days. That’s how long my resolve lasted before it crumbled like a sandcastle against the relentless tide of addiction. I sit here, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard, my head pounding with the aftermath of last night’s relapse. The bitter taste of defeat lingers on my tongue, mingling with the ghostly remnants of alcohol.

I’d love to say it was a momentous occasion that broke me. A tragedy, a celebration, anything to justify this spectacular failure. But the truth? It was boredom. Bloody boredom that somehow morphed into a full-blown bender. How’s that for anticlimactic?

As Seneca once said, “It’s not because things are difficult that we dare not venture. It’s because we dare not venture that they are difficult.” I dared to venture into sobriety, and now I’m drowning in the difficulty of my own making.

The Aftermath

The hangover isn’t just physical. It’s a soul-deep ache, a hollowness that echoes with every heartbeat. I’ve let myself down. I’ve let you, my readers, down. The shame sits heavy on my chest, a leaden weight that makes each breath a conscious effort.

Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” But right now, my mind feels like a battlefield, and I’m losing the war. The urge to drink more, to numb this pain, is a call that’s hard to resist.

Yet here I am, forcing myself to write this. To lay bare my failure in the harsh light of day. Because if I don’t, if I let this silence fester, it’ll consume me whole.

The Reckoning

So what now? Do I reset the counter to Day 1? Do I wallow in self-pity and declare this whole sobriety lark a lost cause? Part of me wants to. It’d be easier, wouldn’t it? To give in, to say, “Well, I tried,” and let the current of addiction sweep me away.

But then I remember Epictetus: “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” My reaction right now? It’s a mess of tears, regret, and a hangover from hell. But it’s also this — these words, this confession, this refusal to let one (admittedly massive) stumble define my entire journey.

I’m reminded of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, making the cracks a feature rather than a flaw. Maybe, just maybe, this relapse can be the gold that strengthens my resolve, rather than the crack that destroys it.

The Resolve

I won’t lie to you. I’m scared. Terrified, actually. The road ahead looks steeper and more treacherous than ever before. But as Seneca reminds us, “We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.” The reality is, I’m here. I’m sober right now. And each moment I stay sober is a victory, no matter how small.

To those of you walking this path with me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for stumbling, for potentially making your own journey harder by showing how easy it is to fall. But I’m also grateful. Your presence, your silent support as you read these words, it’s a lifeline I desperately need right now.

And to those who might be teetering on the edge of their own relapse, who might see my fall as permission to take that drink — please, don’t. Learn from my mistake. Reach out, call a friend, hell, comment on this post if you need to. Let’s turn this moment of weakness into a rallying cry.

You can share to reachout@soberstoics.com. I will read them all and respond if requested

Because here’s the truth, laid bare and uncomfortable: sobriety isn’t a straight line. It’s not a neat little journey from A to B. It’s messy, it’s hard, and sometimes it feels downright impossible. But it’s also worth it. Even now, with my head splitting and my pride in tatters, I know it’s worth it.

So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to post this. I’m going to drink a gallon of water. And then I’m going to start again. Not from scratch, because those 35 days weren’t for nothing. They were practice. Training. And now, I’m going to use what I’ve learned to do better.

As Marcus Aurelius said, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” Each moment is a chance to start anew. So that’s what I’m doing. Starting anew, right here, right now.

This isn’t the end of my story. It’s just a plot twist. A really crappy, painful plot twist, but one that I’m determined to grow from. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We fall. We get back up. We keep going.

So here’s to getting back up. Here’s to day one (again). Here’s to turning this relapse into the prologue of an epic comeback story.

Who’s with me?