My friends knew all about my husband’s affair with a co-worker several years ago. They knew I only found out about his infidelity because it was discovered at his workplace three years back and subsequently used by a colleague to force my husband to leave his job, bringing an abrupt end to his exemplary 20-year career. They knew we lost 60% of our household income and that we’re still struggling to regain our financial footing. My friends also knew that this deeply personal story of ours was deliberately fed to our local media, rendering us unable to shield our two teenagers from the devastating news of their father’s unfaithfulness.

What my friends didn’t know is that somewhere along the steep, winding road of my recovery from the blindside trauma of my husband’s betrayal, my relationship with alcohol became untenable. Two and a half years into our attempt to rebuild our marriage, I finally acknowledged that alcohol was derailing my ability to heal from my husband’s infidelity. This newfound self-awareness was the motivation I needed to quit drinking, in favor of gaining ground in my recuperation.

But soon after, my oldest girlfriend, Tracy, who was hosting an upcoming a girls night, repurposed an evening get together from dinner and board games into a wine tasting.

It took me a hot second to want to cancel. I didn’t yet know if I wanted to quit drinking forever—I only knew that to start again right then would be too soon. I couldn’t attend a social gathering centered on wine tasting. If I were to have a sip, I’d have a few glasses—nearly every day of the last two years was a testament to my proclivity to do just that. I wanted to push the easy button and just stay home where I could hide from wine.

I was about to send my regrets when a nosy question gave me pause: If I wasn’t willing to figure out my game plan for not drinking at social gatherings now, then when? If I couldn’t bring myself to decline alcohol during an evening spent with my closest, most supportive gal pals, then with whom?

Feeling challenged to a duel by my own now-or-never rhetoric, instead of canceling, I chose to face my fear.

Feeling challenged to a duel by my own now-or-never rhetoric, instead of canceling, I chose to face my fear.

So I responded to Tracy’s change-of-plans email, stating I’d be there, but I’d be the “super fun one” not drinking. I knew everyone would be fine with my choice to abstain from alcohol—it was just me I was worried about. Throwing myself under the self-deprecation bus via my snarky RSVP was one indicator that I wasn’t comfortable heading into a situation fraught with temptation. My jello-like resolve not to imbibe was too new. Too untested. Not yet fully set.

Early that evening when my friends and I came together, they collectively ushered the elephant out of the room with the question, “Why aren’t you drinking?” A cacophony of my own stammer-laced yammer filled my brain as I hustled to work out my answer.

I’m very writer-y, but not always very talker-y. When I write, I tip myself upside down, shaking my thoughts loose from the nooks and crannies they’ve wedged into. I empty my brain’s pockets of all the angst I’ve stuffed deep inside. Then I begin to slowly work through the jumbled pile, organizing and editing as I go. In sifting through the debris on the page, keeping what makes good sense while letting the rest go, I end up with a neatly packaged bundle of words finally fit for consumption.

But when I talk, especially when I’m ill-prepared, I’ve been known to stutter. I ramble on and on and on and on and on and on. I become unnecessarily repetitive in an effort to get my point across. The right words to fully express what I’m thinking elude me. Thus when I tried to succinctly verbalize why I wasn’t drinking, what I revealed wasn’t my entire cold, hard truth.

I knew everyone would be fine with my choice to abstain from alcohol—it was just me I was worried about. My jello-like resolve not to imbibe was too new. Too untested. Not yet fully set.

The silent, rapid-fire conversation I had with myself while I sat with my girlfriends went like this. In my head, I lamented over how stuck I was. I railed at how I couldn’t seem to fully heal from the lingering effects of my husband’s affair. I recounted I’d been spinning my wheels for too long—I was losing ground. I bemoaned I was doing so well for a while but then I just wasn’t anymore. I recalled months of agonizing indecision over how to handle my lack of progress in overcoming our marital trauma. I confided I finally understood I needed help to keep healing. I acknowledged that alcohol wasn’t the guardrail I’d hoped it to be—but rather a dangerous sinkhole that threatened to engulf me.

What I answered out loud was, “I started a course of antidepressants and it just doesn’t make sense to drink while I’m on them.”

I loathed my answer. It didn’t feel right. Tracy and the crew know me to be a truth-teller. They know I usually give it to them straight when they ask—and even when they don’t.

I live this way because while it’s true that disclosing the truth can hurt, doing so also sets us free. I believe living a life of freedom from suffocating shame to be worth the price of the pain that grants us that liberty. What trips up my truth, though, is sometimes I’m not sure how much of it people want to know. Thus when my friends asked me for my why, point blank at the onset of the evening, I told them my truth—but only the portion I was easily able to utter out loud.

If I’d told my whole truth, I would have said this:

According to my doctor, my near-daily consumption of alcohol for the last two years isn’t clinically problematic in itself. In her eyes, even two to three drinks a day on a regular basis is not cause for sounding the alarm. According to recent studies, she’s wrong— no amount of alcohol is safe to drink. And for me, repeatedly using alcohol to numb, self-medicate and deal with not dealing became a problem. I’m no longer good with drinking to avoid acknowledging my halting rehab from being hurt.

Disclosing the truth can hurt, doing so also sets us free. I believe living a life of freedom from suffocating shame to be worth the price of the pain that grants us that liberty.

It also doesn’t feel right that I’ve gone from gagging over the taste of alcohol clear through my 20s to craving it in my 40s. I don’t like that alcohol is my go-to implement for attempting to soften the jagged edges of life. That I start thinking about having that first drink of the afternoon in the morning is not ok with me. Neither is sleeping fitfully after I drink or waking up lethargic and murky-brained as a result. I’m not cool with how I may end up risking my long-term health if I continue to drink as frequently as I have been. Nor am I ok with how I’m spending more of our hard earned money than we can afford on something as fleeting as alcohol.

I’ve realized when I try to numb the pain of the past with alcohol—I also anesthetize myself to all the good happening in the present. Therapy and couples counseling helped, but not enough. I could no longer feel joy. I lost the motivation to practice restorative self-care. I began merely going through the motions of living without truly wanting to.

When I told my doctor all this, she agreed I need further assistance to go the distance. Because I felt hopeless about the future in a scary, unsettling way—evidenced by the rattling, repetitive thought that I don’t want to be here anymore—we settled on me trying a low dose antidepressant.

I’ve realized when I try to numb the pain of the past with alcohol—I also anesthetize myself to all the good happening in the present.

I didn’t say all of this to my girlfriends the night of the wine tasting. Even if I’d been able to speak my thoughts in real time, I doubt they were asking for this level of honesty during an evening meant for frivolity. I’m letting it all out now because I believe my whole story to be worthy of being told. I believe the same of all our stories. It can initially sting like hell to tell our truths, but the feeling of freedom that follows is an incredibly soothing salve for all of our wounds.

Even telling just the tip of my truthberg to my girlfriends produced some good, though. When I sheepishly emailed I’d be coming but not drinking, my friends were gleeful over the windfall of a designated driver. At the close of the evening, one friend told me I’d inspired her to become more inquisitive and mindful about her own alcohol use.

The morning after, another friend texted to the group a chart she’d made for recording what she intended to be more thoughtful, less mindless consumption of both alcohol and sugar over the next month. ALL of them texted they were hung over and hurting and how lucky they thought me to have avoided the lingering, off-putting effects of over-doing it with booze.

To think I’d have kept us from all that good if I’d stayed home to hide from vulnerability, my story, and from myself. Staying home had little to do with the wine.

I feel victorious over my choice to face myself sooner, rather than later yet again. Of course, you need to do what’s right for you to protect your sobriety; but I feel brave for summoning the courage to show up to my self-issued challenge, even before I felt prepared.

I’m proud of my decision to walk those paces. I’m proud of my ability to pivot. I’m proud I stood up to my fear.