Raw.Real.Recovered.

In the beginning, I was pissing rainbows of gratitude. Seriously. Everything was magical. I was sober, I was awake, and I was convinced that my life was about to be one giant inspirational quote.

I cried happy tears over gas station coffee. I hugged strangers in meetings like we’d been through war together (because, in a way, we had). I journaled about my newfound clarity and told everyone who would listen that I was so grateful to be free.

And then?

Life happened.

The pink cloud—the one that made everything feel light and hopeful and shiny—rolled the hell away. And I was left standing in the wreckage of my actual life, without the numbing comfort of a drink, a pill, or a pipe.

Because here’s the thing no one really tells you when you first get sober: life keeps happening. It doesn’t pause just because you finally decided to get your shit together.

Bills still pile up. People still let you down. Your past doesn’t magically rewrite itself. And some days, you wake up and realize that now you have to feel everything you used to drown.

It hit me hard. The first time I had to sit in real pain without an escape plan. The first time I had to take responsibility for the damage I caused. The first time I realized that gratitude alone wasn’t going to pay my rent, fix my relationships, or undo years of self-destruction.

And that’s when the real work started.

I had to learn how to live life on life’s terms—not on my terms, not on some unrealistic expectation that sobriety meant instant happiness, but on the truth that life is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes downright painful.

I had to figure out how to sit with discomfort without running from it. How to deal with stress without self-destruction. How to accept that not every day is going to feel like a spiritual awakening—and that’s okay.

Sobriety isn’t about chasing a constant high (even an emotional one). It’s about showing up, even when it sucks. It’s about learning how to cope in ways that don’t destroy you. It’s about facing life, fully awake, even when all you want to do is numb out.

And you know what? That gratitude I had in the beginning? It’s still here. It’s just different now.

It’s not loud or shiny. It’s not the kind that makes me want to throw confetti in the air. It’s quieter. Deeper. More real.

It’s in the small moments—waking up without shame, looking people in the eye again, knowing I don’t have to run from myself anymore.

The pink cloud was fun while it lasted, but this? This is better.

Because this is real.