Last night marked one of the toughest battles in my ongoing journey toward sobriety. Going sober feels a lot like heartache—an unending, persistent longing. Every fiber of my being ached for a drink, with the mental image of sipping a shot of rum, feeling that initial warmth and relaxation, playing on a loop in my mind.

In the past, before I committed to sobriety, my routine involved having a drink or two before putting my kids to bed. It provided me with a familiar sense of merriment, and sometimes, I’d even indulge in a shot that offered a quick, uplifting buzz. This altered state made putting my children to bed a more pleasant experience, despite the occasional irritation when they resisted sleep. However, the precious time for drinking became compromised by their wakefulness.

As a quick side note, I was always self-conscious about my breath when I kissed them goodnight. Although they never mentioned it, I couldn’t shake the guilt—the fear that I was the mom who perpetually smelled like alcohol, as if it were an integral part of my identity.

But last night, the process of putting my kids to bed felt excruciatingly painful. It was an unbearable chore, and I succumbed to a mini-tantrum over my inability to drink. By the time I finally settled them down, the clock had already struck 9 PM, and I collapsed into bed, falling asleep. This is precisely why I find solace in drinking—it provides a reprieve, a few hours of happiness. But the cost of those moments looms large, especially when the subsequent days bring forth the heavy cloud of depression.

Sobriety feels like an unending battle, where my longing for those fleeting moments of inebriation clashes with my commitment to a healthier, happier life for both myself and my children. It’s akin to enduring heartache, a persistent ache that I must confront and overcome each day.

I’ve embarked on the path of sobriety before—during my three pregnancies, two 75-day challenges, and two Dry Januarys. However, this time, something feels undeniably different. It’s as if I’m peering deep into the complex layers of my relationship with alcohol. After each period of abstinence, it doesn’t take long for me to slip back into my old patterns. I’ve tried moderation countless times, whether adjusting what I drink or when I drink, but on this particular journey, in this very moment, it’s as if my sole option is to bid farewell to alcohol indefinitely. It’s an unsettling notion, one that doesn’t immediately fill me with positivity.

Taking away my child’s dummy recently felt like removing a piece of her comfort, and I empathize because that’s precisely how I feel about alcohol being taken away from me. I’m currently navigating a grieving process, mourning the loss of something that has provided solace for so long. Even more distressing is the realization that it has to be this way—forever.

This relentless question persists: Why can’t I moderate my alcohol consumption? Why am I not like those who can simply take it or leave it? Why can’t I leave a half-empty bottle of wine in the fridge or an open bottle of vodka in the cupboard? I can’t even buy wine for cooking without the fear of succumbing to it. It’s infuriating, and anger consumes me. Honestly, all I want is to enjoy a drink without it becoming a problem, but it feels like an unattainable goal. Frustration and disappointment loom large, and I yearn for a sense of control that continues to elude me.