90 Days

 

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything personal, so this one goes in deep.

For a while now, I’ve been struggling—really struggling—with grief. It’s the kind of weight that sneaks up on you, settles in your chest, and stays there no matter how loud the world gets. I didn’t really know how to cope. So I did what many people do when they don’t want to feel: I hid. And my hiding place? Alcohol.

It started as a way to get through the nights. Then the days. Then everything in between. I told myself I was living, but really, I was just surviving.

But here’s where the story shifts.

I’m 3 months sober. 90 days.

That might not sound like a lot to some people, but if you’ve ever struggled with addiction or even just relied too heavily on something that numbed you, then you know—90 days is everything. It’s the raw part. The part where you’re still learning to live without the thing that used to hold you together (even if it was actually tearing you apart).

It hasn’t been easy. There have been days when I’ve felt like I was unraveling. Days when I had to sit with pain that I used to drown. But there’s a strange beauty in the clarity that comes with sobriety. In feeling everything, finally. In healing, slowly.

I don’t have it all figured out. I’m still grieving. Still learning. But I’m proud—so damn proud—to say I’ve made it through these 90 days.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it too, I see you. I’m rooting for you. And I promise, even when it feels impossible, there is light on the other side of numbness.

Here’s to the next 90.