Ten Years of Sobriety

The Evolution of My Recovery and What It Means Today

Every month, professionals come into my coaching practice in transition or stuck in a version of success that no longer fits. When I ask what they're hoping for, what they want to prioritize, they commonly share a desire to feel energized again.

Many are burned out, disconnected from their bodies, and increasingly starting to question their relationship with substances. They're beginning to see the connection: that the very things they've been using to cope—the nightly wine, the weekend binges, the casual edibles—might be part of what's keeping them stuck in that dull, depleted state they're trying to escape. They tell me, "This isn't working anymore. I want something different."

They share this with me because they've seen me walk the path. In my writing, they've watched me navigate sobriety through fatherhood, entrepreneurship, and reinvention. And questions still remain: How have you done it? Is it possible to give this up and still enjoy your life? What does sober even mean anymore?

A decade in, and I'm still figuring it out. Still asking these questions. Today I'm crossing a new threshold: I have ten years of sobriety.

And it's been a chance to reflect on what this means to me now. How sobriety has evolved from rigid abstinence to something more expansive, more alive. How it's become less about what I don't do and more about how I choose to show up. And what that might mean for anyone ready to define sobriety on their own terms, even if they don't identify as an addict.

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Exactly ten years ago today, I walked into the basement of a church in Midtown Manhattan and attended my first AA meeting. At the time, I was filled with shame and frightened, but desperate and ready to make a change. I had tried everything to quit for years and had reached a point where I couldn't keep going down the same path. I hated how I felt—physically, emotionally, spiritually. At the suggestion of a close friend, I found my way to that meeting. I sat down in the circle, listened, and began counting days.

In those early months, AA gave me what I needed: structure, rhythm, language, and community. The 12 steps. The Big Book. The Serenity Prayer. The ritual of introducing myself as an addict. The program offered clarity in a time when I had none. The simplicity was comforting and necessary. Don't drink or drug. Go to meetings. Work the steps. Call my sponsor.

And for a long time, it worked. I loved the meetings, the ritual of gathering in scattered rooms across the city to share their stories and speak their truth. The tears. The laughter. The hard-earned wisdom. The transformations. The relief of being understood. There was something sacred that I was observing. We came from all walks of life, with wildly different stories, yet we shared a common thread: a desire to heal and improve our lives. Those people became my anchor and the rooms my sanctuary.

Looking back, I'm deeply grateful. AA probably saved my life, or at least my marriage. But I also brought old habits into that new space. I absorbed a more rigid version of sobriety than I understood at the time, one that, for me, equated sobriety with striving. I wanted to do it right, to be a "good" sober person, to fit in. I shared in meetings the way I thought I was supposed to. I clung to the rules and rituals like a life raft. I took pride in my streak, in showing up, in saying the "right" things. It wasn't disingenuous, but in hindsight, it was performative. I was performing my recovery as much as I was living it.

Sobriety, in those early years, became another way to strive toward perfection, another identity to cling to and protect. I still carried the same inner critic, the same part of me that craved control and acceptance, the same drive to be seen as disciplined, exceptional, good.

Even then, though, I was beginning to sense there might be other ways to heal. In the time between meetings, I found myself drawn to meditation, to books about consciousness and presence. I started working with therapists and teachers who talked about trauma, embodiment, and aliveness. I began to wonder if recovery could be about more than just not using. What if it could be about actually coming alive?

—

Eventually, the scaffolding of AA began to loosen. This didn’t happen all at once or out of defiance. My life slowly began to shift. I became a father. My recovery broadened. My transition into coaching captivated my attention and energy. My days grew full in ways that made the daily rituals of early sobriety harder to maintain. And then came the pandemic, which upended everything. Slowly, without even realizing it, I stopped going to meetings. I stopped introducing myself as an addict. I wasn't rebelling. I just wasn't relying on the same structures anymore.

And yet, I didn't drink. I didn't get high. What surprised me was how natural that felt. I hadn't imagined sobriety outside the bounds of the program, but somehow I was living it. That realization opened something. It made space for new questions. Am I still sober? What does sober actually mean to me now?

For the first time, I began to see that sobriety might be something more than abstinence and meetings. That it could be about presence, alignment, honesty. That it could be less about following a program and more about living in integrity with myself—my body, my values, my relationships, my work. The absence of alcohol and drugs was no longer the point. The point was how I showed up in my life.

As that shift unfolded, I began expanding the tools I used to heal and expand my consciousness. Eight years into my sobriety journey, I started exploring modalities beyond talk therapy and meetings. I began working with psilocybin in ceremonial settings, supported by experienced guides and therapists. I also experimented with microdosing in structured ways to support my inner work. And on several occasions, I took full doses with close friends in carefully held, nature-based settings.

None of this was escapist. These were conscious acts of listening, of seeing myself more clearly and feeling more deeply. The medicine revealed patterns and pain that traditional therapy hadn’t fully reached. It helped me experience presence not as a concept, but as a living, embodied reality.

Some might say this disqualifies me from being sober. I understand and respect that perspective. But for me, these experiences deepened my commitment to consciousness and truth-telling. They were about unearthing something buried within me and connecting to something far greater than myself.

Still, there were moments of doubt. I’d spent years tethered to a structure that told me I needed it to stay sober. Letting go of that map brought fear and uncertainty. Was I drifting too far? Was I lying to myself? Had I compromised my sobriety? There was no one to check in with, no one counting my days. And yet I found that my sobriety was still intact, not because I feared drinking or getting high, but because I no longer wanted to escape myself.

—

For me today, ten years in, sobriety is about telling the truth—to myself and to the people I love. It's about making hard choices and understanding the emotional trade-offs without just saying, fuck it. Even the subtle residue that sticks to my psyche when I go against what I know deep down to be true.

Sobriety means noticing when I want to check out, not just through alcohol or weed, but through overwork, achievement, control, scrolling, sugar, even self-optimization. It means asking: What am I avoiding right now? And then choosing, as often as I can, to stay. To stay with discomfort. To stay present. To stay in relationship with myself and the people I care about.

It's about looking in the mirror and knowing I didn't abandon myself. Not out of ego, not out of purity, not to perform, but because I want to live clean. Not morally clean—congruent.

It's not just about substances. It's about boundaries. Saying no to another opportunity that looks good on paper but doesn't feed my soul. Reading one book at a time instead of five. Letting myself rest when the part of me that still craves achievement says, do more. It's about closing doors. It's about honoring limitations, not as a flaw, but as part of life. There's a groundedness and clarity I've found in saying no. In finding meaning in repetition. In discovering depth in the mundane, and soul in stillness.

—

I grew up in the shadow of substance use. Both of my parents struggled with addiction at various points throughout my childhood and adolescence. That child learned that when things got hard, it was normal to reach for something to take the edge off. He learned that pain was something to escape, rather than feel. He learned that substances were the answer when life became too much to bear.

My kids are growing up in a different kind of light. Not the harsh glare of perfection, but the warm presence of someone who chooses to commit—to stay. But this path I’ve chosen isn’t about resentment or vindication. It’s about breaking the chain. It’s about honoring my parents by living differently because I know, deep down, they wanted something better, too.

And because my girls deserve nothing less than a sober father. Not a perfect one, but a present one. A father who loves them deeply. Who admits when he's wrong. Who apologizes. Who cries in front of them and holds them when they cry.

That shows up in the sacred, everyday mess of parenthood. Like when one of my daughters dissolves into tears on the kitchen floor, and I don't try to fix it—or her. I kneel beside her. I breathe. I place a hand on her back. I stay. Eventually, she climbs into my lap, her small body still trembling, and we sit together—silent, grounded, enough.

That's sobriety, too. The capacity to stay present with pain, mine and theirs, without needing to numb it or fix it or run from it. The willingness to be fully here, even when here is uncomfortable. Especially then.

This is the gift I couldn't give myself as a child, but I can give to them: the experience of being truly seen and held, no matter what they're feeling. It's the gift my parents wanted to give but couldn't, trapped as they were in their own survival patterns. The cycle breaks here, in these small moments of presence.

—

When I first walked into that church basement a decade ago, I didn’t understand the God talk. The language of higher power made me cringe. But I see now that what I was searching for wasn’t God in the traditional sense. It was connection—to myself, to others, and to the totality of life.

And connection is what sobriety has given me. It didn’t come through doctrine or dogma, but through practice. Through embodiment. Through expression. Through telling the truth. Through being with others who are trying to do the same.

A decade in, I’m still listening. Still learning. Still returning to myself, again and again, exactly as I am.

One day at a time.