Morning Drift is a reflective series exploring perspective, growth, and the quiet observations that surface in the early hours of the day — where thoughts tend to be honest and the noise hasn’t caught up yet.
The Marker
Morning Drift number 12, which is fitting because it marks my 12th month of sobriety. 10:30 Thursday night was the last drink I had 365 days ago.
This past year doesn’t replay like a timeline. It comes back in snapshots.
People say quitting isn’t easy. And for a lot of them, it’s not. But for me, physically, it actually has been. The hard part wasn’t quitting — it was deciding. Once I decided, the rest followed.
Like I’ve mentioned before, I don’t experience triggers the way I understand most people do. The only time I ever crave a beer is more about sentiment than taste or feeling. Super Bowl Sunday, for example — I laughed because it was the first sober Super Bowl I can remember. That thought came up: this is when I’d drink a beer. But there wasn’t any desire to actually drink. I woke up at six, went down to Mission Beach by Belmont Park, and experienced another sunrise.
I’m trying to do that once a month now — get somewhere outside my own little hemisphere and watch a sunrise or sunset. If I can do that twelve times a year, I’m ahead of the game.
I’ve learned a lot this past year. I’ve always had anger, and I embraced it. Not brooding anger — energy anger. Survival anger. Every time I’ve tried to move past survival mode and into enjoyment, something tragic would happen. And what did I do to survive? Drink. Mind melt. Mind erase.
But now I enjoy my mornings. I enjoy my control. I enjoy my thoughts. I enjoy not wondering whether something really happened or if it was just one of my crazy dreams.
It really comes down to one word right now: perspective.
Perspective
Recently I started becoming more of an advocate about recovery spaces. Alcoholics Anonymous is simply alcoholics being anonymous and talking to each other. Nothing more. Where it falters sometimes is what people build around it — hierarchies, rules, expectations. The book itself says these are suggestions, yet people forget that. I’m not chastising it. I appreciate what helps people. But I’ve realized something: the milestone isn’t the point.
I’m hitting one year of sobriety. Something I never thought I’d have.
It’s raining as I’m driving to work, and a metaphor hits me. One of my windshield wipers flew off. I’ve got one wiper working on the driver’s side. It cleans the side that matters. But the other side is still foggy.
Going through life with one wiper.
Cleaning what matters but ignoring what still needs attention.
The arm still moves. It looks like it’s working. But there’s nothing attached to it. It gives the illusion that it’s doing its job — but it isn’t.
I’m coming up on one year sober. It took years to become who I was — it’s going to take time to become who I’m becoming.
It’s crisp outside. You can see your breath. It rained yesterday, and after rain everything looks clean. Dirt off the road. Plants washed. Gutters cleared.
You get that after going through something unpleasant.
Going through life half clouded, half blind — then suddenly you can see clearly.
People ask how I did it. But it’s not how. It’s what did you gain?
Perspective.
The Quiet Tests
But my anxiety has been through the roof. Maybe it’s emotional triggers. Maybe it’s everything.
Affirmation is a big thing. I’m not getting affirmation from work. I don’t feel it in my relationship. Even my self-affirmation is waning. I should be proud and excited. Instead I’m anxious, scared, empty.
Usually people ask how you did it. They sing “happy birthday.” I’m not a big fan of that part. To me it’s not a celebration so much as an acknowledgment of discipline. I actually chose not to go to any meetings where that might happen.
Routine and mindset played a huge factor. I got out of my own environment for several days when I first quit. I gathered tools. I tried meetings. Fellowship exists there, but most groups already know each other’s stories. It can feel hard to join. Not in a mean way — just reality.
Last year was about surviving. Weathering bad days. Learning how to do that. This next year is about evaluating what kept me from being here all along. That’s going to be scary. Challenging. Rewarding.
Growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet — and sometimes it gets tested.
The Test
I took a vacation day to turn a long weekend into four days. I stayed home, did chores, and did some honest reevaluating. I realized I own more of my environment than I’d been admitting, so I started cleaning up my side of the street. Things have been better. I still feel dismissed sometimes, but I’m not turning down opportunities. That’s growth. Just not unhealthy changes.
Someone said something extremely hurtful today. It dismissed the effort I’ve put in this year. It made me question whether any of it even mattered.
I’d love to have a beer. Just forget everything for a while. The old voice says why not. But I’m not going to drink.
Instead I’m going to the ocean.
It’s almost like a badge of honor now. People betting against me? Fuck it. Go ahead. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been bet against my whole life.
When do you stop hoping for something that may never come? When you’ve invested years into something, made almost every change you thought would make a difference, and still realize it may never return what you gave?
Showing Up Anyway
I’m lonely. I’m empty. My self-worth feels low. But sobriety isn’t in question. I’d rather face what I’m going through than try to numb it.
Looking back, that’s exactly why I got up at 4:45 to go see desert flowers. A year ago I wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t have gotten up. Wouldn’t have gone. Wouldn’t have pushed myself. But I did — because somewhere along the way I learned that even when your head is fighting you, there’s still something worth showing up for.
There’s no harm in acknowledging an ache in your soul.
Accepting where you’re at is half the battle. Because without accepting where you are, you’re not sure where to go.
Right now everywhere I look feels dark.
So I’m heading down to Mission Boulevard, hoping the San Diego parking gods give me a space.
And I’m going to sit there, look around,
and try to find some light.
Tides and Truth... 