March 2nd, Un An
Un an is how you say “1 year” in Romanian – which feels appropriate, given I now live in a country that sells beer cheaper than bottled water and still somehow, here I am: one whole year and two days without a drink.
My last drink was on February 29th, 2024. Yes, leap year. Because of course it was – nothing says “addict’s farewell” like picking the most chronologically confusing day to quit. Maybe it was the OCD. Maybe it was finally running out of excuses. Maybe I was just too exhausted to keep lying to myself which, for the record, is more exhausting than any hangover. Either way, I decided March 2nd would be the day I mark as the start of this whole sobriety thing. I’d read alcohol takes 24 to 48 hours to leave your system (depending on how much you drank, and let’s just say… we were on the need the full 48 end of that spectrum).
Still, even after declaring it, months in, my low-self-esteemed, hyper-analytical brain decided to host little sobriety pop quizzes.
“Wait… what if it’s actually March 3rd?”
Or the 4th? Or what if the booze didn’t metabolize properly because I hadn’t eaten and now the whole thing is off by a day and I’ve been accidentally lying this whole time and I’m not really sober and I need to start over –
You get the idea.
It’s fucking hard.
Better? Yes. Beautiful? Sure.
Transformative? Absolutely.
But hard — like scrubbing-blood-out-of-carpet hard. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.
And yet, the moment I remembered that 2024 had a February 29th – it finally clicked. The math checked out. And, for once, so did I.
I say all this not to bore you (okay, maybe a little), but to underline just how tedious sobriety can be. Not in a “woe is me” way, but in a “please understand how deep the rewiring goes” way. I write this for the ones who are in it, the ones considering it, and the ones who just need a reminder that they’re not the only ones still counting days, still arguing with the calendar, still figuring out how to just be.
Because maybe, through all this wordy reflection, something resonates. Not that I’d wish addiction on anyone – heck no – but if something in this echoes in your chest, then maybe there’s a crack of light worth following. Maybe this mess of a brain can help someone else’s mess feel a little less… lonely.
Let me be clear: this is not a victory lap. This is a deeply personal, often boring, always exhausting endurance test of self. One year is a big deal – but also, it’s just 365 days of choosing discomfort over delusion. Every day, I woke up and chose to not run from myself. That’s the whole secret. That’s the whole hell.
Funny how time is fake and yet anniversaries hit like a brick through a stained glass window. There’s no real difference between today and three days ago or three days from now – I’m still sober either way – but today? I feel it. I feel good.
Proud, even.
And here’s the thing: sobriety doesn’t make you a better person. It just gives you the option to become one. It hands you all your broken parts and says, “Well? What do you want to do with them?” You can tape some together. Burn others. Frame a few as warnings. You get to choose.
Because drunk you? That version of you was just trying to cope with a life that felt too loud, too empty, too painful, or too much like someone else’s. And that’s okay. You did what you had to do.
But now? Now you know better. Now, you choose better. Even when it sucks.
And the real win? I’m happy to feel proud.
I’m not shrinking from it, not talking myself down or adding caveats like, “Yeah, but it’s not that big of a deal.” It is a big deal. I’ve accomplished something, and I’m allowing myself to recognize it without twisting it into arrogance. Growth!
There’s no universal formula for happiness or healing or becoming a “better” version of yourself – those terms are fluid, weird, and deeply personal. But if there’s one constant, at least for me, it’s sobriety. Real sobriety. The kind where you’re not just dry, but awake.
You start to meet parts of yourself you didn’t even know existed – most of them surprising, some of them unpleasant, but all of them yours. And that’s the difference.
Sobriety gives you back your own terms.
Because drunk you? That’s not really you. That’s the dimmed-down, numbed-out understudy fumbling your lines.
And that’s okay. That version of you did what they needed to survive.
But now? Now you get to choose. You get to live your life – on your fucking terms.
You stayed.
You stayed when it got hard. You stayed when it got boring. You stayed when no one clapped.
You stayed.
And isn’t that something?
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