Sobriety as a MidLife Crisis
Two and a half years sober, I’m about to celebrate my 49th birthday. My decision to quit drinking was well timed. Even though my daily drinking habit was unsustainable, the source of my angst was much deeper rooted. Alcohol was masking a lot of fear and resistance and confusion. Keeping me distracted from the bigger questions.
What now? What’s next? Why bother?
I met my first husband right before my 18th birthday. A year later, he gave me an engagement ring. We married before we graduated college. I went straight from being someone’s daughter to being someone’s wife. And then I became a mother. We had four children. Life was big and busy. I liked it that way. I was happy and secure. Because I knew who I was and what I was supposed to do. It was hard but also fun. My path was clear.
When our marriage ended after twenty years, we delayed the legal divorce to give me a running start. I needed to re-enter the workforce — get an income and insurance and figure out how to manage myself, the kids, and the house. But after a year of wanting and trying to do it on my own, I gave up. I allowed myself to fall in love and become a wife again. I moved in with my second husband before my first divorce was final.
Fast forward five years and my nest began to empty. I grew restless with my role in domestic support. Resentful that I was financially dependent on not one, but two men. I went back to school, earning a master’s degree in coaching. I tried again to start my own business while also being everything to everyone around me.
I published a book and took on clients. But I treated my business like it was a cute hobby. I didn’t give myself permission to set boundaries or take up space. I told myself I didn’t need to make any money. So, I didn’t.
I felt weird — guilty — charging for my services. In my first few years, I mostly worked for free, using the excuse that I just wanted the experience. I spent more money than I made on my little side hustle. And I felt bad and mad about that.
I consoled myself with pricey wine and top-shelf vodka
My self-esteem plummeted. Because I wasn’t the success I was pretending to be. After years of feeling like a “normal” drinker, I started to feel shame about my escalating habit. But I was really good at hiding it. So, I didn’t have to confront the problem.
I’ve spent my whole life judging myself by other people’s standards. From the outside, it looked like I had my shit together.
I was doing everything I was supposed to do and more, including taking care of myself. To me, self-care was about optics and logistics. Branding. I had highlighted hair, appropriate makeup and wore a size two. My bills were paid on time. Bed sheets were clean and the counters were uncluttered. Pictures of my one-of-a-kind vegan recipes on Instagram and Facebook got a lot of likes.
Self-care was a performance. And I was getting high marks.
Meanwhile, I felt dead inside. Burned out. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Done.
I was so tired of my own bullshit that I decided to quit. All of it. I stopped drinking AND just let go. Of the busyness and routines. The false bravado of perfection. Of all the expectations — my own and everyone else’s.
I put myself into a time-out.
The covid lockdown became my cocoon. Weight-lifting and hot power yoga were traded for long walks with my dog. Pajama pants were my new workout clothes. I got used to seeing my face without makeup. My family was put on notice too — I stopped serving three scratch-cooked meals a day like it was 1955. (It was time my teenagers learned to cook anyway).
I slept like it was my job. (Oh my God, why is sleep so underrated?) I didn’t work on my business for almost a year. I journaled. I stared at the ceiling. I cried. I read. And when I was kicked off of social media, (I got hacked — long story), it was a blessing in disguise — the final push I needed to let go of the identity I’d been projecting.
I had never been so alone and unproductive. Unseen. It was scary — in an exhilarating sort of way. I’d always been afraid to stop. To lose momentum. Because what if I became a lazy bum? Let myself go? What if I wasn’t fun anymore? What if I stopped pretending to have my shit together and all of my shit fell apart?
So be it, I said. And let go of caring too.
Instead of avoiding the questions, what now? What’s next? Why bother? I savored them. Like a piece of dark chocolate sprinkled with sea salt. I relished not knowing. For the first time in my life, I invested time in my relationship with myself. Paid attention to my body. Did she like this? Want to do that? How does she feel? What does she need?
My nervous system needed to heal. So, I focused on that. Like it matters. Like I mattered.
I now understand that self-care is more than superficial attention to detail. It’s feeling — paying attention — to what my body needs instead of allowing the stories in my brain to keep me running full steam in the wrong direction. At first, it was hard — because I’ve only ever cared about outsmarting my body. Abusing and punishing her. Shaming and restricting her — all the while expecting her to be prettier. Smaller. BETTER.
Ironically, taking care of my body is why I am now able to focus on things other than myself. Self-denial leads to self-absorption. Because I was looking for acceptance, approval and validation from other people, I was more worried about how I looked than how I felt. When I started valuing my own needs as much as I do everyone else’s and being honest with myself, I started to feel valuable — to feel seen. I became available. To show up whole.
To me, recovery in midlife is about subtraction. Removing the assumptions, behaviors and beliefs in my life that no longer serve me. I took my life down to the studs. Let go of all the beliefs I had about who I am supposed to be. What I should want. As I’ve moved into this new space, I am not in a rush to fill it. I’m leaving the walls bare for now. Enjoying the potential. Exploring my options.
Interestingly enough, as I emerge from my cocoon, my life looks mostly the same from the outside. At my core, I’m still the person I’ve always been. I didn’t let myself go or leave my husband. My children survived — thrived even, now that their mom isn’t an anxious façade of perfection. I’m back to yoga and lifting weights (ok, just heavy bags of groceries, but at least I’m cooking again). My business is making money. I do still watch Netflix, but I prefer to read most nights. I’m awake. Alive. And free.
Best midlife crisis ever.
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