As it so happened, a leisure boat was making its way through the canal. Four National Park System dudes were operating the lock system. On each side of the canal, they had to push the 200+ year-old wooden crank that opened the gates, letting water into one section. They’d wait around while that section filled up so they could crank it closed and proceed to the next section. Well … you’ve all been through fourth grade … I don’t need to explain how canals work.

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Chris and I were a bit flabbergasted to see this regular ole leisure boat, crewed by a regular middle-aged man and woman, making its way through the canal. I asked the park system dude, “How does one request going through the canal?”

The Park Ranger, who fit the part with a bushy mustache, a green polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a floppy hat, responded (read with a Canadian accent): “Oh, he just came up and asked.”

What? So, you guys are spending the next four hours bringing this leisure boat through the canal because he asked you?

<mind blown>

This concept of “just ask” came up recently in book inc’s monthly advice column, Ask Tina. Tina Goodyear advises a writer promoting her forthcoming book (I wonder who that writer could be?) to directly ask friends and colleagues to turn their private, supportive messages into public engagement (likes, comments, restacks, reviews), framing directness as the missing step between wanting support and actually receiving it. Read that advice here.

Are you seeing where this is going?

The Ask

Tomorrow, my debut memoir, Sober Mom, is finally out in the world. And here’s where I ask YOU, Dear Reader, to support its launch.

The Deets

Sober Mom is a raw and redemptive memoir chronicling my recovery journey as a 38-year-old suburban mom.

While caring for my three young children, I concealed vodka bottles throughout my home, drinking in secret as my life spiraled out of control. When an affair pushed my marriage to the breaking point, I was forced to confront not only my drinking but my crumbling marriage and the family trauma I'd been numbing for decades.

I don’t want to spoil it, so I won’t tell you how it ends. ;-)

The Reviews

A Zibby Owens’s Anticipated Summer Read, calls Sober Mom “a bracingly honest account” and “an important addition to the addiction-and-recovery canon” that will “inspire and embolden women and mothers who struggle with alcoholism.” Lara Love Hardin praises my “candor, wit, and unflinching self-awareness,” calling the book “fearless, funny, and deeply human.”

How You Can Help

Word of mouth is everything when it comes to launching a book, and I feel so lucky to have you all in my corner. To everyone who's preordered, cheered it on, or talked it up—THANK YOU. If you're willing to keep supporting Sober Mom, here are a few ideas:

Haven’t Bought a Copy Yet? Now’s the Time

The first week of sales matters a lot for a book's momentum, so if you're planning to buy a copy, now's the moment to do it! Your local independent bookstore is always the most author-friendly bet. If the bookstore asks, you can say Sober Mom is distributed by Simon & Schuster. They should be able to find it in their system. Here are some other buy links:

• Bookshop.org

• Barnes & Noble

• Amazon

• Sober Mom will be available as an audiobook on September 1.

The Library!

Head to the library to escape the summer heat and breathe in that familiar musty smell. You know, the one all libraries have. While you’re there, request Sober Mom. They’ll special-order it for your branch.

Share the Love!

I’d be beyond grateful if you could share the book on your favorite social media.

Feel free to share my posts from my Instagram, Facebook, or Threads, or post a photo you take of the book. Anything you’d like to write is BE-YOND! Thanks in advance. You’re the best!

Rate It!

So “they” tell me that reviews are the best way to support the book. Hop over to Goodreads, Amazon, and/or Barnes & Noble and leave one. Doesn't need to be a masterpiece. A single honest sentence counts. Once a book reaches a certain number of reviews, the algorithm starts working to put it in front of more readers, and I would very much like more readers.

Celebrate with Me!

I’ve been scheduling virtual and in-person events. Check them out here. Please note: Some events require you to buy an additional copy of Sober Mom. I’m setting up a donation bin, so if you’d like, you can donate your extra copy to rehabilitation centers. And if you want me to come to your book club (in-person or virtually), contact me.

THANK YOU!

I honestly can’t believe this is happening. Having my memoir published is a dream come true. And I couldn’t have done it without you all!

I’m talking about shrieking into the phone at a loved one. Pacing on the deck while spit flew from my mouth. My voice doing this weird angry shake. Not the shake of nerves when public speaking, not the halting stutter of a cry. A new shake I had never experienced before. Except it was familiar. I sounded like my mother.

I can justify my anger. It came from a place of fear. In my opinion, all bad behavior stems from fear. But just because I know the origin of my anger doesn’t mean it’s excused.

Ugh.

I apologized quickly, and my loved one and I moved past my outburst. But I spent the rest of the day wallowing in discomfort. That morning, at the beach, tears streamed down my cheeks while I replayed the conversation in my head over and over again. Later that afternoon, Chris and I escaped the heat by shutting the curtains and watching The Sheep Detective. (Silly but fun!) It was an ideal day, and yet I felt like shit through most of it.

AA has taught me what to do when I’m sitting in discomfort, and I checked off those boxes pretty quickly. I called a fellow AAer to tell them the situation, recognized my part in the problem, asked my Higher Power to remove it, and turned my attention to someone I could help. Read more about the 10th Step in this previous post:

And eventually, that terrible, twitchy feeling of shame, embarrassment, and regret dissipated.

But oh, how I wish I didn’t HAVE to do that. How I wish I had handled the conversation more appropriately from the get-go.

My sponsor has a sharp wit. She can cut a person down with a well-worded jab. Often, I tell her, “I wish I had your skill.” When I’m in an argument, I flounder, never articulating what I want to say. And then days later, usually in the shower, I think of the good comeback and wish I had said it in the moment. But when I praise her, she says to me, “Sure, I’m good with the comeback, but it NEVER makes me feel better. I always feel worse. And always wish I had just kept my mouth shut.” But I didn’t really believe her until last week when I had this angry outburst. Because again, I felt my anger was justified, but screaming at someone didn’t make me feel better. It made everything worse.

I guess my Higher Power wanted me to learn this the hard way. To show me, through actual experience, that even when I'm right (and I use the word loosely, because who’s to say what’s right or wrong), an angry outburst, however justified, just makes me feel like shit. There's always a better way. Always.

As the plaque says, “God, keep one arm around my shoulder and the other over my fucking mouth.” Ok, maybe the plaque doesn’t say that exactly.

One Week Until My Book Birthday

Next week, you’ll officially get your marching orders about how to support my book launch. For now, I’d love it if you could add one of my launch events to your calendar. Some events require prior registration, and I ask you to do so sooner rather than later so I can get a headcount. To be honest, I’m so worried no one is showing up to any of these!

• If you’re local to Monmouth County, NJ, I’ll be celebrating in person on Wednesday, September 9.

• If you’re not local, PWN is having a virtual launch on Wednesday, August 26.

• If you live in VT and you should… we all should… I’ll be at Horsford’s Nursery on September 12 and in Ludlow on Wednesday, October 14.

• If you’d like me to attend your book club, either virtually or in person, please contact me.

• See all events here, and hopefully more to come soon!

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. It’s proof there’s an actual human being behind the Substack.

The book is a series of letters to her late brother Monir, who died at age 20 in a drive-by shooting on a corner in Philadelphia. The memoir blew me away. The intimacy, the tragedy, the tenderness, the love. The epistolary form pulls the reader directly into their sibling relationship. It's an intimate book that speaks to much wider issues.

At the book launch, I listened to Shanda discuss her brother and the way he died, and her grief, and well, even just typing those words has brought tears to my eyes. Because Shanda spoke so frankly and so eloquently about a topic that I continuously circle, and one I’m trying to write about in Memoir #2—sibling loss and complicated grief.

A man in the audience at the book launch asked Shanda how her brother died. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes and thought It says it on the back jacket, dude. But Shanda didn’t flinch at the question. She answered matter-of-factly: Monir was dealing drugs, and he was most likely shot because of a turf war. I so admired her unapologetic openness about the cause of her brother’s death. She went on to explain about the lack of job opportunities for Monir, a young black man living in Philly. He was a father and needed to support his family.

Like Shanda, I know sibling loss. When I was 18 years old, my brother William, who had been sober for three years but relapsed, got drunk and drove, and died crashing into a tree on the highway. He was 21. And when I was 24 years old, my sister Julia died by suicide. She was 29.

Losing a sibling is hard; losing a sibling tragically at a young age is difficult; losing a sibling whose death could be deemed “preventable” is complicated.

Are you allowed to feel as heartbroken when a person dies because of their own bad choices? Can I be just as sad about losing William and Julia as someone who lost their brother on September 11th?

At the book launch, Shanda talked about the hush-hush conversations after her brother was shot. Or worse, the silence. For me, I learned to tell an edited version of my siblings’ deaths. I didn’t want people to feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable talking about them. It was easier not to mention them at all. To say, “Oh, I have one older sister,” when asked the typical question of “Do you have any siblings?” But then I’d feel so out of sorts. My rank as the fourth and youngest Bassler defined me in my small NJ town where I grew up. Am I just supposed to pretend that my siblings didn’t exist because their deaths are difficult to talk about?

Society’s stigma against the diseases of alcoholism and mental illness, well, it has done a number on me. My family’s silence taught me that maybe I wasn’t supposed to mourn as loudly. That perhaps my family bore some blame for their deaths. That my heartbreak came with an asterisk.

Both deaths happened while I was on the cusp of coming of age — my brother died when I was 18, less than two months after I graduated high school. I was 24 when my sister died, a young woman living in Manhattan, trying to find my footing. I felt like I couldn't say how much I missed them. I felt like I couldn’t grieve openly. It fucked me up.

My sister died 29 years ago this past June (the exact same number of years she was alive), and my brother died 36 years ago this August. So much time has passed, and yet, my heart still clenches when I think of them.

I felt seen sitting in that room, listening to Shanda talk about grief. Because this is the grief I know.

Shanda would recommend writing a letter to William and Julia. At the reading, she handed out envelopes giving all the participants permission to write to someone they had lost.

She also signed “Love is memory” on my copy, which speaks to what I always say: “Grief is Love.”

I have done a great deal of work, both in therapy and in the Twelve Steps, to understand that alcoholism is a disease, that my brother’s death was not a moral failure, that my sister’s suffering was real and deserved compassion. I believe those things. And still, some small corner of me has held onto the shame the world handed me when I was eighteen and twenty-four and didn’t know how to push it back.

You know what gets rid of shame? Empathy. And you know how you create empathy? Sharing personal stories. Brené Brown says that shame needs judgment, silence, and secrecy to survive and that empathy is the one thing shame can’t live in.

Thank you, Shanda, for telling your story. I know Brother Epistles will touch so many people as it touched me. And thank you, readers, for listening to mine. I will keep plugging away at Memoir #2. It will not only help me — it will hopefully help others who have felt their grief come with an asterisk.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. It’s proof there’s an actual human being behind the Substack.

In general, June is a good time. The Summer Solstice, my birthday, the end of school (School’s out for summah… read with an Alice Cooper head bang). Add Pride, the global celebration and observance held every June to honor the LGBTQ+ community, and well, the party that is June gets kicked up a notch.

BTW, I know it’s a global celebration because my family happened to wander into a Pride Parade during a vacation in Paris in 2016. That was a scene! I went looking to see if I had any photos from the parade, but I could only find this one of Hôtel de Ville decorated with pride banners.

I’m straight, so I can’t speak to any experience about being gay and getting sober in Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). But I know that just as there are specific meetings for men and specific meetings for women, there are also specific meetings for the LGBTQ community. AA’s Word Service meeting app allows you to search for them.

That makes me happy.

And although the Big Book, AA’s foundational text, was written in 1938 and is generally filled with outdated language and ideas — just look at the chapter “To the Wives,” as if only men can be alcoholics — small changes are being made.

The AA preamble, a short definition of AA’s main purpose, read at the opening of many meetings, used to say “Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women…” In 2021, at the 71st General Service Conference, after a series of votes, a final Advisory Action requested replacing the words “men and women” with the word “people.”

Small steps in the right direction. I hope we continue to make these changes so that all people feel included and welcomed in recovery.

Love is love. Happy Pride Y’all!

I’m currently writing this in a hotel room in Ottawa, and I was so happy to look out the window and see this Pride flag flapping in the breeze!

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. It’s proof there’s an actual human being behind the Substack.

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My debut memoir, Sober Mom, will be published on July 21, smack in the middle of the summer. And in August, two of the three young adults living in my house will depart for higher education institutions.

These two milestones felt like enough, and I didn’t feel the need to plan anything else. No European vacations like our 2024 Germany trip, no mother-daughter excursions to visit cousins in San Francisco like last year. No big backyard shindigs like the one we had for my 50th birthday four years ago.

So color me surprised to discover my summer calendar is suddenly FULL, maybe even overbooked.

I mean, the Summer Solstice was just yesterday, and I’ve already attended a wedding, a First Communion, a high school graduation, and a joint Father’s Day / Birthday celebration dinner. (My b-day is tomorrow!) This Friday is another wedding, and Sunday, I’m jetting off to Ottawa—yes, the capital of Canada—tagging along on my husband Chris’s business trip. And after that, a weekend in Vermont.

Then, I’m heading to NYC for three days to record my audiobook, followed by a swiftly planned trip to Fire Island with my father. And then the college move-ins, and I’ll be ending the summer with a trip to Portland, OR for Sober Mom’s inaugural book club event at my friend Cathi’s. (Hi, Cathi!)

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What I can’t decide is … am I happy about the suddenly full calendar? Like a kid who thought he missed the ice cream truck only to discover it’s circled the block. OR am I disappointed to no longer have wide swatches of free time? Like a kid whose top ice cream scoop fell off his cone onto the pavement.

Sorry, it’s summer, so there’s ice cream on the mind. Also, maybe because of my friend Emma’s Substack, ode to Ice Cream in June.

I know what my sponsor would say about my suddenly full calendar. She’d say, “Hmmm, this all seems to be by design.” She’s not talking about my design; she’s talking about my Higher Power’s.

She’d suggest my Higher Power peppered my calendar with a bunch of lesser events so that I wouldn’t focus on the two very big, slightly terrifying events: my book launch and my empty nest.

Maybe. Does my Higher Power schedule business trips to Ottawa? It doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter whether or not I’m happy about it. The point is I do have a full calendar now, and hopefully, that will mean I won’t stress about how my memoir is received or worry about everyone settling into their new college homes. I’ll be too busy living to do much worrying at all.

Yeah, it’s probably by design.

What about you? Got any plans for the summer?

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. It’s proof there’s an actual human being behind the Substack.

But in early sobriety, weddings were most definitely not fun.

To illustrate, let me walk you through the first wedding I attended sober, in 2011, for our neighbors, Lauren and Oscar. (If you’re reading this, guys, hi! How are you doing?)

Pre-wedding, I fretted about surviving the wedding without drinking so much that I brought it up from the podium during a speaking commitment. Afterward, some guy came up to me and said, “I don’t think you should go.” He was worried about me “picking up,” drinking again after quitting.

My sponsor disagreed. You can go anywhere there is alcohol, she told me, as long as you’re spiritually fit. And since I was right in the middle of my step work and doing all the things, including those speaking commitments, she said, “You’ll be fine. Just bookend the event. Call a sober person before and after.”

At the wedding, Chris and I didn’t know anyone, and making small talk was torturous without a trusted drink in my hand. At the center of each table sat two bottles of wine, one red, one white. I remember thinking, if this were a movie and I wasn’t in recovery, Chris and I would grab one of those bottles, sneak outside, and go sit on the dock. Legs dangling over the calm water, the sound of halyards slapping against masts in the marina, we’d share a cigarette and take swigs from the bottle while discussing life.

Sounds lovely, right?

Instead, I was itchy and uncomfortable and awkward. Chris and I did dance. That’s one thing we always do at weddings, and I can slow dance sober. It’s the fast songs that feel so awkward.

As soon as it wasn’t rude to do so, I told Chris I needed to leave. When I called my sponsor on the way out of the parking lot, she said, “Now you have a sober reference. Now you know you can attend weddings without drinking.”

She was right, as usual. She’s always right. It’s kind of annoying.

That doesn’t mean I had a good time at the second wedding, or the third. It means each one was a little less uncomfortable than the last. Until eventually, I could attend a wedding without once thinking about alcohol, and actually have an amazing time.

That was the case at my niece’s wedding. I was parched after the ceremony, so I waited in line at the bar, which was inside a barn from the 1600s. But I didn’t stand there wishing I could drink. I just desperately wanted my cranberry seltzer so I could start in on the delicious apps. When I sat down at the table, I pushed my champagne glass to the center, and it was not an issue. It was not a thing.

But it was once a thing. And it took time to get to the point where I could attend a wedding sober and be happy.

In early sobriety, I’d complain to anyone who’d listen that things weren’t getting better fast enough. Chris still didn’t trust me. I still craved alcohol. People with long-term recovery would say, “Time takes time.”

I’d nod, but in my head I’d think, what does that MEAN? I was so impatient to feel better, for life to get better.

But you cannot wave a wand and make people trust you after you’ve admitted to lying to them for nine years. You cannot wave a wand and stop craving the magic elixir that used to make you comfortable and at ease.

Time takes time. And it took some time before I could attend a wedding sober and have fun.

I’m going to another wedding at the end of June—my co-worker Lisa! And I’m so excited to celebrate her nuptials sane and sober, dance my head off, and not once worry about craving alcohol.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. It’s proof there’s an actual human being behind the Substack.

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And now back to our regularly scheduled programing…

About three weeks ago, I left the Looking Glass Rock Writing conference one day early, bummed to miss Leslie Jamison’s last workshop session, and very disappointed that I hadn’t yet seen a white squirrel. Brevard, the area where the conference is held, is known for its white squirrels, but I never saw one! A writer friend pointed out that the white squirrel is my white whale. How apt for a writers’ conference!

I left early because I was invited to ’s Annual Summer Reading List celebration in New York City! I became aware of Zibby Owens several years ago when I officially entered the writing and reading space. Google reports Zibby is “an American author, publisher, and prominent literary entrepreneur often described as ‘New York City’s Most Powerful Book-fluencer.’” I follow her on social media, listen to her Totally Booked podcast (formerly Moms Don’t Have Time to Read Books), and was in the audience for a panel she was on a few years back at the Montclair List Fest.

So, needless to say, I was beyond excited and a bit flabbergasted to have Sober Mom on Zibby’s Most Anticipated Books of the Summer list, and I knew I had to attend this party. That attending the party was more important than seeing the elusive white squirrel.

I flew back to Newark, and instead of going home to the suburbs of New Jersey, I hopped on NJ Transit to the Big Apple and then schlepped my rolling suitcase from Penn Station up to my hotel on 51st, a spot I picked because it was midway between the Upper East Side, where the party was being held, and Penn Station. I made one stop on the way: the women’s clothing store The Loft in Times Square, because I knew I needed a new outfit.

We were alerted via email that there’d be a photographer at the party and that we’d go around the room, introduce ourselves, and tell each other about our books.

My father, an excellent orator who won awards for his speech-giving prowess, says the key to public speaking is the three Ps: Prepare, Practice, and Project. (I’ve googled this, and Google says it’s “perform,” but I’m pretty sure my dad, who has a booming voice, says “project.”)

So the night before the party, I was alone in a hotel room in NYC. (BTW, I’d totally recommend the Hilton Garden Inn on 51st: reasonably priced, clean, and centrally located.) Sunday night, I PREPARED my Sober Mom pitch, something I should have done a long time ago. And then the next morning, I PRACTICED the shit out of that pitch. I could say the whole thing from memory.

It was hot that Monday, May 18, so instead of walking uptown to the party and getting sweaty, I opted for an Uber. I’m glad I did.

To say I was intimidated at this Park Avenue shin-dig would be an understatement. Everyone seemed bright and shiny, wearing dresses that matched the covers of their books. Most people seemed to know each other. I felt awkward and frumpy even in my new outfit.

When we sat down in the living room to go around the room and describe our book, I realized that the pitch I prepared was way too long. What was I thinking? I knew shorter is always better. Unfortunately, I couldn’t listen to the other amazing authors describe their books because I was frantically revising my pitch in my head.

How did I do on the last P, the projection or performance? I blacked out the whole thing. But (un)fortunately, the audio was recorded. So here it is for your listening pleasure.

Photo Credit: Jennifer Lee Photography

First, look at how I’m clenching my fist. And you can hear in the recording that I’m nervous. There’s a catch in my voice, and my pitch is full of ums, and a few times I didn’t project, aka perform, well. Ugh. But I must have done well enough because a few people came up to me afterward and asked more about Sober Mom. So, a success.

How does this relate to recovery? Remember this is a Substack about recovery from alcoholism. I once took a public speaking course in college. To get through my first class assignment, give a speech to the class, I drank a mimosa to calm my nerves before the class. And guess what? It worked perfectly! The champagne dampened my anxiety just enough that I seemed confident in my performance. So the next time I had to perform a speech in class, I drank again, this time skipping the OJ and just drinking champagne. But like a good alcoholic, I didn’t stop after one drink, and I ended up drinking too much, probably most of the bottle. And I was most certainly drunk for the second speech, and I got a bad grade.

That I can do any of this—show up at a writing conference, show up at a fancy book party on Park Avenue, stand up in front of people and pitch my book—while sober is a fucking miracle.

Miracle? you scoff. A fucking miracle. By the end of my progressive disease, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without drinking vodka beforehand.

I owe this amazing life to my sobriety, and I owe my sobriety to Alcoholics Anonymous.

So, no, I never did see that white squirrel. My white whale got away. But standing in a room with fellow authors, pitching my forthcoming memoir, at a party on Park Avenue, SOBER? That’s the rare creature I came home with. I’ll take it.

P.S. I’m going to be on Zibby’s Totally Booked podcast! I hope to be more comfortable for that discussion. It’s being recorded on June 23rd, my birthday!, but I don’t know yet when it’ll be posted. I’ll keep YOU posted.

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Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. It’s proof there’s an actual human being behind the Substack.

I’m sure he will return to the public eye in a bigger, more exciting way. But in the meantime, my husband Chris and I flounder post-dinner wondering where to get our comedic commentary on the current very frightening news. Do we DVR Seth Meyers? Kimmel? Taking suggestions in the comments.

I hope you saw Colbert’s interview with President Barack Obama. It was like a soothing salve to hear two intelligent men talking with each other, having fun while also offering a glimmer of hope for America’s future.

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As part of the interview, Colbert gave Obama the “Colbert Questionert.”

If you’re not familiar, the questionnaire is one of the show’s recurring segments. The show claims, tongue-in-cheek (that’s such a weird phrase, but I think I’m using it correctly), that these 15 “scientifically invalid” questions make a guest truly known.

Recently, amongst my media travels, I cannot remember where, when, or in what context (menopause brain = colander), but I heard someone say, “I’d rather be known than liked.” And that really resonated with me. Of course, I want to be liked, but I feel like at my core, if I’m to be rigorously honest as 12-step recovery requires me to be, I’d much rather be truly known. Which is maybe why I’m a memoir writer.

When Colbert finishes asking his guests these specific 15 questions, he ends the segment with “Now you are fully known.” Which the guests sometimes don’t hear and always makes me chuckle. Because the questions are silly. And can one be really known?

So with Colbert going off the air, and with my recent revelation that I’d rather be fully known than liked, I figured it would be fun to answer the Colbert Quetionert. Here we go:

1. What is the best sandwich?
   
   Grilled cheese (American or cheddar on whole wheat) with a tomato, but only if the tomato is in season and ripe.
   

2. What is the first concert you attended?
   You’re going to be jealous. It was Amnesty International, June 1986 at Giants Stadium. The lineup included U2 and The Police, but I was there to see Bryan Adams, The Hooters, and Howard Jones (all of whom were amazing and blew my 14-year-old’s brain!).
   

3. What is the scariest animal?
   Chris likes to inform me that the hippo is the most dangerous animal. He’s not wrong, but how often are we encountering hippos?
   
   I’m not a fan of the usual creepy crawlies - spiders and snakes. But the scariest to me is an insect who is smart enough to know when you’ve turned on the light. Think cockroach or water bug. What’s terrifying about them is that if you’ve seen one, then you know there’s an army hidden somewhere in your walls.
   

4. Apples or oranges?
   No contest, apples. As Colbert says, you can’t put peanut butter on an orange.
   

5. Have you ever asked someone for their autograph?
   I’ve gotten books signed, too many to name. But signatures? No. When we were kids, my sister wrote to Joe Piscopo, and he sent back an 8x10 headshot signed with “I’m from Jersey, you from Jersey?” She hung it up on her bulletin board for years.
   

6. What do you think happens when we die?
   We die. Period. There’s no heaven or hell or ghost world. Perhaps we leave behind energy.
   

7. Favorite action movie?
   Goonies. “Goonies never say die.”
   

8. Window or aisle seat?
   If I’m traveling by myself, I prefer the window so I can tuck myself in and lean against the wall to sleep. I have a medium-sized bladder, so I’m good to hold it for a couple of hours. But when traveling with someone else, like Chris, we’ll both get aisle seats across from each other.
   

9. Favorite smell?
   The smell of decaying leaves on a trail in the woods.
   

10. Least favorite smell?
    Rancid meat. I’m gagging just thinking about it.
    

11. What is your earliest memory?
    I have a memory of pushing my crib over to reach something in my room. The light switch? I don’t know. It seems crazy that I’d still be sleeping in a crib but old enough to push it over. I also remember creating a beautiful scene with crayons on the wall and then showing my mom because I was so proud of it. She was not happy and forced me to wash it off.
    

12. Cats or dogs?
    Dogs hands down. Some cats are ok, I guess. But they are no Chester.

    

    
    

13. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what is it?
    Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen, My Old School by Steely Dan, wait no, Rain King by Counting Crows, wait no, Come on, this question is impossible.
    Final answer:

14. What number am I thinking of?
    Three. On the last Late Night show, when a series of celebrities comes on to ask Colbert these questions, Colbert reveals that the answer was always three.
    

15. Describe the rest of your life in 5 words.
    Successful author opens retreat facility.
    

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Now you fully know me. (Not really.) I’d be interested in your answers. Feel free to pick a question or two and drop your answers in the comments.

Disclaimer: Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors.

As she explained the premise of her memoir, she said, “We learned that my son was a raging alcoholic.”

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I winced at “raging alcoholic.” I knew what she meant. Her son was in the throes of his disease—lying, stealing, destroying relationships, wreaking havoc in her family’s life. But the choice of “raging” felt belittling. I get it, though. When her son was an active alcoholic, his behavior caused real harm. He was raging, but can a disease be raging? Would we say, “My son was a raging cancer patient”?

Then, a day later, I sat in a library’s auditorium for a reading and conversation with one of the conference’s faculty, David Joy. (He is a public figure, so I feel okay to name him.) He writes novels “exploring themes of nature, addiction, and the human condition, inspired by his home state of North Carolina.” I’m not familiar with his work, but I purchased one of his novels and added it to my ever-growing TBR (to-be-read) pile.

From the stage, he talked about how the opioid crisis was ravaging his neighborhood. He said that a “junkie” showed up on his porch asking for needles. Again, I winced at “junkie.” And again, I know why he chose that word. It quickly described a person in the throes of their addiction. Guant and gray. Eyes glassy. Maybe dirty. And unpredictable, which makes them scary.

But “junkie” is most definitely a disparaging word. I knew from the context of his speech that Joy was empathetic about the disease of addiction. Yet, he still used this hurtful, dehumanizing word to describe someone suffering from a disease.

WORDS MATTER.

I’ve spoken about this topic before when I received feedback from a friend about the word “addict.”

My friend said, “I encourage you not to use the word ‘addict.’ It’s pejorative and research shows (even when intent is positive) that it’s a highly stigmatized term.”

I try to pass on that education whenever I can. In one of our many deep conversations, my friend Kelly said, “What am I supposed to say instead of ‘addict’?”

“She suffers from the disease of addiction.”

“That’s a mouthful,” she responded.

Yup, and yet we should still do it.

Take, for example, the phrase “died by suicide” instead of the more common “committed suicide.” When I learned that “committed” implies criminality and carries a moral judgment, I made a conscious effort to change. Saying “My sister died by suicide” wasn’t easy. (Well, talking about my sister’s suicide in general wasn’t easy.) At first, the phrasing felt weird, and I felt like it was calling more attention to it than I wanted. But say that wording enough times, and it feels like the normal thing to say.

Oh, wait, and one more thing about the words we choose. Yesterday, an author I admire said in a Substack note, “Both my cats are shrieking at the top of their lungs while I’m trying to write and I’m ready to stick my head in the oven.”

As someone who lost a loved one to suicide, joking about suicide also makes me wince. Can’t we think of something else to indicate we are frustrated instead of saying we want to kill ourselves? Can we try to choose our words more thoughtfully? Of course, this isn’t easy, and it takes commitment to the new phrasing and pausing before we speak, but I do think it’s worth it. Don’t you?

Which brings me back to Suzy writing a memoir about parenting a child in the throes of his disease. I truly hope she continues to write this story. Honest personal narratives about the diseases of alcoholism and addiction will continue to create empathy and awareness. And this awareness will help us all to be thoughtful in our word choices.

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*BTW, Grammarly repeatedly told me to delete “the disease of” before “alcoholism.” No, Grammarly, that’s my whole point.

ADDENDUM: As a courtesy, I forwarded a draft of this post to “Suzy” before publication. She responded with this:

“Ugh, I regretted that [using raging alcoholic] the moment I said it in workshop. I’d been nervous at the thought of quickly sharing the topic of my work, and even as the word left my lips, I’d wished I hadn’t. I believe I have never before used that term in reference to my son or any other person, and at that nanosecond in my introduction, I was thinking I needed to pick up the pace of my story, so I shortchanged him. I regret doing that.”

I so appreciate her thoughtful response. She didn’t get defensive but understood my position and even agreed with me. She added to the “addict” discussion by saying this:

“In the particular case you mention, which involves the word ‘addict,’ I’d even take the reasoning a step further. In the usage you mention, the term ‘addict’ is being used in place of the person. A person may be ‘addicted,’ or they may be ‘in recovery,’ but the construction should always posit the person as a person, not as something else.”

Yes, Suzy! Leave it to writers to really dig in on the language. Thanks for the further enlightenment on that wording choice. May we all be careful when choosing our words.

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Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors.

As you are probably aware, May is Mental Health Awareness Month. I could reshare my published essay on depression (“Despair and a Desk”) or the one about my sister’s suicide (“Purgatory In Two Parts”), but there’s a celebrity making the publicity rounds that’s repeating something I say all the time, and sometimes when a well-known figure says something, it lands a little stronger.

Martin Short is promoting his new documentary, “Marty: Life is Short.” The doc is dedicated to his daughter, Katherine, who died by suicide in February 2026 at the age of 42. In his interview with 60 Minutes, Short says,

“Mental health and cancer, like my wife [had], are both diseases, and sometimes with diseases, they are terminal, and my daughter fought for a long time.”

I thank Martin Short for speaking so plainly and openly about his daughter’s suicide. That’s not easy, but in doing so, he is helping to remove the stigma of shame that those of us who have lost loved ones to suicide feel. Currently, I’m at a writer’s conference trying to tell my story about the losses of my brother from alcoholism and my sister from mental illness in the hopes of doing the same.

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Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

So I’m currently in a state of rumination. Google’s AI overview says: “Rumination is the habit of obsessively, repetitively, and uncontrollably overthinking negative experiences, mistakes, or problems without reaching a solution.”

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Ah, yup. That’s where I am as I’m writing this. The reason? Someone close to me reacted negatively to something I said in my Listen to Your Mother performance, the five-minute story I told from the stage the first weekend in May.

As it seems to happen when one writes creative nonfiction and has expectations of how their work will be received, it was not the person I was worried about or the specific comment I thought they might react to. It was a problem I didn’t foresee, and therefore, this person’s negative reaction took me by surprise and has me all twisted up inside.

Never mind the dozens of positive comments I received about my performance. My father, my husband, a coworker—all saying they are so proud of me. People reported back that I nailed it. The response I got in the moment from the crowd—laughter and gasps at the correct moments.

None of that matters, as currently, I’m stuck thinking about the one person who didn’t like it.

My first response to someone calling me out for something I did wrong is always defensiveness, followed by anger. After 53 years, I know myself pretty well at this point. And I try to reel in my defensiveness, as I know from experience that a defensive stance never works in my favor.

When I got the feedback, I ended the conversation quickly. I didn’t want to say anything I would regret. And then, of course, afterward, I thought about what I could say to convince this person they’re wrong.

Why This Used to Be a Vodka Situation

This state, this in my head, ruminating on a bad conversation, worried that someone is angry with me, THIS is Liz at her worst. This is why I would turn to vodka. The vodka would be like whitewashing my brain. A thick layer of soothing paint on all my dents and cracks. So now, without vodka as a solution, when I’m stuck in my head, I turn to my emotional support toolbox. This toolbox is mostly filled with recovery How-Tos, but there are a few solutions I’ve personally added as well.

The Toolbox

The first thing I did after this conversation, well, was put away the groceries. I was on the way home from the grocery store when the conversation occurred. But after that was done, I did the thing that always makes me feel better. I went for a walk in the woods. Although I was still in my head on the walk, I’m just a better version of myself when I’m surrounded by tall tulip trees and chirping chipmunks.

Then I started my phone calls. Unfortunately, it was early in the morning, and not everyone was up. I sent some texts and left voicemails, then spent an excruciating hour waiting for someone to call me back.

When I did finally get in touch with a friend, it was such a relief to pour out my story. Having it stuck only in my head is terrible. As Anne Lamont says: “My mind is a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone.” But the first person I spoke with is not in 12-step recovery, so although I got some good advice and soothing comments, I couldn’t log it as an official 10th step. So I had to keep making calls until I reached someone in recovery.

The 10th Step

When you do an official 10th step, your sober friend helps you determine what part you had in the current problem. For more detailed info about the 10th Step, check out this previous post.

In my current rumination situation, after I poured out my problem to my sober friend, she helped me single out what defects were making me all twisted up. And it’s the usual cast of characters for me. Clearly, my pride was affected. Why couldn’t this person see that I was great? Haha! And then my self-centered fear of having someone be disappointed or angry with me. I HATE having people angry with me. Also, I wanted to prove I was right; I wanted this person not only to hear my side of the story but also to agree with me. My sober friend helped me release my anger. I then asked my Higher Power to remove my defects. And I made a few phone calls to other folks in sobriety who could use a phone call of support. In those calls, I didn’t mention my problem; I just listened to theirs.

And yet still, I’m ruminating. Ugh.

Page 417

I’ve been in this situation before, when multiple 10th steps don’t quite remove my angst or stop the rumination, and my sponsor has directed me to read page 417 of The Big Book1. I’ve read this page so many times that my Big Book’s binding is bent to just flop open at this page, and the page is marked with stars and passages underlined.

The name of the chapter, which is part of the personal stories section of The Big Book, is called “Acceptance was the answer.”

The Answer

Oh wow, just re-reading that section as I write this Substack is helping me. Clearly, acceptance is the answer to this situation I’m in. And maybe writing it all out, as I did here, also helps. (Which, ironically, was something I suggested in my Listen to Your Mother speech.) Oh well, this person didn’t like my story. Not everyone is going to like everything I write. <shrug> I mean, I could even go back to basics here:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change (this person’s opinion)

The courage to change the things I can (my response)

And the wisdom to know the difference.

So I’ve written myself to answer my original question. How do I stop ruminating? Hard-core acceptance. That’s the answer. I know this. I’ve known this for fifteen years. And yet here I am, writing a whole post about it, because apparently I needed one more lap around the block before I could let it go.

Progress, not perfection.

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Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

People in the rooms often say, "Before I got sober, I felt like I was missing some instruction manual on how to live life. Everyone else seems to know what to do but me." What's great about the 12-step program I've adopted is that I've been given a life user guide and told to refer to it when a problem arises. 

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I will add that I most certainly was given these instructions previously in some form or another, in church sermons or middle-school assemblies with weird puppets. But, for whatever reason, I was not open to receiving any direction until the moment I was so beaten down that I turned my life over to someone else and said, "Help me fix this." 

This instruction manual began 88 years ago and continues to be compiled through people's lived experiences. Some insights apply only to my disease, but others can be applied to everyday life events. Here are some basic rules I've learned along the way.  

Thank the speaker!

In early sobriety, when I would seek out my sponsor immediately after the meeting, she'd say, "Did you thank the speaker yet?" and I'd turn to see a line of people waiting to shake the hand of the person who had just shared their most shameful moments to a large crowd. Now I know at the end of the meeting to jump in the line to thank the speaker before chitchatting with any of my friends. 

When I emerged from my alcoholic, selfish fog, I realized that so many events in the "real world" have presenters — work conferences, weddings, Zoom presentations. Even if the speaker appeared confident, they were most likely nervous about presenting and afterward worried if they did well. I've learned to approach these speakers and say "good job" with eye contact. Even if they didn't do such a great job. Maybe, especially if they didn't. 

In a similar vein, I try to sit in the first two rows and put my phone away. Nodding along also helps. If someone is willing to share themselves with a group, the least I can do is listen attentively.   

Eat a snack. Or better yet, a hamburger. 

I learned about H.A.L.T. in early recovery when "feeling my feelings" was new to me. Not only was I experiencing an unfamiliar feeling, but I couldn't identify the problem. When my gut was squirmy or my chest tight, I was taught to ask myself: Am I Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired? (or H.A.L.T.) Usually, the problem was that I needed a snack or a nap, or sometimes both.    

I have a sober sister who would call our mutual sponsor in a tizzy, and our sponsor would tell her, "Go eat a hamburger and call me back." By the time she called her back, she had forgotten why she was in a tizzy in the first place. She was just hungry.  

Apparently, I've passed this concept on to my children because the other day, I told my 15-year-old daughter I was feeling cranky, and she asked, "Do you need a snack?"     

Just show up.

In the rooms, we are taught by our sponsors, who were taught by their sponsors, to just show up for each other. Does someone need a ride? Pick them up. Is someone in the hospital? Go visit them. Did someone die? Don a black outfit and go to the funeral. 

In fact, due to the anonymity of our program, this "just show up" concept has led to some comical sitcom-like scenes. Recently, a group of us showed up at a wake, and the funeral director asked whose wake we were attending. Hmm, our group looked at each other, "Does anyone know Jamie's father's name? Or even Jamie's last name?" We collectively shrugged and were about to say: "Uh, we're here for Jamie's father …" when someone we knew passed by and waved us into the right room. Maybe we didn't know the deceased's last name, but we showed up for our friend.   

Restraint of pen and tongue

If I call my sponsor and say to her I really need to tell the school's superintendent that their policy about making my eighth-grade daughter wear a dress for the class trip to Washington, D.C. is antiquated and, well, just wrong, she'll say, "Did you ask yourself the three questions?"  

The three questions are: 

1) Does this need to be said? 

2) Does this need to be said by me?

3) Does this need to be said now?

If I can't answer yes to all three questions, I step away from the computer or put down my phone. Sometimes, to get the angst out of my head, I type up my response anyway and save it as a draft, eventually deleting it when my anger dissipates. 

More often than not, I cannot answer yes to those questions, and I keep my mouth shut.

Once, I heard a friend say that when she gets that itchy feeling like she has to respond right away, hyper and worked up, it's a clear indication that she shouldn't respond at all. Better to pause and see if you still feel the same way in a day or two. 

Did I tell the superintendent the school policy was outdated and inappropriate? Yes, yes, I did. But I can give other incidents, such as jumping into the heated discussion on our town's Facebook page about whether it was okay to open a treatment center in town, in which I restrained myself, and I'm very glad I did. I didn't piss anyone off, and the issue resolved itself without me getting involved.  

Sometimes, if I don't follow the above advice, I have to …

Say "I'm sorry." Hard stop. 

I'm not talking about Step Nine's Making Amends, which is poked fun at in movies and T.V. I recently watched an episode of The Office where Todd Packer says, "I'm on step eight of Alcoholics Anonymous, step nine of Narcotics Anonymous," and pretends to make amends, but instead, he retaliates by spiking cupcakes. 

The poking fun irks me because this step is so life-altering, but whatever. That's not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about the simple: you did or said something wrong, then you need to say you're sorry. Something we all learned in Kindergarten, but for some reason, are unable to do properly.   

If I say something hurtful or curse someone out, even if they deserve it, I'm given the direction to tell them, "I'm sorry." Not "I'm sorry but … you should have … blah blah blah." Just "I'm sorry."

I hate having to tell someone I'm sorry when I feel like they don't deserve it or that they should be saying it to me! That's why I try not to say anything that puts me in a position where I must say I'm sorry. (See the above "Restraint of pen and tongue.")

My sponsor says it best: "We keep our mouths shut so we don't have to say 'I'm sorry' to FUCKING assholes!" 

Say yes.

I know there is a popular trend to encourage women to say "no" to more things. No to baking cupcakes for the P.T.A. fundraiser, no to attending your toxic M.I.L.'s brunch. And I get it. Often, we overbook our schedules, leading to meltdowns. But there are some things you should say "yes" to. Specifically, I was taught to never say "no" to my 12-step program. 

"Liz, can you read the 9th-step promises?" Yes 

"Liz, will you go on this speaking commitment with me?" Yes

"Liz, can you pick me up for the meeting?" Yes

I don't want to do these things, but I've learned it's not about me. Gasp! It's not! ;-) It's about helping someone else and getting out of my head. Recovery, my sponsor says, should be a little bit inconvenient.

In my regular life, saying "yes" helps get me out of the house and around people. In my experience, I've found that if I say "Yes" to an event that maybe I don't want to do, that's maybe a bit inconvenient, I usually have an amazing experience.    

Once, a woman shared in a meeting, "I'm not going to find God sitting on the couch watching Netflix." If you don't like the word "God," switch it with something else, such as "Humanity," "Higher Power," or "Love." 

To get out of your head, help someone else.

This concept is the heartbeat of our 12-step problem. If I'm inside my head, replaying a conversation I had with a coworker when I said something stupid, then I know it's time to pick up the phone and call someone and ask them how their day is going. I know to be of service to someone else in order to stop thinking about myself. 

My hope is that these little Substack dispatches from Liz are helpful to someone else. I know that when I read someone else's personal experience, I feel connected. My alcoholism wants me to isolate myself with a bottle of vodka. My recovery is connection.  

If you are struggling with alcohol or addiction, A.A. can help. Visit AA.org to find a meeting near you.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

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Owens is an author, editor, and award-winning podcaster, “known for highlighting the book industry’s most anticipated new releases and emerging authors.” (About Zibby)

WOWZA! I’m beyond thrilled and flattered to be on a list with such authors as DAVID SEDARIS and ANN PATCHETT!

This, writing and publishing a book, well, it’s literally a dream come true. As we say in the rooms of recovery, I’m living the life beyond my wildest dreams.

But there’s Liz Fatigue …

We are officially three months out from my publishing date (July 21), and now is when I’m supposed to be really ramping up the book promotion. And I have been. I’m participating in storytelling events, including the upcoming Listen to Your Mother NJ on May 1 and 2. I published an essay in HuffPost. Once a week, I pitch my somewhat controversial views to the NY Times Opinion section. (No hits yet!) I’ve been emailing bookstores trying to set up author readings. C’mon, Powell’s City of Books, reply to my email pitch! I want to visit my friend Cathi in Portland, OR. (Hi, Cathi!)

I feel like I’ve done a lot already, and I’ve got three months and beyond to go, and I’m feeling … well, Liz Fatigue. Most likely, you are too!

If you only know me from this Substack, you might be surprised to learn I don’t like attention. Or more accurately, I have an alcoholic’s split personality of “Hey, look at me!!!! / Wait, stop! Stop looking at me!!!!” Which makes all this exhausting.

As an example, I present to you my clothing style. My criterion for picking outfits is: What can I wear that will get me the least attention? I don’t want you clocking my outfit and thinking, "What is she wearing? She looks like a ________(slob, teenager, farmer).” On the flip side, I don’t want you to look at me and think, “Oh, she looks nice. She obviously tried to look nice.” Invisible is the ideal. The plain classic pieces from Quince have been serving me well lately!

20, 25-minutes tops

When I speak from the podium for an AA speaking commitment, sharing my sober story, I know that I can speak for around 20-25 minutes before I shut down from too much Liz speak. I know this because I’ve been at this for 15 years now, and it’s the same every time! When I hit the 25-minute mark, even if I haven’t gotten to the conclusion of my story (which is being grateful to experience grief sober), I say “Thanks for letting me share,” and I rush back to my aluminum chair. Then, sitting there, clasping my shaking hands, I think: “Oh god, I skipped that whole part. The part that tied up my talk with a bow.” Oh well. My brain just said, Enough talking about Liz. You’re done. Go sit down.

Considering I don’t want too much attention, it’s odd that many of my resentments on my fourth step were about how my parents didn’t pay attention to me. I’m complicated, as my husband Chris often notes.

Don’t get too big for your britches!

I also think there is something about being a Gen Xer that maintains this don’t get too big for your britches mentality. As kids, we were left on our own to figure things out and to do so quietly. “Your father needs quiet time,” my mother would tell my siblings and me on the weekends, as she ushered us out the back door. Our parents weren’t handing out participation trophies or scheduling “feelings check-ins.” The cultural message was clear: do your thing, but don’t make a big deal about it. Don’t brag. Don’t need too much. So all of this Liz talk is super uncomfortable for me. And I’ve got at least another six months of book promotion to go. OMG.

I will survive.

But guess what? Being in recovery has taught me how to be uncomfortable. Or rather, how to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. I mean, before I got sober, I drank vodka to make me feel comfortable, so when that was taken away from me, I had to learn how to feel twitchy inside and just survive. I realized that things like feeling nervous and anxious at my kids’ Little League games, or having a tense conversation with my boss—well, it’s not going to kill me. I will survive. And I deal with my tense feelings by doing a 10th step.

1. Reach out to someone and talk through my uncomfortableness.

2. Recognize my part in the discomfort.

3. Ask my Higher Power to remove the feelings.

4. Turn my attention to someone else, besides Liz!

So I know how to do this.

And I know how to do the book thing, the talking-about-myself thing, the letting-people-in thing. I can stand up, say my piece, and sit back down in my aluminum chair. Even if I skip the part that ties it all up with a bow.

So: Sober Mom. Pre-order it. Ideally, from your local bookstore. Tell your friends. Invite me to your book club. Please post a review on Goodreads and Amazon. I’ll be uncomfortable the whole time, and that’s okay. I’ll remind myself that this is a dream come true.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

It’s been a year and a half since that email, and the situation I addressed—excessive alcohol use on his show—has only gotten worse as all the celebrities come on to toast him good-bye before the show ends on May 21. Below you’ll find the original email tweaked to reflect the news of his departure.

I know that my plea won’t make a difference, but I had to try. To quote Lyle Lovett, “But what would you be if you didn’t even try?”

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Subject: A heartfelt request regarding alcohol use on The Late Show
To: Stephen Colbert and the producers of The Late Show

Dear Stephen Colbert and The Late Show,

Let me begin by saying that my husband Chris and I have been your fans for many, many years. From The Daily Show to The Colbert Report to The Ambiguously Gay Duo, and of course, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. We are big fans, HUGE!

Not only do you provide comedic relief in these troubling times, but I also feel connected to you in another way. I lost a brother and a sister tragically when I was a young adult. Your viewpoints about grief, specifically on the All There Is with Anderson Cooper podcast, have helped me learn and grow from my own grief.

I lost my brother to alcoholism. He died in a drunk driving accident. He was 21, and I was 18. And I lost my sister to suicide when she was 29, and I was 25. I can’t call her an alcoholic because, to my knowledge, she never called herself one. But I know she drank like me, and I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ll be sober for 15 years in January 2026.

Which is why it’s so disturbing to me when you consistently and cavalierly drink alcohol on The Late Show.

Being in our 50s and unable to stay up too late, Chris and I record your show. Last night, my 86-year-old father and his girlfriend joined us for dinner, and it’s common for us to put on your latest episode as a post-dinner activity. The episode was great, and I love watching you interact with your wife, Evie, on the show. It’s clear you have a profound, committed love for each other.

But seeing you repeatedly sip bourbon on the show punches me in the gut every time. You act as if alcohol weren’t a dangerous substance that’s negatively impacted countless lives. Do you not know someone who has died from alcoholism? Do you not know someone who has been affected by a family member’s alcoholism?

I understand drinking on late-night shows is a longstanding tradition. But as someone who lost a brother to alcohol and nearly lost my own life and family to it, I ask you to consider the message this sends to viewers struggling with addiction or those who’ve lost loved ones to alcohol.

Your platform has immense influence. By continuing to drink on air, you’re inadvertently promoting a substance that the CDC explicitly warns increases cancer risk. Or as ’s nurse said: ​“Alcohol is a group one carcinogen. It causes cancer everywhere.”

You’ve shown such empathy and understanding when discussing grief and loss. Could you extend that same thoughtfulness to the portrayal of alcohol on your show?

I know there’s only about one month left before The Late Show comes to an end, and I’m genuinely heartbroken about that. This show has meant so much to so many people, and the circumstances surrounding its cancellation feel like yet another casualty of this troubling political moment. But that’s exactly why I’m writing now. You still have a month of shows. You still have that platform and that influence. What a powerful statement it would make, in these final weeks, to set the bourbon (or tequila or wine) aside in an act of consideration for the people (like me) watching who are fighting for their lives, or grieving someone they lost to this substance.

I want to spend these last few weeks enjoying your show. I want to watch it with my father as our post-dinner activity. But I can’t keep doing that if you continue to consume alcohol on air. It’s not only inconsiderate of those suffering from the disease of alcoholism (including family members of alcoholics), but it’s also dangerous.

I’m willing to talk with you more about this topic if you’d like.

Warm regards,

A Sober Fan

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

Speaking of storytelling events and cringe, there are two more opportunities to hear more stories live and in-person.

The first is CringeFest (April 17, The Vogel in Red Bank), PWN’s annual live storytelling event, where brave volunteers (not me this time!) share their most embarrassing moments on stage to raise funds for PWN’s community writing programs. Join us for a fun night out!

I am, however, performing in Listen to Your Mother NJ on May 1 and 2 in Maplewood, NJ.

North Jersey Listen to Your Mother is part of a national series of live readings about motherhood. Performed on-stage by the authors themselves, each story takes the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates motherhood (in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor).

Every year, Listen To Your Mother North Jersey donates 10% of ticket sales to a local charity supporting mothers and families in our community. This year’s charity is Oasis.

If you’re in the area, please come support me! I’m not telling the “Ducks on a Pond” story, but one about the complexities of raising young adult children. There are two shows: one on Friday night at 8 p.m. and one on Saturday at 1 p.m. I’d love to see some friendly faces in the audience. Grab your tickets here.

Ducks On a Pond

The following story is adapted from my forthcoming memoir SOBER MOM. Available now for pre-order!

Spring. If you’re a parent of a grade-school child in the suburbs of NJ, Spring means only one thing: LITTLE LEAGUE. Even if your kid isn’t athletic, in our area, this season is ruled by baseball for the boys & softball for the girls.

Now, if you’ve never experienced watching your kid play ball on the rec team or worse, a travel team, then let me set the “diamond” for you.

It’s torture. First, the season starts in early spring when the temperature purports to be in the 50s, but sitting on cold metal bleachers, the wind whipping through your parka, you might as well be in Antarctica.

And watching your kid catch or attempt to catch a fly ball or hit or attempt to hit a pitch, while surrounded by other parents who apparently really care about the score of a 7-year-old’s Little League game… well, it’s like turning your skin inside out, having your insides, your organs and veins exposed. You’re cold. You’re anxious. Your teeth are clenched. You just want your kid to have fun — but having fun means not whiffing in front of the entire town.

OK. Now imagine all of that while you’re only three months sober. That is how I found myself in April 2011. My seven-year-old Michael’s first night game, under the lights. A very big deal to a 7-year-old.

At this moment, my husband Chris is not talking to me. To find out why, you’ll need to buy the memoir. We arrived at the field separately. While I’m sitting in the bleachers, I watch Chris say something to Michael through the fence, hug our other two younger kids, Ray and Julia, and then — without even a wave to me — get in his car and drive away. I cringe, wondering if the other parents noticed and what they’re thinking about the state of my marriage.

Speaking of the other parents, I’m not friends with any of these moms. I tried once. Bonded with one over the Grateful Dead, and invited her family to dinner. But she declined. And I’ve always wondered if it’s because she smelled vodka on me that time I drank before a playdate. And maybe she told the other moms.

Julia and Ray appear at my elbow, tug on my sleeve. “Mom, can we get a pretzel?” I dig into my back pocket and hand over some cash. At this point, I’m too emotionally drained to monitor their snack intake.

Suddenly, everyone’s clapping. Bases are loaded, and oh my god, Michael’s up at bat. I recently learned in AA that I’m not supposed to pray for myself. But can I pray for my son? Please don’t strike out. Please don’t strike out. Please don’t strike out. “Ball four!” Phew. Michael walks and gets on base.

My mother shows up; she walks very slowly up the bleachers, causing a bit of a ruckus as she forces the other parents to move. She sits down, and I immediately smell the Scotch on her breath. Of course — it’s after 5:30. That smell is both revolting and appealing. Addiction is full of these contradictions.

She asks where Chris is. I tell her he’s in DC at a conference for four days. And it dawns on me, I have the house to myself. There’s a liquor store on the way home. I have the cash I need to buy a bottle without it showing up on the bank statements. I could drink tonight.

In the Monday night beginner’s meeting, the old-timers would say I should call someone right now. But here’s the thing: if I call my sponsor, she’ll tell me not to drink. And I want to drink. I’m so wound up, I need relief.

Michael’s team is in the field now. And oh my god. He’s pitching. I cannot watch. I step off the bleachers and pace behind the snack bar.

Julia and Ray appear at my side: “Mom, can we get popsicles?” How they can eat popsicles in this arctic weather, I don’t know. I hand them money and go back to my seat.

Michael throws a strike, and my mom yells “Woohoo, Michael!” in this shaky, old-lady, Scotch-emboldened voice. A woman turns around. I try to smile like grandparents, right? She does not smile back.

Finally, the game ends. I gather Julia and Ray, their faces covered in dirt and red popsicle juice. I’m waiting for the coach to release Michael from the huddle. Please hurry up. The kids need to go to bed, and I need to stop at the liquor store.

I’ve decided to drink tonight. What’s the point of staying sober? My marriage is obviously ending. And who will know?

We get in the minivan. I reach into my back pocket for the cash. Wait, what? All I have is three crumpled dollars. Not the twenty I need to buy a bottle. I’d given away all my cash. Pretzels. Popsicles. Gummy bears. UGH.

Dejected, I drive right past the liquor store. At home, I send everyone to bed. I pull three ice cream sandwiches out of the freezer, plop down on the couch, and turn on the TV. I’ll drink tomorrow, I tell myself.

Three days later, I’m telling this story at my Monday meeting. Tommy chuckles at the ice cream sandwiches. And I’m getting it. One day at a time. I told myself I’d drink tomorrow just to get through the night. But tomorrow came, and I didn’t pick up.

Months later, a woman named Debbie tells me that my story really touched her. That she tells it to anyone who’s unsure about a higher power.

I’m confused. “How does my story illustrate anything about a higher power?”

She says, “Your higher power did for you what you could not do for yourself. Got rid of all your cash so you couldn’t buy vodka.”

My kids are grown now. They are no longer playing in Little League games. But if grandkids come along and spring drags me back to those cold metal bleachers, I’ll be there. Sober.

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Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

The backstory: For many years, our family has had the pleasure of spending Easter in Ludlow, Vermont, with our good friends, the Caffreys. April is the start of mud season, so it’s not exactly peak Vermont. We don’t normally ski. But we dye eggs, we do scavenger hunts. Now that the kids drive, the scavenger hunts can be a little teeth-clenching for the moms. We play Songnario, a music game where a rotating judge sets a category, and players compete to pick the best song. Lots of fun shenanigans.

This year, I figured I’d use the trip to set up some book promotion appointments. Two chapters from my forthcoming memoir, Sober Mom (now available for pre-order), including the pivotal “Fire on the Mountain” scene, take place in Ludlow, and I’m hoping to make some connections for author readings while we’re visiting.

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So I reached out to one potential contact, someone I really wanted to make a good impression on. I was genuinely surprised when she responded because I’ve gotten zero responses from several bookstores. I looked at the calendar, set the appointment for the day after Easter, and felt pretty good about myself.

You can see where this is going.

The next day, I realized Easter this year is April 5, not April 12. I apologized. She graciously rescheduled. Great.

THEN, because apparently I needed a second lesson, I went to look up my daughter’s high school spring break on the district website, which, you’d think I’d do before making any plans. I downloaded and printed the calendar. I was actually shocked: this year, her spring break came before Easter, which it never has in previous years. I loosely scheduled our whole Vermont departure around this calendar.

And what did I find out the following morning? I was looking at the 2026-2027 District Calendar. Not this year’s. Ugh. Here we go again.

Is it menopause making me like this? Maybe. Undiagnosed ADHD? Possibly. Or maybe I’m just a human being who makes mistakes, which, for the record, even AI does, and it’s a robot with no feelings about it whatsoever.

Of course, I hate making mistakes. Everybody does. I’ve learned in recovery to promptly admit when I’m wrong and apologize if necessary. And you know what? I do get something out of making mistakes: empathy. Because I’ve screwed up in the past, I can totally forgive that person whose current screw-up affects me.

That’s what happened this past Wednesday. I showed up on Zoom at noon for a meeting with a woman who had requested one. I’d even emailed her that morning to confirm. When she didn’t respond to my email, I thought something might be off. I sat there at 12:00, 12:03, 12:05 — at 12:07 I gave up. I emailed her: Did we get our wires crossed? I asked it that way on purpose, because honestly, it could’ve been me.

It wasn’t, this time.

She apologized. No worries, I said. I get it. And we rescheduled for the next day.

Apparently, many of us are making these types of mistakes. I came across a recent note on Substack by the editor of Open Secrets Magazine.

Oh man, I can relate. I tried to apply her “You’re a human who made an easy-to-fix mistake” to my scheduling woes.

Talking about mistakes reminds me of a mishap that happened several summers ago, when Kelly and I hiked a five-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail in Vermont. We took two cars, parked one at one trailhead, then drove to the other trailhead, and parked the other car there. We do this so we can hike in one direction without looping back on the return trip.

After a wonderful hike, we got to the end of the trail, and Kelly’s parked car, when Kelly realized she had left her keys in my car at the other trailhead, the one five miles over Bromley Mountain. There was no cell service, and we had a time clock because we had to pick up our kids from mountain biking camp. Hilarity ensued as we made futile attempts to get back to my car. Then we came across a young dude named Ricky and his jalopy. Ricky’s own car needed repair, and he didn’t want to risk driving us. Oh, Ricky! He didn’t know the power of two mothers trying to make it to their kids’ pick-up on time. Anyhoo, Kelly felt TERRIBLE, but I was so relieved it wasn’t ME who made the mistake that I didn’t care. Ricky returned us safely to our car. It all worked out in the end.

So, back to my calendar mishaps. Please know if you mix up a call with me, or get the date of an appointment wrong, it’s FINE. That’s the conclusion I’m drawing here. Easter in Vermont will happen. Sober Mom will find its readers in Ludlow. I’ll learn to check and double-check my calendar. It will all work out in the end.

What mistakes have you made recently? Did you beat yourself up or shrug it off? Let me know in the comments!

Elizabeth’s Substack will be on break next week (April 7, I think?) for Spring Break. See you back here on April 14.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

March, like most months at this point in my life, includes a death anniversary. My beloved cousin Eileen died on March 19. This is also the death anniversary of my good friend’s father. So one date, two sadnesses. Also, March 17 is the birthday of my friend A.’s sister, who died last year. Or is it two years now? Time marches on.

So I think of my loved ones this month and worry about them. I hope that they are acknowledging their grief and dealing with it in healthy ways. I think about it because I know that I didn’t always deal with it in healthy ways.

In the years since my brother William died in 1990 and my sister Julia died in 1997, the calendar was like a minefield. Depending on my state of mind, I either purposefully threw myself on the grenade in order to explode in my grief. Or I jumped over it and pretended that date didn’t affect me. Neither option was healthy. Especially if I wanted to, I could make every month sad.

June - The month Julia died

July - Julia’s birthday month

August - The month William died

September - William’s birthday month

October - The month Julia intentionally overdosed, sending her into a coma

November and December - THE HOLIDAYS - UGH

And so on.

Here’s one way I mourned Julia’s death. In my twenties, while living in NYC, I would lock myself in my apartment bathroom, don my yellow Sony Walkman, cue up Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work,” drink large quantities of whatever I had on hand, smoke butts, and stare at myself in the mirror and bawl.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking
Of all the things I should’ve said
That I never said
All the things we should’ve done
That we never did
All the things I should’ve given
But I didn’t
Oh, darling, make it go
Make it go away

Geez, that song. It makes me tear up Every.Single.Time. Maybe listening to a sad song (minus the copious amounts of alcohol) isn’t a bad way to grieve? At least it let me tap into something I wasn’t allowing myself to feel in my day-to-day life.

For that answer and more about how to handle death anniversaries, let’s turn to Elizabeth’s Substack’s resident grief therapist, Katie Morgan.

Katie Morgan is a counselor, writer, and founder of The Grief Ritual, a space for people walking with grief of all kinds: death-related, identity-changing, loss of role or rhythm, and life that no longer looks the way it once did.

Liz: Since I brought it up, what do you think about me listening to sad songs to tap into grief? Healthy or harmful?

Katie: I think that using art, of any modality, can be a wonderfully accessible way to connect with those emotions that linger just below the surface. It can be a difficult thing to “simply” access the capacity for emotional vulnerability on demand! Our senses (and music, in this case) are a way to bypass our incredible psychological defenses, if you will, and connect right to the amygdala (emotional center!).

Something I also love about songs, in particular, is that they have natural boundaries (start and end); in this way, your nervous system can take comfort in knowing that the space where emotions may flow more freely will not last more than a few minutes. This can actually increase the capacity to tolerate the discomfort of those griefy feelings!

Liz: I talk about the calendar feeling like a minefield — some months I’d throw myself on the grenade, other months I’d pretend the date didn’t exist. Is there actually a “right” way to mark a death anniversary

Katie: What a poignant description of what this experience can be like for you, Liz. I have good news: there is no single right way to approach dates, months, or seasons of increased grief. There are, perhaps, methods of acknowledging and coping that are more aligned with our overall (or holistic) health than others, AND (I’m a big fan of ‘AND’) there is such wisdom even in the coping we gravitate towards that may not serve us most. It can tell us a lot about what protective responses the nervous system is most relying on to keep us safe, and we can then attune to other ways to provide an assist to this work. Here’s an example: if someone finds that staying chronically busy around death dates or birth dates feels necessary, and they experience suffering because of the ways this is adding to overall fatigue, we (therapy, as one modality) can practice other more supportive ways to help their system complete the “flight” response.

Liz: People always say it gets easier with time, and honestly, sometimes it does, but sometimes year twenty hits harder than year two. What’s actually happening when an anniversary ambushes you after you thought you’d made peace with it?

Katie: Oh, grief is SO strange in this way, isn’t it? I have experienced this phenomenon myself, so I’m feeling this one in my bones. To this, I would offer that “easier” is relative, but what I can say with certainty is that grief shifts with time. The difficulty with this is that even though there will be easier seasons of grief, as shifting is part of our human experience, we can rely on there being some iteration of less-easier moments, days, or seasons again, at some point too.

I equate making peace with a loss, to sound more like “I have learned to integrate this loss into the ways I know how to go on with normal (what a complex word!) life” and less with “I have completed these feelings.” Not to harp on the nervous system (but that IS kinda my jam), but since it helps to protect us in the trauma of losing a loved one (yes, even deaths that do not meet a clinical definition of a traumatic death, is still trauma for the people who remain), it tends to slowly reveal layers of complexity over time, rather than totally flooding us with processing all at once. So, this means processing, in some ways, can just keep keeping-on. I am grateful for this, AND, feel the disillusionment when there is a grief ambush!

Thank you, Katie, for answering my questions. Please subscribe to Katie’s Substack, The Grief Ritual: Where Grief Is Met, Not Managed, “a space for slow thinking about loss...where ritual means staying, listening, and learning how not to abandon ourselves.”

* March Xness is an annual, literary, and musical tournament that functions as a March Madness-style bracket for music fans and writers, operating on the Substack platform and at marchxness.com

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

And now onto today’s Substack … Since I’m busy writing and practicing my story for Firefly and today is actually St. Paddy’s Day, I’m resharing this piece from March 2024 about being sober and Irish.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, readers!

Is it over? she asks, peeking out her front door. Can I come out now? Are the shamrocks and green hats put away? The parade of kilts gone?  

Yes, I’m talking about the St. Patrick’s Day season. And it does seem like a season, right? For the entire month of March, each town takes its turn hosting a parade, its streets lined with Irish flags and people in heavy wool sweaters despite the warm weather. The local bagpipers are very busy. 

23&Me tells me I’m 99.7% European, and of that, I’m 50.1% British & Irish, with 39.4% being Irish.  

Of my four grandparents, only one celebrated her heritage, my Nanny, Agnes Dourish Schilling. Or maybe they all did, but Nanny did so loudly and with flair. She emigrated from Scotland in 1922 when she was fifteen years old, and she never let you forget it. 

As an Irish Scot (Scottish folks with traceable Irish ancestry), Nanny embraced all things Scottish and Irish. She took us to a local Irish pub to listen to an Irish band and baked Irish Soda Bread, and I vaguely remember her taking me to the St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York City.

During my drinking days, I would embrace my Irish heritage, but not with corned beef and cabbage or Irish Soda Bread (both of which I think are gross), but by drinking … a lot. I could handle one or two Guinness, but eventually, I’d have to switch to something stronger because the Guinness would make me too full and not get the job done—the job being getting blacked-out blotto drunk. 

During my college days (1991-5), there was an Irish band that I LOVED that played every Friday night at the Last Chance Saloon in Burlington, VT. It was called Irish Happy Hour, and it indeed made me so happy. 

Did I love it because their drinking songs encouraged me to drink as much as possible? Yes, of course. But I was also drawn to this weekly gathering because of its communal experience.

The lively band played the same set week after week, and each song had a call-and-response. If you were a regular, like I was, you knew all the words and shouted them out while swinging your pint of beer in the air. My absolute favorite song was Seven Drunken Nights, which had the men and the women yelling at each other across the bar. 

Men: Hey, wife, you bitch!
Women: What do you want, asshole?
Men: Fuck you!
Women: Fuck yourself!
Men: Eat shit!
Women: Die! 

Ah, you're drunk, you're drunk
You silly old fellow, still you can not see

I want to pretend that I’m offended by my young self, but honestly, if placed back in that scene as a 51-year-old sober person, I’d yell the responses just like I did when I was 22. I LOVED it. 

I can look back now and say it wasn’t just the drinking I loved. It was being “a part of.” It was joining in the songs, knowing the words, and feeling connected with a larger group. During those sing-alongs, the whole bar felt joyous. 

Funny how, in the end, my drinking brought me to the opposite end of the spectrum, isolated, drinking vodka alone in my house. But then, eventually, it led me back to a community, the people of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). I’m “a part of” once again. And we even have call-and-responses in some of the meetings!    

But back to St. Patrick’s Day. When this holiday rolls around, I want to honor my Nanny and my ancestral roots; I want to be “a part of” the Irish celebrations. But I hate how this holiday in the United States focuses mainly on drinking.

Or maybe it doesn’t, I can hear my sponsor say. (After a decade of calling her for advice, her wisdom lives in my head.) Maybe ... I’m focusing on it because I’m the alcoholic. Not everybody celebrates St. Paddy’s Day by drinking. So I have to admit, I’m the problem. And even with 13 years sober, the whole St. Patrick’s holiday makes me uncomfortable. 

I wrote about one of my first sober St. Patrick’s Days in an essay called Fire on the Mountain. The scene begins when, on March 17 at Okemo Mountain, I saw a dude skiing in a kilt with a Guinness in his hand. I was filled with a barrage of conflicting emotions: jealousy, self-pity, and eventually anger toward this dude, at the holiday, and at myself for not being a normal person who can drink. 

I don’t want to be angry anymore. If you want to drink to celebrate your heritage, and you can drink, by all means, go ahead and have that Guinness or that Irish Coffee. (Oh, how I loved Irish Coffee!) But I need to find other ways to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. And I do want to pass on some Irish traditions to my kids, two of whom are redheads. (My Nanny would have loved that!) 

But to date, I haven’t.

My mother, the nursery school teacher, would take her four and five-year-old students into the woods on a Leprechaun Hunt. They’d find the little guy’s hat and pipe, but never him—just the pot of chocolate gold he left behind. That’s pretty great. To be honest, I don’t know why I haven’t done this yet. I have a great backyard for it and friends who have Littles. Maybe next year. Or maybe when I’m a grandmother.

Sunday was St. Patrick’s Day, and once again, the day came and went, and I did nothing to honor the holiday or my Irish heritage. On my way to my regular Sunday AA meeting, I thought: We could watch an Irish movie after dinner. “The Commitments” popped into my head. Yes, it had it all—music, Dublin—perfect. 

But for some reason, Amazon said it was unavailable. So I googled Irish movies to watch, and my son Raymond (the one who looks the most Italian) and I landed on “The Boondocks Saints.” It had Irish characters and accents but was an action thriller and, well, weird. But at least I tried something. I’m trying, Nanny. 

Maybe next year, I’ll bake Irish Soda Bread (as a doorstop?) or take some Littles on a Leprechaun Hunt. Until then, sláinte! 

Feel free to drop in the comments your favorite non-drinking Irish celebrations.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.

Last week was the annual AWP conference, which, if you don’t know, and most people don’t, is THE writers’ conference. I was there on behalf of my employer, Project Write Now, a nonprofit literary arts organization. This was PWN’s second year “tabling” at AWP, which meant we had a table in the exhibit hall, gave away stickers and journals, and promoted the shit out of our programs. Last year, the conference was in LA; this year, it was in Baltimore. Or Bawl-mer for those in the know.

And because I’m a writer, I was also there to network for myself, learn about current writing trends, and promote my debut book, Sober Mom: A Memoir, available now for pre-order!

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And guys, I did ALL the things.

On Wednesday night, my colleagues and I ate crabcakes and then enjoyed a poetry reading at the Baltimore Aquarium. Sharks + Poetry = Fun! On Thursday, I ventured out at 6 a.m. to Uber to a strange location in order to participate in a Poetry in the Woods hike. Later that day, I spoke to every person who passed by the PWN table. I met people IRL I’ve only emailed or Zoomed with before. I got up my nerve to ask Jane Friendman if she’d do a workshop for PWN. Thursday night was an off-site reading for Flash the Court lit mag, where I applauded my friends' powerful flash pieces. Friday was more of the same, including a reading by my book inc colleague Shanda, whose debut memoir is coming out a month before mine. (Her book, Brother Epistles, is also available for pre-order.) Friday night, my husband Chris came into town, and after I shut down the PWN table on Saturday, we paid homage to Edgar Allan Poe’s grave and a very weird Frank Zappa statue before heading home.

Phew.

I was — and still am — exhausted. But I loved every conversation. The whole conference hummed with joyful, buzzy energy. That said, talking to that many people over four days is genuinely hard, not just for introverts (which I think I technically am), but for anyone. My social battery was running on fumes.

Three things kept me sane.

One: Getting outside. Beyond the dawn poetry hike, I walked around the Inner Harbor every chance I could get. Fresh air on my face is always a reliable recharge — a reset button I’ve learned not to skip, no matter how packed the schedule.

Two: Sober AWP. AWP offers 12-step recovery meetings twice daily throughout the conference, and I made sure to get to at least one. If you don’t know how rare and wonderful that is — a writer’s conference actively holding space for people in recovery — trust me, it’s remarkable. Getting to talk about writing and sobriety in the same room, with people who get both? AH-mazing. I even reconnected with a woman I’d met at last year’s Sober AWP and got the number of a newcomer I’m hoping will stay in touch.

Three: My Sunday commitment. Before leaving for Baltimore, I’d signed up for an AA speaking commitment for the Sunday I returned. A speaking commitment is a service role where a home group member shares their experience, strength, and hope at another meeting. By Sunday, I was completely wiped. Four days of nonstop peopling will do that. If I hadn’t written my name on that sign-up sheet weeks earlier, I would have gone straight to the couch and called it done.

But that’s exactly why commitments matter in recovery. They get you out the door when your best thinking says stay home.

So I went. It was the first day of Daylight Saving Time, and because of the time difference, I was able to see the sun set over the Shrewsbury Bay on my drive. I shared my story, and afterward, several people came up to say they related to it. It was the perfect ending to one very full week of peopling.

Here’s what I know after fifteen years: staying sober doesn’t take a back seat when life gets busy or exciting or exhausting. If anything, those are the moments it matters most. The meetings, the commitments, the fresh air. They’re not interruptions to the good stuff. They’re what make the good stuff possible.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.