Last year I lost my mother.
We’d had a very tricky relationship. She’d been a flamboyant but volatile woman, so our childhood was peppered with glorious experiences, alongside tempests that wrecked the family physically and emotionally. For the last 12 years of her life, I went no contact with my family because I couldn’t take the emotional storm anymore. It gave me day-to-day peace from unpredictable onslaughts, but in my heart, I knew that one day there would be a reckoning.
It came when my estranged sister called to tell me our mother was living in decrepitude and penury. She had advanced osteoporosis, making her physically very fragile, and raging Lewy body dementia, rendering her quite bonkers – but also disarmingly funny and sweet. I stepped in to look after her and arrange healthcare for her around Christmas and found a strange sense of closure in doing so. I was also able to repair my relationship with my estranged sister.
When my mother died just after my birthday in the summer, I was left bereft in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It opened up old wounds of grief: the ending of my 27-year marriage three years earlier (although we have navigated that with friendship), together with myriad other losses over the years. During the following months I really struggled. I had vivid dreams, woke up crying and felt as if I, too, was going to die. I missed her, and I lamented all those lost years her bad behaviour had robbed us of as a family.
As I approached the Christmas after my mother’s death with my new partner (an old boyfriend from my teens), plus his children and ex-wife (weirdly, an old friend), I decided I wanted to do it sober. I know some may laugh at that – given the peculiarity of my new domestic arrangement – and suggest it might have been a time to take up drinking in earnest; but I knew something had to change.
I quit drinking on Christmas Day, and I haven’t had a drink since.
I wouldn’t have said I was a particularly heavy drinker, but the truth is I definitely pushed my weekly intake over the recommended limit. I probably drank every day. In fact, I know I did. I drank to ease the pain of my ending marriage. I drank to have a good time with my friends. I drank to manage stress. I drank to celebrate an achievement. I drank because it was what I was used to. It was social, it was fun, it helped with anxiety. I liked it.
Nothing is more fun than a beer after gym class with your friends. Nothing is better than a margarita or three at your favourite restaurant. Nothing is more romantic than a shared bottle of Champagne with your loved one. Nothing reduces the stress of a difficult day like a quadruple vodka and tonic with oodles of ice and lemon. Nothing makes the bad thoughts go away in the night better than a sneaky Scotch. Right?
I knew deep down it was all too much. There were times when I had trouble getting the key in the front door when I got home; when I crashed out only to wake two hours later with a raging thirst and an unnameable fear; when I was so woolly-headed the next day that I’d coast through work and deliver under par. I knew I’d been doing all of this for a long time.
I wasn’t what I’d call a ‘proper alcoholic’. I’ve known people whose drinking has cost them their families, careers and everything they owned; people who drank themselves to death by 50 and left recrimination and trauma in their wake.
I wasn’t at that point. But I wasn’t my best self either. And I wasn’t navigating my mother’s death at all.
So what was it like – giving it up, getting sober? Did I do ‘the programme’? Was it hard? Did I crave a drink? Will I ever drink again?
Well, I didn’t go to any support groups. I wanted to do this by myself, for myself. So I just quit. I can’t exactly explain it, but I have this weird switch in my head. When I decide I really want to do something, or really don’t want to do something, something clicks; it’s a bit like switching tracks. There is a sign in there which says, ‘You don’t do this any more.’ It would flash on whenever I needed it.
The first week was the hardest because drinking was so habitual. I would wander to the fridge for a beer, automatically order a pint or contemplate a cocktail; then the sign would flash, I’d remember and order something else.
I told everyone I was doing Dry January because it framed my quitting within something people could understand. ‘Ah yes, me too,’ some would say. Or, ‘I wish I could do that – maybe next year.’ People respected it because it wasn’t too strange to give up booze for January.
When I continued into February, people were intrigued as to why and how long I planned to carry on. There would be the inevitable, ‘Come on, have a drink,’ but it was half-hearted. Quite quickly, people simply accepted that I didn’t drink.
Did I use substitutes, like alcohol-free beer? No. I’d have a Coke, maybe, or a pint of soda water and apple juice. Sometimes I wouldn’t have a drink at all because I wasn’t thirsty – that was a weird one for other people.
Did I avoid the pub? Not really. If my social life dictated it, I still went, but it became less appealing; or, more accurately, I stopped suggesting the pub as an automatic social activity. I was still happy to go along and not drink.
Was I ever tempted? Did I get cravings? The cravings came when I felt sad, anxious or triggered. Then they were huge – a powerful desire to sink a massive drink and feel that delicious warmth and anaesthesia that alcohol can briefly bring. That was when I knew I really had to stick to my sobriety. Alcohol had become a coping mechanism that didn’t heal.
In a way, giving up was easy; not because it wasn’t hard, but because I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was completely unprepared, however, for how difficult those first six weeks would feel. My brain and body were so used to alcohol being part of things. My sleep got worse for a bit, with trouble falling and then staying asleep. I had vivid, nightmarish dreams. I felt anxious, sad and so on edge that I kept asking AI mode about it. I was exhausted.
It made me more determined to continue.
Then, suddenly, I slept better. The brain fog lifted. I felt a bit happier. I was fitter and I lost weight. It was gradual, but all these things kept improving. I’d go out with friends and feel a bit bored when they started drinking. Then I’d find it funny and join in as if I were a bit squiffy too. I relished not waking with hangxiety or feeling I’d had one too many.
I’ve now done several sober trips away; Dubai as war broke out, which was a bit stressful; one with a girlfriend sunbathing; one walking in Norway; and another with my partner. I enjoyed them all much more than I would have with a drink – or seventeen.
I honestly don’t think I’m going to drink again. I’ve had every lovely experience alcohol can offer, so I know I’m not missing out. I’ve also had a few not-so-lovely experiences.
One of the best things about being sober is that my brain now feels so much better and sharper.
I have better stamina in my body conditioning classes.
I’ve lost 9lb.
I walked a mountain in Norway.
I’ve stopped waking from nightmares, crying about my mother. I think of her with some regret, but mostly with love and gratitude that I was able to care for her and repair our relationship.
Below is some starting information for those who likewise wish to quit the demon alcohol:
What changed when I stopped drinking?
After more than seven months alcohol-free, the changes I have felt were gradual rather than like a tidy month-by-month reset. NHS guidance says that people who drink less may notice better mornings, more energy, improved mood, memory and sleep, and help with weight management. Over the longer term, drinking less can also lower blood pressure and reduce the risks of stroke, cancer and liver disease. Everyone’s body and pattern of drinking are different, so there is no guaranteed recovery timetable.
A note on stopping safely
Stopping without a group or programme worked for me, but that does not mean doing it alone is right or safe for everyone. If you may be physically dependent on alcohol, stopping suddenly can be dangerous. Speak to your GP or an alcohol support service before cutting down or quitting.
Support is available through NHS Alcohol Support, Alcohol Change UK, SMART Recovery and Alcoholics Anonymous.
Health information checked against NHS Better Health and NHS Alcohol Support, August 2026.
