My Condolences

I’ll be very honest with you guys: sobriety can feel deeply lonely.
But not for the exact reasons you’re probably assuming.
Yes, there’s the obvious one – losing friends. Or, more accurately, realizing that 25+ of your so-called “friends” were actually just fellow chaos companions, drinking buddies you trauma-bonded with over cheap liquor and shared delusion. People you thought cared but who actually just didn’t want to drink alone either.

Sobriety doesn’t just clear your bloodstream. It clears the room.

And what’s left? You. Your thoughts. Your feelings. And, like, two people who genuinely want you to be okay.

And let me just say: that realization hits hard. It’s like going from being the life of the party to suddenly being in a room with the lights on and a mirror in front of you. Unfiltered. Under-caffeinated. Just you – no mask, no buffer, no buzz to soften the sharpness.

But here’s the twist most people don’t talk about:
The loneliness doesn’t just come from missing people.
It comes from the fact that now you actually feel things.

All the emotions you were dodging suddenly show up and hit you anyway.
There’s no hiding. Just you, getting emotionally sniped by sadness, anxiety, grief, heartbreak, rage and that weird, shape-shifting shame that only shows up in silence.

And because you’re sober now, you let them in. And you try not to scream into a pillow or over-explain your feelings to someone who wasn’t even asking. You let the ache rise up; you let it exist.

It fucking sucks butt. Feeling this much, this often, this uneasy, is exhausting. You miss your old coping mechanism. You miss the blackout button. The ability to blur the hard edges of existence.

But here’s what that numbing never told you: it didn’t just take the pain. It took everything.

It muted joy just as much as it dulled grief. It silenced awe. It stole your ability to be stunned by beauty – the kind of moment where something small, like your dog resting his chin on your knee, makes your eyes water. It stripped the intimacy out of laughter. Not just any laughter but the kind that lives in your chest. The kind you remember the next day without shame or fog or wondering who you annoyed.

It robbed you of wonder. Of lightness. Of the delicate feeling of simply being okay, without needing to earn it.

It flattened your curiosity.
It didn’t make you careless – it made you numb. And the worst part? It didn’t just turn the volume down on the world – it drowned out you.

Your gut feelings? Replaced with anxiety.
Your instincts? Muffled under layers of doubt.
Your voice? So distorted you forgot what it sounded like without vodka echoing through it.

So yeah, the feelings you’re having now? They’re intense. And real. But they’re yours. They come hand-in-hand with the feelings you forgot were even possible. Gratitude. Pride. Safety. A sense of accomplishment that doesn’t have to be followed by destruction.

You’re not just sober. You’re here. And the world may look sharper and more overwhelming than you remember – but it’s fucking real. And it’s yours.

So if you’re reading this in the middle of a rough day – where it feels like everyone forgot you exist and your emotions are stacking up like bricks on your chest – I just want you to know: you’re not weak for feeling this. You’re not broken. And yes, maybe you’re sitting there with a clenched jaw muttering “I’m fine,” Ross Geller-style – “I’m fine!!! I’m fine. I’m. Fine.”

But you’re not. And that’s okay because letting yourself not be fine is sometimes the strongest thing that you can do.

And here’s the tradeoff: You get to feel the best because you’ve already proven you can survive the worst. Not just survive it – sit with it.
Look it in the eye. Name (and/or swear at) it. Let it pass through you without becoming it.

You lost everything? Cool, cool cool, yeah. Same here.

And at first, that felt like failure. Like I’d ruined my life beyond recognition.
But sometimes when you lose everything, what you’re really losing is the noise. The distraction. The performance. And when all that falls away, what’s left is you. What’s actually you.

And here’s the wild part: you’re still here.
Still breathing. Still standing, even if it’s a little shaky. Still choosing to wake up and do this thing again, even without the numbing. Even without the easy exit.

So maybe you didn’t rebuild everything.
Maybe you’re still in the middle of it.
But you found something in the wreckage: yourself.

And guess the fuck what? You still have value.
Even stripped down. Even exhausted. Even healing.
So maybe – just maybe – it was you that was valuable all along.