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As of writing this post, it’s been a full 30 days of not drinking alcohol. And before that, it had been nearly 3 years since I’d gone 30 days without a drink of alcohol, which is how I knew that something was up with how I was using alcohol and that I needed to examine that. I have, in the parlance of the day, “an issue.”
But I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood about what I’m saying when I say that there’s an issue. Let me explain.
Here’s what happens when you start talking about issues with drinking, in our society: people imagine Meg Ryan’s character from When a Man Loves a Woman. We do this thing where our standard for, “You have a problem” is drinking Vodka straight from a bottle, slapping your child across the face, and crashing through glass in the shower when you pass out.
This means that a lot of people who actually have an issue with drinking think that they don’t have an issue with drinking. The culture creates this image of what “issues with drinking” look like, and it’s fairly extreme. Also, I live in actual California “wine country.” Wine is everywhere, and pretty much everyone is drinking, and drinking wine every night with dinner is considered Epicurean, not an “having an issue.”
And, of course, I do work in the personal growth field. Stories abound of life coaches who finally fess up to pretending to have had their lives in some kind of order, all the while selling books and courses and programs and coaching with “answers” for people, but it turns out that inside, they were a mess.
This “You have it together, or you don’t” stuff is again, just more of the binary stuff. As a culture, we like to neatly divide people into good or bad camps. I don’t think I’m in a camp. I think two things are true: one, that I’m a life coach who has her life and her insides in some good amount of order, and that how I was using alcohol became an issue.
But I digress. Here’s what I know about my own issue with alcohol (specifically, a love affair with wine).
Back in 2012, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, and corresponding with that, in 2013, I was diagnosed with infertility. After years of being a never doing drugs, always exercising-and-meditating, doing-all-the-disease-prevention-things kind of person, I was diagnosed with an illness where literally, some parts of my body had gone haywire and were attacking healthy parts of my body. After extensive fertility testing and two rounds of fertility treatments, the doc delivered some very bad news that made the possibility of having a baby seem extremely bleak.
There were several tools that I turned to, to navigate that time and space. I turned to accessing the body, and meditating. I turned to conscious crying and catharsis through actively experiencing my grief. I turned to listening to my inner critic and questioning the limiting stories it proposed, as well as reframing them.
And, without even really thinking about it, I also turned to wine. My husband and I began eating out, more and more often, and in wine country, that meant having wine. We were both really into the ritual of it: hard day, looking forward to going out, choosing a new place, chatting with the servers that we came to know better and better the more we ate out, trying new wines as the servers offered a “pour” of various blends, seeing if we could actually taste the “notes of berry” that were in one wine versus the “strong tannins” that were in another. We’d day trip to wineries—again, meeting new people or going with friends, trying new wines, and so on.
This behavior seemed entirely normal and consistent with what everyone around us was doing. And, what I realize only in hindsight, is that on some (unconscious) level, I was drinking to blunt the feelings that I had about illness, and maybe a little bit to rebel—after all those years of trying to be uber-healthy, this hadn’t really gotten me anywhere, had it? So I might as well have a little fun.
Then, I unexpectedly became pregnant without medical intervention. I stopped drinking while pregnant. Then the Baby arrived, and we couldn’t really go out to dinner the way we used to. That’s when we started purchasing bottles of wine and keeping them in the house.
And that, right there, is when the scales tipped. Because there is this simple fact about alcohol: it is an addictive substance (just like caffeine, just like sugar, and of course, wine is many parts sugar).
Particularly when you link an addictive substance with how you cope with stress (hello, new baby!) or a reward (baby is finally asleep? Time to relax with some wine!), you are basically creating the conditions for a dependency issue with the substance.
If you take someone who doesn’t drink coffee, and you have them drink enough of it every day for a long enough period, they will develop a chemical craving for coffee. Same goes for sugar.
Same goes, it turns out, for wine. Drink it often enough, for long enough, and you will develop a chemical craving for it that can live right alongside all the other things that you do in your life that have nothing to do with alcohol.
That’s what I started to realize had happened, with me.
This is the part where I lay it out, really plain-and-simple: I am a strong, courageous, incredibly resilient person who regularly turns to a series of powerful tools to handle life’s challenges and to feel more joyful on a regular basis.
I have not been “pretending” to be this person. I am this person. I’m a rockstar coach and facilitator, a half-Ironman triathlete and writer. Overall, highly driven, perceptive, and clued-in about my own behavior patterns.
And equally as true, is this: in some parts due to the culture that normalizes nightly drinking and in some parts due to the simple fact that alcohol is addictive (like caffeine, like sugar), I started to develop a slow, subtle dependence on wine.
I failed to really notice this, for awhile. Because I thought that people who had “issues” with alcohol were people who were:
a.) falling down drunk,
b.) not paying their bills or functioning with work or their lives,
c.) routinely blacking out or hung over,
and because I was neither a, b, nor c, I thought that it wasn’t really possible that I could have an issue. After all, I’d never in my life had an issue with substance use. In college, I only ever drank at parties. To this day, I’ve never even smoked pot.
So every single day, I would wake up and had no desire for alcohol. Often, I’d grocery shop in the afternoon, before picking up my daughter from daycare, and I’d breeze past the wine section thinking Nah, no wine, tonight. Then, nearly every single night, once the baby (who was now a toddler) was asleep, myself or my husband would step out to grab a bottle of wine.
We’d split the bottle of wine, and for a lightweight like me, anything more than one glass of wine is officially “too much.” Yet I liked relaxing and watching something on Netflix or talking about our day while having a few glasses of wine with our dinner, so I drank a few glasses. I liked being silly and a bit tipsy. I liked the ritual. I liked that there was this thing to look forward to, even if my toddler was having a meltdown. I liked how the stress of the day would slide away and get fuzzy.
And then the more often we were doing this, the more I didn’t particularly like drinking, but felt compelled to because if I didn’t drink, I felt super tense and agitated and stressed. Something switched and not drinking ended up causing feelings of stress. I’d use some of my tools for handling stress—meditation or creative outlets or exercise or questioning my limiting internal narratives—but the thing I really wanted to do was have that bottle of wine.
During 2016, a few things arose that necessitated hiring attorneys and writing some very big checks. In the midst of days when I might receive unpredictable emails that would throw my day off, there was always that evening ritual, with wine.
Once again, I wasn’t thinking consciously about this. I wasn’t thinking, “Ah! Yes! Wine to cope with stress!”
Wine is everywhere; it is attractively arranged at displays in my local Safeway. It was just something I did, something that evolved over time, and something it seemed everyone did. So we had wine with dinner, to wind down the night. What’s the issue?
Little by little, however, I did start thinking more consciously about this. “When did drinking wine become my favorite stress-reduction strategy?” I asked myself.
I started noticing that I was a little bummed whenever we reached the bottom of the bottle. I started noticing that I was waking up more frequently in the middle of the night (so in other words, alcohol was disrupting my sleep). I started noticing that it embarrassed me a bit to check my checking account and see just how many $10 charges there were for our local corner store. I started noticing that sometimes, I wanted to start our little wine ritual earlier and earlier in the evening, and didn’t want to wait until after our daughter was asleep. I started noticing that I was distinctly uncomfortable when our two-year-old knew what a glass of wine was, pointing to it and saying, “Wine!”
Basically, I started noticing that wine was this thing that I spent more time thinking about than I wanted to. Even if I wasn’t falling-down drunk, unraveling my life, or blacking out or hung over, it had occurred to me that something seemed amiss.
So, I decided to set some rules: Just the weekends. Just one glass a night. No more wine in the house; just at restaurants. Okay, back to just on the weekends. Okay, if I drink during the week, just one glass a night. Okay, if I have more than one glass a night, just while I get through this extra stressful time with the lawyers and the writing of big checks.
See how that went? I was blowing past basically every rule that I was setting for myself. And again, I was doing that only in the evenings while living a strong, courageous, resilient and powerful life during the day, day-to-day.
Life was compartmentalized between those two places, except for one tiny-big thing:
Now, even when I wanted to stop, I felt compelled to drink, every evening. I reeeeeeallllllyyyyy wanted to. Then I’d rationalize (“What’s the big deal with a few glasses of wine?”). Even when I told myself I wouldn’t drink, I’d end up having wine or somehow it always just “seemed to happen.”
I was paying attention. And it seemed to me that something was amiss if I was telling myself I wanted to live one way, right up until a certain hour of the day, when all of those values and ideas seemed to go out the window.
Somehow, I ran across the Hip Sobriety website. I began reading. Holly, founder of Hip Sobriety, recommends a book called This Naked Mind by Annie Grace. And then there was this blog post by Aidan Rowley, which I could very much relate to, on “Drinking Words.”
In particular, I read This Naked Mind with fascination. While I had never drank the same volume as the author, the patterns were exactly the same. Reading about Rowley’s experience, was also interesting—because of the similarities. Turns out that my story with drinking? Not so very unique. Why? Because chemical dependency ain’t so very unique. Once again:
Give someone enough sugar, every day, day after day, and they will crave sugar—particularly if you tie that sugar in any way to rewards or dealing with stress.
Give someone enough coffee, every day, day after day, and they will crave caffeine—particularly if you tie that caffeine in any way to ritual (hello, waking up in the morning).
Give someone enough alcohol, every day, day after day, and they will crave alcohol—particularly if, as was my case, it is tied to rewards, dealing with stress, AND a comforting nightly routine, all mixed into one.
It’s not about a moral failing of character. It’s only a tiny bit about willpower. It’s basic brain chemistry and conditioning. We like to think we’re above all that, but for the most part, humans just aren’t.
So, it’s been 30 days without alcohol. I wanted some space and time to examine my relationship with it. It was only through not drinking wine that I could see clearly how I was using wine.
And, if I am honest? While the cognitive and logical part of my brain says, “No way!” to a glass of wine, the cravings part of my brain is like, “Man, a glass of wine would be aces to go with this blog post.”
So for me, I think that untangling from a pattern that I now see very, very clearly, is just a day-to-day thing. I don’t write any of this to pretend as if I am any kind of authoritative voice on the subject of chemical dependency (the website and book I’ve linked, above, are far better resources on that subject). I don’t desire to get into any debates about AA versus cognitive conditioning or whether or not anyone is an alcoholic.
I write about this because it was reading about the experiences of others that helped me to get some clarity on how I was using alcohol and wine, and how to bring myself back to my own integrity with it (which, for the time being, means not drinking anything, period).
I notice a few new things, 30 days later: I’m sleeping better and waking up with more energy. I like that I don’t have any low-grade shame when looking at my bank account, now that there aren’t those charges for wine on the bank statement. I like that I don’t have a nagging fear of, “Uh, am I normalizing drinking in front of my daughter?” by having wine in front of her, because I’m not drinking.
I like noticing that the internal debate about wine—how much, when, under what circumstances, etc., has just lifted. I’m not drinking. There we go. No debate. Nothing to think through. Nothing to question.
Most of all, I like noticing that the same tools I used to buffer stress and amplify my joy, have taken center stage, again. More heart-to-heart talks, creativity, writing, reading, and down time. I’m signed up for another half-Ironman and I’m getting back into my training groove. These things get to have a bigger space in my life than drinking wine, which means that really, I—the realest and most courageous version of myself—have taken center stage in my life, again.
When people talk about how to create better habits , I think they’re really meaning: how can I stop doing the stuff that doesn’t really make my life better, and start doing the things that DO make my life better? And how can I make that regular and consistent?
To create better habits , you’ve got to know what it is that you deeply desire because that motivation informs how much you’ll pay attention to each part of the habit-formation process. When you really want the change because you’re clear on what you desire, you’ll bring more presence to the process of change. Habit-formation that’s based in fear, or in trying to change something about your life because you’re afraid that if you don’t change it disaster will ensue is a lot less fun (and less effective).
(If you’re not already a YCL subscriber, you can get started with creating better habits using the Shift Plan, a guide for getting clear about what you want to shift that takes into account your deepest desires.)
Habits run on a cue-routine-reward loop. They inform nearly half of our behavior, every day, behavioral scientists tell us–and not just whether or not we remember to floss or exercise. Our habitual responses to our jobs, the people around us, how we respond to stress, and more are influencing our lives at a deep level. Changing habits or creating better habits means, quite literally, changing your life.
To create courageous habits, you’ve got to start recognizing the cue-routine-reward loop.
Recognize the cue and feelings of fear that happen in the body.
Recognize when you go into routines, or what I call fear routines.
Recognize the rewards that are short-term, versus long-term. When you’re afraid of taking a big risk, so you procrastinate? You’re feeling a fear cue, responding with a fear routine, and getting a short-term risk or temporarily alleviating the pressure.
If you want to become more courageous in your life, you can create courageous habits, a default response to the fear that everyone encounters when they go after the things in life that matter, most.
To develop more courageous habits, start looking at what area of your life you’d like to be more courageous in—perhaps in your relationships, speaking your mind with social justice and getting into activism, or with creative expression as you write the book you’ve always wanted to write—and from there, make a point of examining the habits that inform how you react to your partner, when you speak up vs when you don’t, or how you avoid your creative expression.
Isolate the fear cues. What are they? How do they show up in your body? Do they tend to show up more under certain circumstances?
Understand your typical fear routines. I see four common fear routines: Perfectionism, sabotage, martyrism, and extreme skepticism and doubt. Everyone uses these fear routines sometimes, and all of us have one that we tend to use more than the others.
Last, understand the rewards you truly seek–not the temporary alleviation of stress because you backed down on going after your big dream, but the rewards of building resilience and seeing yourself take action as you step forward to go after what you want.
Whether you want to change something tangible or something personal to your way of being, thinking about how to create better habits starts with thinking about what you desire and then looking at the habits that surround that desire.
(And when you’re ready to learn about how to make new habits stick, I’ve got you covered there, too).
You? Someone who cares and who is disturbed deeply by the newly-elected president and the policies that he wants to enact.
You? Also someone who feels like your nervous system is fried and it feels nearly impossible to respond to all of your friends on social media who are calling for you to take action. *
This piece? Here to offer some help on just that topic, which is really all about building resilience .
My work has taken a major turn in the past year or so, as I began geeking out on habit-formation and then that lead to studying psychological resilience.
I have come to realize that courage is, really, psychological resilience. You feel stress, yet you are psychologically resilient towards that stress. You are building resilience .
So what do you do if you are someone who cares, yet you don’t feel particularly resilient? What do you do when the barrage of things that are going on make you feel less able to do something, rather than more able?
There is a collective body of research that each of the following four actions leads to greater psychological resilience.
1. Access the body. Meaning, slow down, breathe, get present to the sensations in your body and what you feel. Get distracted, return to the breath.
2. Listen without attachment. After accessing the body, get present to what you’re thinking—but without getting attached to believing or taking action based on those thoughts. In short? We’re talking mindfulness. You’re aware of the thoughts, but you aren’t believing that they are true. You’re not getting attached.
3. Reframe limiting stories. This is where we get into cognitive-behavioral techniques that are highly effective. You label thoughts as Stories, filing them away as possible interpretations of reality without being an ultimate determination of reality. I’m not talking about the “Law of Attraction” and brightly telling yourself “Everything will be okay!” even as you watch this new administration strike another blow towards the people. I’m talking about noticing the Stories you have such as, “I’m not political” or “I don’t know where I’d start” or “It’s all so overwhelming, so what’s the point”? You reframe those into truths that give you more resilience: “I can start by learning more” or “I’ll take this one piece at a time.”
4. Reach out and create community. Get yourself to the march or protest event. Join the political group on Facebook. Decide to read at least one article, daily. And if you arrive at the event, and feel overwhelmed? Actually talk with someone else and lean on them for support (create community!) or repeat steps 1-3, above: Breathe and access the body. Listen without attachment. Reframe limiting Stories that you shouldn’t be there or that you can’t handle it. Keep coming back to the body.
The smartest thing I’ve seen anyone post, recently, was this:
“It wouldn’t surprise me if the goal [of the Trump administration] is to create “resistance fatigue,” to get Americans to the point where they’re more likely to say “Oh, another protest? Don’t you guys ever stop?” relatively quickly.” Yonatan Zunger
That’s exactly what is happening. We’re only a week in, and people who have never before needed to engage politically are already exhausted. They’re exhausted from what they’re reading, from the ways that different political activists lob grenades at each other for not doing social justice correctly in each others’ estimation, from the sheer number of things that are out there.
This administration is trying to overwhelm you, not your friends who are posting political resistance.
Again—read this out loud, even—“This administration is TRYING to overwhelm me.”
They are counting on you checking out.
They are counting on you, never having identified with being “a political person” suddenly feeling inept at how to take any action.
They are counting on you not knowing what to say when you try to make a call to protest a cabinet nomination.
When people are afraid, they tend to “check out.” This is actually a really normal thing to do, and sometimes in cases of extreme trauma or re-stimulation, it’s what people do to survive.
The problem is that this doesn’t work.
Self-care is not “checking out.” Self-care is doing what builds resilience.
If you need to step away from your social media feeds, that’s okay—but if you step away and check out, numbing yourself with a haze of bad reality television or trying not to think about what’s happening, then you’re not actually practicing true self-care.
Self-care is not checking out. Self-care is doing what builds resilience.
Checking out means that not only are you not one of the voices who stands up against injustice, but you’re also not equipping yourself to come back later feeling better. Checking out doesn’t help you to feel better. Building resilience helps people to feel better. Given the stakes, we need you to build resilience. Lives are counting on you building resilience.
Try it out, right now. You’ve got this browser window open. Scroll back up to the four steps listed: Access the body, listen without attachment, reframe limiting stories, reach out and create community.
Open a second browser window—your Facebook feed, a news feed, a series of political stories about what’s going on.
Read a paragraph, then stop and try out the four steps. Read another, and try out the four steps. Then do that again, tomorrow and the next day.
I get overwhelmed, too. But instead of trying not to feel overwhelm, I’m trying to build resilience.
Resilience is built one stepping stone at a time, and trust me please when I say that we need your voice, your commitment to action.
Self-care is not checking out. Self-care is doing what builds resilience.
Make building resilience your first act of resistance.
* I am very aware of the frustration that many groups are expressing over white fragility, people who are privileged needing to take time for “self-care,” etc. I understand, or think I do, this frustration: how can people be throwing up their hands and saying they are overwhelmed, at times like these when so many people who are impacted by daily oppression never get that privilege? In this piece, I’m trying to pragmatically address the very real fact that we now have thousands of people who have never before been politically engaged, trying to get politically engaged. They don’t know where the hell to start, and they’re afraid of doing it wrong, and they’re quickly overwhelmed. Rather than critiquing that or calling them out for a prior lack of social justice engagement, my hope is to give those people real tools for navigating what they feel as they step into this totally new arena of being conscious and engaged.