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!

Pre-Order Sober Mom

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.

And… <mic drop>. My work here is done.

The backstory:

In my early recovery in 2011, I often brought my three young children to AA meetings. My husband Chris traveled for business, and finding a babysitter for an hour was a pain.

I wouldn’t say the kids loved it. I’m sure they would have preferred to stay home. But they didn’t mind it too much. In my home group’s former location, there was a playroom in the basement where I’d set them up with an iPad and cookies. They quickly learned that there are always cookies at AA meetings. Oftentimes, there’d be other kids to play with. Personally, I would have preferred to enjoy the meeting without having to keep an ear out for trouble from the basement. But I did what I had to do to stay sober. As my sponsor often pointed out, you’re worthless to your family if you drink again. Better to drag the kids to the meeting than get drunk.

Sober Mom: A Memoir details the full story of my early recovery.

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As indicated by Julia’s statement above, a side effect of dragging the kids to meetings is that my kids don’t think AA meetings are abnormal or something to be ashamed of. How great would it be if that’s true of the next generation in general?!

Whenever I think about my kids attending AA meetings, I think back to a kerfuffle that occurred in my small suburban NJ town several years back.

(Did I write about this before? I’m sorry if I did. You know, menopause=colander brain.)

In 2017, a new private outpatient drug and alcohol rehabilitation center opened in my town of Shrewsbury. The town’s Facebook page was a hotbed of controversy about the rehab center. It’s located on the walking route to the elementary school. The majority of the town, or at least the outspoken ones, opposed the rehab center for fear their kids would be exposed to addicts and alcoholics. “Outside their own home,” I thought to myself.

New Jersey’s governor at the time, Chris Christie, came to the ribbon-cutting ceremony, and our townspeople came out to protest the rehab. Imagine people protesting recovery. What really irked me about the whole situation is that I was forced to agree with a Republican (blech!) who told the crowd they were a bunch of "NIMBYS.” If you’re not aware, NIMBY stands for Not In My Neighborhood, a pejorative term referring to people who oppose things for selfish reasons that are necessary or good for society.

I stayed out of the fray on Facebook and in person because I couldn’t trust myself to speak calmly and rationally on the subject.

But I was so angry at my neighbors. First of all, there are AA meetings happening in community centers, church basements, and parish houses, literally every hour, every day around town. Your kid most definitely rides their bike past a recovery meeting at any given point. In fact, one meeting I attend takes place in a church basement while a preschool is also in session.

Furthermore, these same people protesting recovery have no shame drinking in front of their kids. Showing their kids that the only way to have fun at the backyard BBQ or block party is with a drink in their hand. These neighbors bring alcohol to their kids’ Little League games, for Christ’s sake. But god fucking forbid their kids walk past a building that offers services for suffering alcoholics and addicts.

Yikes, I guess I’m still fired up about it.

It is a tricky wicket, though, because people suffering from the diseases of alcoholism and addiction do inflict real harm. So I do understand the urge to protect your kid from harm. When I brought my kids to meetings, did they ever see someone drunk, stumbling down the aisle? Someone nodding out in a folding chair? Maybe. But they also saw hope. They also heard stories of redemption. Maybe seeing someone suffering from a disease is not so terrible if they also see how and where to go to treat their disease. (As always, I emphasize “disease” when speaking about alcoholism and addiction.)

Isn’t there also harm in treating those who seek help like pariahs? Because one day your kid might need help, and wouldn’t it be so great if the rehab center wasn’t a thing to be ashamed of? What if your kid couldn’t get sober, and then a lightbulb goes off in their heads, and they think, “Oh, that place I used to walk past on the way to school, that’s where I go to get help. No big deal.”

The harm doesn’t come from proximity to recovery. It comes from the shame and silence we build around it.

The rehab center opened, and, to my knowledge, no child was harmed by walking past it on the way to school. What I do know is that somewhere in that building, someone’s mom or dad got help. Someone got to keep their family. Someone’s kid grew up with a sober parent.

My kids grew up knowing where I went to stay sober. They grew up eating cookies in a church basement and not thinking much of it. And now my 18-year-old daughter thinks AA is no big deal.

Yessss!

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.

I wore my boots out walkin
Poured my heart out talkin
I felt the pain & I broke the chain
But I still got a long way to go

Ok, girl, I hear ya. Let me not get too big for my britches. Fifteen years is great, but I walked into the forest (meaning I drank alcoholically) for 22 years; I’ve only been walking out of the woods for 15 now. I’ve still got a long way to go.

Second case in point:

Here in New Jersey, Saturday, February 21, was Milk & Bread Panic Buy Day for all who celebrate. A blizzard was coming, so everybody and their mother rushed to the grocery store. I was in a particularly tough spot because I had to do my regular weekly shopping, plus prepare for a family birthday dinner party. My baby, Julia, has turned 18!) It was going to be a huge shop, and I knew my local ShopRite would be chaos.

I went as early as I could get myself out of the door, which was around 7:30 a.m. The store itself was pretty calm, and I was able to load up my cart with all the weekly necessities — coffee, the Wyman’s Smoothie mix Chris and I like, and Oreos. Plus, ravioli and a Carvel cake for the birthday girl. I was thinking, this isn’t so bad. And then I got to the checkout line. Each line was already three people deep, and the cashiers didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

I took my spot in line and pulled out my phone to play a round of my new obsession, The NY Times CrossPlay.

(If you haven’t discovered it yet, it’s like Scrabble, but you get to cheat by trying out words to see if they’re real. You don’t need to rely on your knowledge and hope no one challenges with an actual dictionary.)

The woman in front of me kept huffing, so I looked up. Gesturing at the guy in front of her, she raged whispered: “I’m not sure what that guy is doing. He has five separate orders. It’s taking forever.”

I saw what she meant. The guy had split his haul into piles, and he was checking each one out separately. “Yeah,” I commiserated. “It’s always a shit show before a storm.” Then back to my Crossplay game. Is “globed” a word? Yes, yes it is!

About 10 minutes go by, and the woman once again turns to me and a little bit testier says, “What is he doing? Why is he paying for them all separately?”

I looked up and examined the situation more carefully. I didn’t think he was an Instacart worker, but it looked like a similar situation. My guess was that he was buying groceries on behalf of several people, perhaps even several elderly people. To me, it seemed like he was doing a good deed. And I told the huffy woman my theory.

In my head, I thought, Patience is a virtue, and clearly, you have zero. I was feeling pretty smug about my general “peace and love” vibe. It was taking a long time, sure, but I had Crossplay. It’s all good. No worries. We’ll get out of here eventually.

But it was taking a long time. I glanced at the Carvel cake on top of my cart. How long did I have before it would start to melt? The guy finally checked out, and the woman in front of me was unloading her large order onto the conveyor belt. That’s when a new salesclerk arrived in the checkout line next to ours. The couple behind me was on high alert, ready to jump over as soon as it opened. And I was indignant! I’ve been waiting here for 30 minutes. You just arrived! I should be the one who gets checked out first. I’ve been here forever. My inner child stomped her foot. And my Higher Power, the jokester, was like, “Oh, who needs patience now? What happened to your Peace & Love vibe?”

The late David Foster Wallace talks about this exact situation in his 2005 commencement speech to the graduating class at Kenyon College. He describes the end-of-day grocery store run in excruciating detail — the soul-killing muzak, the overcrowded aisles, the checkout line that won’t move — and points out that this is exactly where the real spiritual work happens. He says our “default setting” is to experience it all as about us — our hunger, our fatigue, our desire to just get home. And if we’re not paying attention, we will be pissed and miserable every single time.

Ok, HP, I get it, and we both laughed at my hypocritical reaction. I kept my mouth shut and let the people behind me check out first. Maybe they were in a rush. Maybe they have a sick kid at home. And to the woman in front of me who was being so impatient, instead of judging her as I had before, I understood. She was being human. I should have allowed her to be human without telling her my “he’s a good Samaritan” theory. The last thing this woman needed was a rando behind her shaming her for being impatient. Maybe she, too, had a sick kid at home.

Fifteen years sober, and my Higher Power is still out here keeping me humble. I’ve learned enough to laugh at myself. I haven’t learned enough to stop needing the reminder. That’s okay. That’s the work. As Wallace says, it’s not a one-time graduation — it’s the job of a lifetime. And it commences, apparently, in the checkout aisle.

An Announcement: I Guess I’m a Storyteller?

I told you all last week that I’m a featured storyteller in PWN’s FireFly: Stories On Stage series. That’s on Tuesday, March 23, at Two River Theater in Red Bank, NJ. Register for that event here. And I also was cast in this year’s Listen to Your Mother Series on May 1-2 in Maplewood, NJ. I’ll let you know when tickets for that go on sale. Apparently, they sell out fast!

Come to one or both. I’d love to see some friendly faces in the audience. It’s difficult to go from the page to the stage.

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.

Before I got sober, hangovers were the bane of my existence. After saying “Just one more can’t hurt” the night before, I’d wake up the next morning realizing that yes, one more CAN and DOES hurt really, really badly.

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Following a night of revelry (in my early years) or depressing nights by myself when I’d drink alone to oblivion (in my later years), my hangover symptoms included but were not limited to:

(Please read like an announcer in a prescription commercial describing potential side effects.)

• a pounding headache, like a rhythmic mechanical hammer slamming the back of my right eyeball in two-second intervals

• Extreme sensitivity to bright lights and loud noises

• Mysterious bruises, aches, and pains

• The condition known as “Sahara Mouth” (a thirst so great that no amount of Gatorade could quench it)

• The condition known as “Hay Hair” (hair that has had all its moisture sucked out of it)

• The sweats

• The shakes

• Existential dread and regret when realizing you called your ex-boyfriend the night before and/or ate a whole pizza by yourself. Who are we kidding, always “AND” never “OR.”

• Severe nausea resulting in vomiting in inopportune places such as:

  • The steps of Nativity RC Church

  • The parking lot of Rumson Country Club

  • On your friend at a concert

  • Behind the bed, in a bush, in a cup in the car, etc., etc.

It’s horrible to feel like shit the next day after being “overserved.” (Love this ridiculous passive expression, taking all responsibility off the person downing the drinks and making it the bartender’s fault you got shitfaced!) A hangover reinforces what you already know about yourself: You look shit, you feel shit, you are shit.

Jimmy Buffett said it best when he wrote:

My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don’t love Jesus
(Oh my lordy, it’s that)
It’s that kind of mornin’
Really was that kind of night
Tryin’ to tell myself that my condition is improvin’
And if I don’t die by Thursday, I’ll be roarin’ Friday night

Not waking up with a hangover is one of the many, many perks of getting sober. In early recovery, I’d wake up every morning and think, “Wow, I feel great! I don’t have a headache. I’m not dying of thirst. I’m able to be an energetic and available mother to my three kids. This is amazing!” This “I feel great” feeling in early sobriety is often called “The Pink Cloud.”

So why, you may be asking, did I start this post with a confession that sometimes I miss hangovers?

It’s a true sentiment, but I’ve never been able to explain why. Why, sometimes, while driving in my car, I mimic the act of throwing up. That sometimes I crave the debilitating …

(I searched for another word besides hangover, and I found “crapulence.” Crapulence is a real word? I love language!)

…. That sometimes, crapulence is life-affirming.

I knew this belief had something to do with the immediacy of hangovers. That nothing could or would be done until the hangover passed. I miss that live-in-the-moment feeling of life standing still until you’ve dealt with this problem. Also, that throwing up sometimes feels good? Like you’re getting all the toxins out of you and starting fresh?

I’ve never shared this theory out loud before. And then, I read Sam Anderson’s Letter of Recommendation in the January 27 New York Times.

In “Want to Reach Nirvana? Try a Colonoscopy,” Anderson proceeds to tell us readers, that getting a colonoscopy is like a religious pilgrimage.

Of Colonscopy Eve, he says:

I remember that day, fondly, as my diarrhea vacation. That might not sound fun, from a distance — but it was one of those miserable experiences so unpleasant that they wrap all the way back around to pleasure. It was as liberating as a spa day. I had zero responsibilities. All I had to do, all day long, was liquefy my entire insides.

Oh my goodness, Anderson is explaining exactly why I sometimes miss hangovers. The immediacy of it. How they force you to be present in the moment. You can’t stress about what you’re wearing to work because you can’t get off the bathroom floor. Your sole purpose is to just survive this moment in time.

Wait, it may seem like I’m advocating for hangovers or for colonoscopies. I AM NOT!

But I am advocating for storytelling. Because here I was living in my head thinking my craving for hangovers was weird when in fact, someone else had experienced the same thing I did and wrote about it!

Oh man, I wish I had written Anderson’s piece and gotten published in the NY Times “Letter of Recommendation” column. #goals.

This is why we tell stories. To get rid of the shame. To say the weird thing out loud and have someone else say, “Me too.” It’s the whole foundation of AA—we share our stories so that newcomers realize they’re not uniquely broken, that others have walked this path before them. That their darkest, weirdest thoughts aren’t actually that dark or weird at all.

That’s why in March, I’ll stand on the Firefly stage at Two River Theater and tell a story about spring (the season, the action, the surprise—who knows which angle I’ll take). Because maybe someone in the audience will be sitting there thinking they’re the only one who feels this particular weird thing. And then I’ll say it out loud. And they’ll think, “Oh. Me too.” If you’re in the Red Bank area, come join us! You can put your name in the hat for a chance to tell your story. Learn more here.

Please tell your stories. Share your weirdness. So we all feel a little less alone. And guys, please go out and use “crapulence” in a sentence. I implore you!!!!!

This past week, I learned that my cousin’s children’s military school in Germany removed posters of prominent black figures because of the president's executive order titled "Ending Radical Indoctrination in K-12 Schooling.” According to the school’s administration, government resources could no longer be used to celebrate Black History Month. For a party that complains about government overreach, concerning itself with a poster of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. in a middle school hallway seems like a major overreach to me!

In a town hall about the changes, a Black parent got up to the microphone and asked why books celebrating her heritage had been removed. The administration responded that no books had been "removed from the library. They have just been moved to the professional library." When, near tears, this parent asked how she was supposed to explain to her children why people who looked like them were being taken off the walls, and books about people who looked like them were no longer available in the library, the speakers expressed sympathy and noted that counselors were available in the school. However, they offered no solutions.

On a side note, my blind friend P. is worried about this administration taking away his veteran benefits, including his housing. But enough about that.

But let's go back to the subject of my Substack—recovery. Because it’s Black History Month, I've been reflecting on representation in recovery spaces, especially my beloved Alcoholics Anonymous (AA).

In my home group, we have only one, maybe two, Black recovering alcoholics. Unfortunately, this isn’t just a reflection of the racial demographics of my county. According to AA's latest 2023 survey, Black, African American, or African Canadian membership is just 3.6%, while White, Caucasian, or European American membership dominates at 87.7%. Multi-racial membership accounts for only 0.3%. These numbers tell a story of consistent underrepresentation. (“Black in A.A. – Experience, Strength and Hope” - General Service Conference, 2023)

Every AA meeting emphasizes that "The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking." We're taught to "identify and not compare"—meaning a biker dude and a straight-laced professional can find common ground in their experiences with alcohol. Their internal feelings of being unable to stop drinking are the same, whether it’s downing martinis at a work conference or whiskey shots at a biker bar.

Yet I know from personal experience how crucial it is to see people like you in these rooms. As a mom with young kids, when I first entered the rooms, I specifically sought out other women and mothers in meetings to feel more comfortable. When I heard a stay-at-home mom tell her story about how she used to do a house project or an activity with her kids and then reward herself by drinking, I thought, “Oh wow, that’s my experience, too.” Representation matters.

In a powerful piece titled "I Turned To 'Quit Lit' For Help, And It Made Me Wonder: Is Sobriety Only For White Women?" Laura Cathcart Robbins describes her experience seeking help through addiction literature. She found herself faced with an overwhelming number of stories by white authors. While these books validated her struggle with addiction, they failed to address the unique challenges faced by women of color in recovery. For instance, white authors often express relief about no longer fearing police encounters after getting sober—a privilege that doesn't extend to Black people regardless of their sobriety status.

In the article, Robbins states: "Representation is the only way to normalize Black addiction and Black recovery stories. For the next Black mom who discreetly scours her local bookstore looking for a story like hers, so she doesn't slink away empty-handed, believing that sobriety isn't for people like us. If she sees herself on the shelves, she will know that she is not alone, that sobriety isn't just for white women. And, maybe, she'll be empowered to seek out the help she needs." That’s why Robbins wrote the memoir Stash: My Life in Hiding, which I give two thumbs up.

This Black History Month has highlighted for me how much work remains to make recovery spaces truly inclusive and representative of all communities. While AA's principles of inclusion are strong, the reality of representation in our rooms shows that we have a long way to go.

I give major props to the Black member of my sober family who keeps showing up to our home group week after week despite being the only Black person in the room. Because when another person of color does enter the room, beaten down by their disease and looking around the room for help, she’ll be there to reach out her hand.

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.

I prepared some remarks, though that’s not typical. Typically, a person speaking from the podium asks their higher power to speak through them and wings it. But 15 years of sobriety felt like a milestone. I had something I wanted to say, and I wanted to sound coherent. Hence, the preparation.

I didn’t say the speech below verbatim. I didn’t use notes, and it was too much to memorize.

Anyhoo, I thought this would make a good Substack post! Here you go:

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My 15-Year Celebration Talk

Hi. I’m Liz, and I’m an alcoholic. Thank you, X, 15 years, wow, that is a long time! Congratulations to all the January celebrants. We’ve taken Dry January to the next level. Kudos to us! Congratulations to the day counters, we’re so glad you’re here. And thank you to the friends and families who are here tonight for support. Especially my family there in the back. My children, Raymond and Julia, and my husband, Chris. (Michael would have been there, but he’s living his best life in VT.) You know, I don’t believe Chris has missed one celebration in all the 15 years… He’s such a good doobie. I love him.

The Watch

I’ve been reminiscing—as one does on anniversaries. I was remembering my one-year celebration. Back in those days, to celebrate a person’s one-year anniversary, our sober family hosted “watches.” On the eve of a person’s one-year sober anniversary, we’d meet at the diner around 10:30 or 11 p.m. I can’t imagine staying up that late now. We’d wait and watch as the clock ticked towards midnight—the diner clock was always wrong; it drove me crazy. At midnight, we’d have cake and sing “Happy Anniversary.” It’s such a bummer we don’t do this anymore. Ever since COVID, the diner closes before midnight.

I remember my watch fondly, but I can tell you that I think I did several things wrong. Now I know we say no one judges you in AA, but we also say “stick with the winners,” so … clearly there’s some judging going on. (This was my attempt at a joke. I got a few chuckles.)

For my watch, I invited two “normies,” close friends of mine who were not alcoholics. I later learned that that was not typical. Usually, it was just sober folks at a watch. And I also brought party favors, little gifts to give everyone who attended.

For the life of me, I cannot remember what they were; maybe A does. (After the meeting, A told me it was St. Francis prayer cards.) But I do remember the look on my sponsor’s face… I could tell from her look that providing party favors at a watch was odd. And if I could’ve read her mind at the time, it would have probably been something like: “We’re celebrating a year of you not being a drunk. This isn’t a bridal shower, Liz.”

Self-Centered Fear

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot lately—and clearly that is my problem. THINKING.

But I’ve been thinking about how my self-centered fear—the fear of doing something wrong or looking stupid—has historically driven a wedge between me and the things I love.

I think I bring up a variation of this topic at each anniversary, so I apologize to anyone who has heard it before. But clearly it’s one of my recurring themes.

And I’m going to get into some specifics. I’m a writer, and a writer understands that personal, detailed, specific stories resonate more broadly and are more universal than vague generalities. Saying, “Oh, I drank a lot, but now I lead a Big Book study group,” doesn’t resonate with the newcomer as much as saying:

“One morning, I woke up on the basement couch of my ex-boyfriend’s frat house with no memory of the night before, but based on the vomit on my sweatshirt, I ate gravy fries. And as I tried to pull out the Jolly Ranchers that were inexplicably stuck in my hair, I looked up to find my ex-boyfriend’s roommate, Lumpy, looking at ME in disgust.”

Well …now… a story like that’s going to resonate!

Anyway, back to self-centered fear. As an example of how my self-centered fear works, let’s talk about the Grateful Dead, shall we? RIP Bobby Weir.

When I discovered the Dead in the late ‘80s, I went to shows—shows, not concerts. Made tie-dyes, got a dancing bear tattoo. But then I met devoted DeadHeads—like my wonderful husband Chris, who could listen to a live song and say, “Oh, that’s Terrapin Flyer into Drums Space from the May 8, 1977 show at Cornell.” And I’d be like, “Oh, I like ‘Hell in A Bucket,’” I think they play it on Z100. A situation like that would cause my self-centered fear to kick in, and I’d think, “I’m not a real DeadHead after all.” And I withdrew from that scene.

I pushed away something I loved because my self-centered fear made me feel not good enough, not a real fan.

I did that in college as well. I’ve always been an avid reader, but when it came time to choose a major, my self-centered fear roared up and said, “You’ve never read Virginia Woolf or Moby Dick. You’re a fake, an imposter.” So I steered clear of English Lit. Something I regret. Now I will never read Moby Dick, unless maybe P. can get me to do it.

In retrospect, I can see this pattern—this self-centered fear causing me to isolate and turn away from something I might really love and enjoy.

Now let’s talk about recovery. This is an AA meeting, right?

AA most definitely has its own subculture. It’s not a cult, but it has its own subculture. We have our own language, our own rituals. When I first came in 15 years ago, even though I didn’t understand what was going on, my desperation was enough to quiet my self-centered fear. I had that wonderful “gift of desperation” that kept me in my seat despite feeling like an outsider. And eventually I learned the language and I felt a part of.

I love when we do call and response: “Fine show of hands” or when we recite together: “God could and would if he were sought” all together. In these moments, I feel like I belong.

But because it is one of my major defects, my self-centered fear can flare up. I start to think I’m not really part of the group. I’m on the outskirts. I don’t attend that district meeting you all talk about. I can’t seem to read AA’s Coming of Age even though it’s been on my nightstand for two years. I currently don’t have sponsees, although I’m available for sponsorship. See X, willing.

And there’s a part of me that wants to quit because I feel like I’m doing it wrong. Like how I didn’t become an English major because I hadn’t read Moby Dick. Like how I pulled away from the Dead because I couldn’t identify live shows.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m worried I don’t belong, so I extract myself so that I don’t belong.

At times, I can feel like I don’t belong here. And maybe you do too. Maybe you’re wondering why all these people are smiling. Or maybe you’re upset because you messed up a commitment. Or you can’t quote the Big Book. Or you just feel like you’re doing it wrong.

But here’s what I know now after 15 years:

The way I keep myself from walking out that door is pretty simple: I stay. I may be doing it wrong, but I stay. I’m not advocating for doing the program wrong; there IS an easier, softer way. But I’m saying: I’m not going to let my self-centered fear walk me out the door.

Here’s what I try to do:

I talk to my sponsor or my sober network when I’m struggling. I pick up the phone, even though it feels as heavy as an anvil. I’m open and honest about my recovery, from the podium and in my writing. I pray every day. I make an effort to connect with someone every day in AA and when I don’t I note that on my nightly review. If J were here, she’d confirm that! And when I see someone new OR an old timer who looks like they might be struggling, because old timers struggle too, I try to connect.

Conclusion

I might not have sponsees right now, but I have my seat. I have my story. I show up. Even on the days when I’m convinced I don’t belong, I remember that my presence here—flawed as it is—might be exactly what someone else needs to see.

Party Favors

And with that, I’d like to offer you all a party favor tonight. I have some recovery stickers. And I made these pencils with what I think is a funny saying. I have the urge to explain the joke to you, but I know that if I have to explain a joke, it can’t be funny. So I’m hoping you get it.

Please come help yourself after the meeting.

Thank you for letting me share.

A Word to My Readers

Good news: Anyone who has pre-ordered Sober Mom: A Memoir will receive a party favor! Yay!

Pre-ordering my debut helps ensure bookstores stock it, boosts its visibility on launch day, and gives me the best possible chance to reach readers and continue writing stories.

Some of you already told me you’ve ordered it. Thank you! If I have your address, you can expect your treat in the mail at some point in the coming weeks.

If you have ordered it, but didn’t tell me, please reply to this email with your address.

If you haven’t ordered it yet, please do and then let me know. You can just reply to this email with your address. I’m not going to make you send me the receipt or anything. We are doing this on the honor system!

Thank you in advance for your support.

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.

Nurse Jackie is a medical comedy-drama TV series that aired on Showtime from 2009 to 2015. It’s now on Netflix.

Previously, I wrote about Recovery on the Screen but forgot to include Nurse Jackie. The show does an excellent job of showing the insidious nature and the harmful effects of the disease of drug addiction. It stars Edie Falco, who, BTW, is sober in real-life.

Outside my dining room window, a snowstorm is barreling down. I was going to write “gentle snow is falling,” but actually, it’s not gentle at all. The wind is whipping the small flakes sideways and even upwards at points. It looks cold, and I’m not ready to go out in it yet. My snow-obsessed husband Chris has already been shoveling, and he says we have about 3 or 4 inches at 8:35 a.m. We are hoping for at least a foot.

I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for an hour or so, trying to come up with a post on recovery to share with you all. Using Nurse Jackie as a backdrop, I was going to write about the role of rehabilitation centers in recovery journeys. But since I’ve never been to rehab, I don’t have that experience. Not yet anyway. See my flash essay, “Holding My Breath,” (Grapevine, March 2018), discussing what “Not Yet” means in recovery.

I should only share about MY experience, strength, and hope. I wrote about why we AAers share our experience rather than tell people what to do in two posts: “Eff You and the Horse You Rode On” and “Accepting the Plants You Cannot Change.”

So no rehab stories. (If anyone reading this has rehab experience and would like to be interviewed for my Substack, please reply to this email!)

To get my Substack juices flowing, I picked up some recovery books I have lying around, Alcoholics Anonymous Comes of Age and Undrunk: A Skeptic's Guide to AA. (I previously wrote about recovery books in A Few of My Favorite Recovery Memoirs and Reading for Empathy.)

But nothing’s coming to me. I can’t think of anything hopeful or inspiring to say about recovery because I’m distraught. Sickened. Heavy with the news from Minneapolis. I don’t need to recount the details here. By the time you all get this post in your inbox, you will have heard the pundits pick apart Saturday’s tragedy, and there might even be another sickening story to compound with this one.

At times like these, I wring my hands and think “What can I do? I have to do something!” And without even calling my sponsor because she lives permanently in my head, she tells me, “Liz, you have a primary purpose, it’s to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety.”

Ok, ok, I tell her, so back to my Substack. Maybe I can reshare something. Reviewing my past posts to see if there is anything timely, I came across this one, which I wrote after the election: Good News: The Jesuits Know What We Should Do Next. We can apply the lessons from the Jesuits to our current situation.

And without realizing it, I’ve written a post that compiles some previously written posts. If my Substack were a TV series, this would be the episode where all the characters are stuck inside because of a snowstorm, telling stories from the past, and the viewers would see old clips from the series.

Today, I’m going to stay sober and hopefully help another alcoholic achieve sobriety. Unless it’s officially canceled, I’m going to my normal 5 p.m. Sunday meeting. I mean, I went to great lengths to drink during blizzards. I can go to great lengths to stay sober in one.

But if it’s dangerous for you to drive to a meeting, you should know that you can access a ton of AA meetings on YouTube. Recently, I listened to AA Speakers - Humor in Recovery. Because laughter and joy are forms of resistance.

So that’s it. A snowstorm, a TV show about addiction, and no brilliant insights about recovery today. Just a reminder that we do what we do: stay sober, go to meetings, help when we can.

I did download this app, 5calls, which purports to be “the easiest and most effective way for U.S. constituents to make a political impact.”

That’s all I’ve got today.

Update on Tuesday: It looks like we got close to a foot!

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.

My body carries another burn scar. About two inches above my wrist on my left arm, there’s an indented pit the size of a nickel. The skin in the circle is smooth and shiny, with lines radiating outward.

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Older folks ask me if it’s a smallpox vaccine scar because it does sort of look like that. But routine smallpox vaccination ended after the disease was eradicated in 1980. Because science IS real, and we’ve enjoyed the benefits from our discoveries. Unfortunately, our current administration’s health secretary doesn’t seem to recognize that. Sigh. That’s a rant for another day.

Smallpox vaccine scars, though, are usually on the upper arm. My scar is from a cigarette burn.

That sounds ominous, like maybe someone hurt me or I hurt myself, but there’s actually a stupid story behind it, one that involves me drinking too much. Shocker!

I think I was 16; I remember it was my sophomore year of high school. I was at a party when a dude was like, “If you wrap this twenty-dollar bill around your wrist and then burn a hole through it with a cigarette, you can keep the twenty dollars.”

Kids don’t try this at home because it’s impossible to burn a hole through the bill when it’s wrapped around your wrist, because no oxygen gets through. But the heat does get through, and instead, you burn a hole right into your wrist. I know because it happened to me. And true confession: it wasn’t a twenty-dollar bill but one fucking dollar.

Now that 37 years have passed since the initial incident, the burn scar has diminished and is less noticeable. But when I was younger, it was more prominent, and I’d be embarrassed when people did ask about it. I remember that if I wore a sleeveless shirt, I’d try to hide the scar with a bracelet. The scar was a constant reminder of the type of drinker I am—a fall-down, black-out drunk who suffers negative consequences from her drinking.

But here’s the thing: About a year after the cigarette/twenty-dollar bill (ok, one-dollar bill) incident, I met a guy who had the same burn I had … but he had a scar on BOTH his left and right arms. He participated in the same “game” I did, but he did it TWICE. Two times he tried to burn a hole through a bill with a cigarette. And he also admitted to me that he burned himself over a dollar, not twenty dollars, and he, too, was feeling zero pain at the time because of his drinking.

I was relieved to find someone who was worse off than me. Well, at least I didn’t burn two holes into my arm, I’d think. I’m not as bad as that guy.

This is a common refrain for active alcoholics. We surround ourselves with other drinkers so our drinking doesn’t look so bad in comparison. And we always love to have one person in our orbit who is much worse than us, so that we can say, “Well, I just drink too much sometimes. I’m not as bad as that guy” with a jerk of the arm and thumb pointing to whoever that guy is.

In the rooms of AA, we say, “Identify, don’t compare” when listening to the speaker. When I was drinking, I was always comparing—looking for someone worse off so I could feel better about myself. But in recovery, I learned to identify instead. To look for the similarities in people’s stories rather than the differences. Even if a person is a low-bottom drunk, for example, was homeless or in jail, I can still recognize myself in their story if I focus on their feelings and their struggles.

Here’s what I know now: Comparing yourself to the worst drunk at the bar keeps people out of recovery. When really, it’s not how often you drink but what happens to you when you drink. This is particularly true of women who may not be daily drinkers, but when they do drink, they drink to excess.

If you repeatedly drink more than you intend or want to, if you get into trouble, or if you have memory lapses when you drink, you may be an alcoholic. AA offers a self-assessment test.

The thing about alcoholism is that it’s a progressive disease. That guy with two burn scars? He wasn’t better or worse than me—he was just further along. And if I’d kept drinking, I would have eventually caught up to him and then surpassed him. The disease doesn’t stay the same. It gets worse. The consequences escalate. The binges get longer, the blackouts more frequent, the damage more severe.

Whether it’s one scar or two, a dollar bill or a twenty, the question isn’t “Am I as bad as that person?” The question is: “Do I see myself in this story?”

I still don’t love the scar on my wrist, but it’s no longer a source of shame. It’s a reminder of where I was headed and where I chose not to go. The disease wanted to take me all the way down, but I got off the elevator early.

And you can too. You don’t have to wait until you’re the worst person at the bar. You don’t need two scars instead of one. You just need to be willing to stop comparing and start recovering.

Ok, can we stop talking about burns now? Sheesh.

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

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

I don’t think I’ll have a scar on my hand from my Christmas Burn thanks to the quick action of several players. Let me tell you what happened.

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For the past several years, my sister has hosted Christmas Brunch. After we open gifts, we head over to her house to exchange more gifts and eat delicious crepes with strawberries and cream, and lox and bagels. It’s decadent and delicious.

My sister is a vegetarian, so she puts me in charge of the bacon and sausage. My go-to way to cook bacon is in the microwave. I know, I know, some of you really dislike that method, but I find that you can get it crispy enough, and it doesn’t stink up the house. But since it was a special occasion, I decided to bake the bacon in the oven on a cookie sheet. I must have been distracted when I pulled the tray out of the oven, because it tipped slightly to the left, splashing hot bacon fat onto my left hand. Yaoww!

Because my young adult children sleep in even on Christmas, we were running late for the 10 a.m. brunch. So I just rinsed the burn with cold water, wrapped it in a damp hand towel, and proceeded on.

But when, during brunch, I kept having to jump up from the table to re-dampen the towel with cold water because the burn was growing increasingly painful, I knew I had to stop pretending everything was fine and face the situation.

The first thing I did was text a photo of my burn to my friend L, an ER nurse, and ask if there was anything I should do. I didn’t pause and think I shouldn’t bother her on Christmas. She’s a sober friend, and if there is one thing I know about my sober people, they are willing to help, and they don’t mind a little distraction on Christmas.

She told me, “If you can get your hands on Silvadene cream, that would help tremendously.”

My hand was pulsating like bubbling lava from a volcano. I was going to need some of that cream.

It just so happened that sitting next to me at brunch was a pharmacist’s assistant; my teenage daughter Julia works at a family pharmacy. She knew her boss, the pharmacist, was working (on Christmas!) and texted him. He told her to have me come in, and we’d see what we could do.

Now, this pharmacist, Ross, is a local legend, but I had never had the pleasure of dealing with him until this moment. He looked at my hand and said, “Yeah, you need Silvadene. And if you’re not going to the walk-in clinic today, you’ll probably have to go tomorrow. Unless,” he said, “you can get a doctor to call in a prescription for you. We could get it for you right now.”

“I know a doctor,” I said.

“Call him,” Ross advised.

So as my daughter Julia jumped to work adding me into the pharmacy’s system, I called my brother-in-law, who is a pediatrician. I’m not sure I’ve called my brother-in-law once in the 24 years I’ve been married to his brother, Chris. But here it was Christmas, and I was calling for a favor. Thank god, he picked up immediately.

I apologized profusely for the intrusion, but he didn’t seem to mind and told me to hand the phone to the pharmacist. Badda boom badda bam, and I was on my way home with the miracle cream, which immediately soothed the burn.

We are a couple of weeks out, and I can tell you I don’t think I’ll have a scar thanks to the following people helping me ON CHRISTMAS:

• L, my ER nurse friend

• Julia the pharmacist’s assistant

• Ross the pharmacist

• My brother-in-law the doctor

My left hand and I are indebted to these folks who took time away from their Christmas celebrations to help me.

Which brings me to the point of this Substack: People want to help. Even on sacred holidays. Even when they’re spending time with their families. Maybe especially when they are spending time with their families.

Helping people is the backbone of AA’s Twelve-Step program. Once we are able to clear our mind, body, and spirit of alcohol, the way we stay sober and sane is to help someone else.

“Our real purpose is to fit ourselves to be of maximum service to God and the people about us,” The Big Book (page 77).

Service to others is always the answer when you start to feel that coil tighten inside of you. You know the coil, right? Whether it’s fear, resentment, or anxiety, it twists and twists inside you, making your chest tight and your jaw clench. Helping someone else releases that coil.

When my sponsor celebrates her sober anniversary, she sends a special message to her sponsees, saying, “Thank you for keeping me sober.” She thanks us, not the other way around, because it’s her helping us that keeps her sober.

Here’s another example of a recent chain of help put into action:

On Monday, January 6, I received a text from Ellen H. at AA’s intergroup office1. I don’t know how Ellen H. got my phone number, but I wasn’t surprised by her text. I may have added my cell phone number to a call list for newcomers.

She said there was a young woman whose home group was the same as mine, but she no longer had a cell phone and had lost all her phone numbers. She’d just gotten out of a treatment center.

I told Ellen H. to pass along my number and give me the newcomer’s. I had a hunch who this woman was. A young mother who had tried several times to get sober, but this disease had its claws deep inside her.

The text came in at 3:50 p.m., and I had a meeting at 4 p.m., so I didn’t call the woman immediately. But I did take a minute to pass on the info to my sober network.

By the time I was done with my work day and could turn my attention to this newcomer, several people had already called her. One person was picking her up, along with another person struggling, and taking them both to a beginner’s meeting.

The swiftness and thoroughness of this sober chain was so uplifting. So nice to see, especially in this day and age when the news feels so depressing and sad.

Thank god this newcomer was at a point where she was willing to ask for help. Willingness is important. The burn on my hand made me willing. But it shouldn’t take the heat of one thousand suns to make someone willing to ask for help. Because people want to help.

At a meeting last week, a woman spoke about how her sponsor told her that not asking for help was selfish. She was confused until her sponsor broke it down for her. People in recovery need to be of service in order to stay sober and sane. By not asking for help when someone could help, she was taking away a service opportunity from a person in recovery.

I would argue that's true for all people, not just those in recovery. We, humans, are wired for connection and purpose. We want to feel useful, want to feel helpful, want to know our presence in someone's life matters. When we help someone, we're affirmed in our own competence and worth. Asking for help isn't just about receiving—it's about giving someone else the gift of being able to give.

Something to consider. By the way, I’m going back to making bacon in the microwave. Clearly, it’s the better way.

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

The Ying

On Sunday, December 28, three of the five Jersey Jannuzzis stopped for a very crunchy granola breakfast at the Minifactory in Bristol, VT. When I say “crunchy granola,” I do not mean actual granola, although that was on the menu. I mean, the establishment offers hippie fare such as locally sourced bean sprouts and fig agrodolce. (Does anyone have a clue what that is?) The vibe at the Minifactory is bright and cheery, with a brick wall at one end and a mural of Bristol at the other. As our waitress explained to us how they age the lactose out of the yogurt (!), a strong sunbeam warmed us through the large windows, thawing the Northeast chill we’d endured all weekend.

The previous day, we skied in great conditions at Sugarbush and spent time with my son Michael and my beloved cousins. At this moment, we were taking the scenic route home, one lined with rolling snow-covered hills spotted with red barns and white-steepled churches. We planned to stop in Middlebury for brunch, but Bristol was so inviting. Our table at the Minifactory looked out on this quintessential Northeast hamlet.

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After I ate my poached eggs, sweet potato, and cheddar on meusli bear (?) bread with green sauce (I don’t know what was in that green sauce, but it was delicious), I bought some pastry treats for the road. We had a long five-hour drive back to New Jersey, and we still planned to stop in Middlebury.

At the Vermont Book Shop in Middlebury, I found two books for myself (Grief Is for People by Sloane Crosley and The Best American Essays 2025) and the cutest set of bookmarks, illustrations of gnomes in nature, which I decided to give to my sister. Fun Liz fact: Gnome merchandise is my Kryptonite. Clearly, this bookstore had my number.

To say I was in my element is an understatement. A drive with my loved ones, beautiful Vermont scenery, cheesy poached eggs, a stash of cookies for later, and a stop at a bookstore!!!!!

The Yang

It was at the cashier’s desk at the bookstore that my dream-like fantasy world collapsed, like a gnome toppling off a tall mushroom. I went to pay for my books and bookmarks, only to find I didn’t have my wallet. (Although thanks to the miracle of Apple Wallet, I was still able to make my purchases.)

Ugh. Where could it be? Did it fall out of my handbag when I pulled my cellphone out to take this photo in Middlebury?

We searched the sidewalks but couldn’t find it. I replayed the past two days, trying to remember where I might have lost it. On the ski slope? Left in the condo? But you know, menopause. My brain is a sieve; it could have been anywhere. I resigned myself to the fact that it was lost forever and started thinking about how to cancel my credit cards and replace my license. My mood plummeted, and I was berating myself for my carelessness.

As we pulled onto the New York Thruway and I nibbled on my vegetable-forward oatmeal cookie, it occurred to me. I most likely left my wallet in Bristol when I bought the car snacks.

The next day, humming "I Left My Wallet in El Saquando," I called the Minifactory, who confirmed they had my wallet and agreed to mail it to NJ for me. Crisis averted! Thank you, V, from the Minifactory!

This positive/negative situation reminds me of something my sponsor likes to say when you share good news with her. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she says, which, in the moment, is kind of annoying. Why can’t she just be happy for me? I think when she makes this comment.

But I know she is trying to make a point, one that is worth learning. There is good, and then there is bad, and then there will be good again, and then bad. The important thing is not to get too caught up in the lows OR the highs. It’s the swings that will get you. Or the expectation that since something was good once, it will always be good.

In retrospect, my whole Christmas vacation was like that.

Good: Lovely dinner with almost all of the Jannuzzis for my mother-in-law’s 94th birthday on December 20
Bad: 4 1/2 hours of traffic hell to get to Long Island

Good: Relaxing Christmas Eve and Christmas close to home
Bad: Poor Chris was in bed with a bad cold, maybe the flu?

Good: Delicious Christmas Day brunch at my sister’s house
Bad: Second-degree burn on my left hand from spilled bacon fat (ouch!)

The pattern continued right through to the new year: good things arriving, bad things happening, everything mixed together in ways I couldn’t control.

My sister was delighted to receive the gnome bookmarks, and my wallet's on its way. (Thanks again, V!) But my son Ray caught the bug, and he was down for the count for New Year’s. The Ying and the Yang. The good and the bad. And my sponsor will keep reminding me that this is how it goes — which is annoying but also, you know, true.

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

To the newcomers … That is, newcomers to this Substack, not recovery newcomers. If you’re new to sobriety, check out Four Basic Suggestions for Newcomers in AA.

To my new subscribers: Today’s post isn't my usual Substack. Usually, I have some interaction during the week or watch a show that sparks a reflection on something related to sobriety and/or the disease of alcoholism and/or mental health. For those types of posts, I invite you to peruse my archives and click on anything that catches your eye.

I just reviewed them now so that I could recommend one or two, but I guess posts are like children. I can’t really say I like one over the other. I hope you enjoy them too, and if you do, please give the post a “like” or a comment. Engaging with readers is part of the fun of Substack.

Ok, enough of my introductions, now back to my regularly scheduled programming.

Guys, can you believe we’ve made it to the end of the year? Can you believe next year is 2026? *Blink of an eye* and all the clichés about time are true as clichés always are.

Currently, I’m sitting in Morning Pages, a writing accountability Zoom group hosted by Yours Truly and Project Write Now, thinking about how to wrap up the year in one Happy Holidays post.

I feel like so much has happened, and yet nothing has happened either.

1. In my family life,

my young adult children are becoming, well, young adults. The oldest has graduated from college and secured a full-time (albeit seasonal) job. The middle guy is embarking on his film career while gearing up for his sophomore year of college next fall, which, if all goes as planned, will be in Colorado. And the college acceptances are rolling in for my baby (my baby!), who will be graduating high school in 2026. (Gulp!)

Will Chris and I have an empty nest next fall? I’m not sure. I do know that I shouldn’t expect that. I’ve learned in recovery that an expectation is a premeditated resentment.

I will say that Chris and I have been enjoying the freedom that comes with children being able to take care of themselves. (Although we still field a lot of calls about fender benders! Can everyone start driving more carefully? Not only my kids but the rest of the world?)

This past year, Chris and I took off sans kids to Philly, the Catskills, and Seattle. Next year, we plan to ski in Colorado and see the live taping of NPR’s Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me in Chicago. It feels full circle because Chris and I fell in love traveling to different cities while working at the College Board in the late 1990s. How fun that we get to travel and explore again. My hubby is a wonderful travel partner.

2. In my writing life,

things definitely feel like they’ve ratcheted up a notch. After doing this for 10 years, am I finally a real writer?

I loved attending the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference in LA in March. Meeting my Zoom writing buddies in person and feeling the pulse of our writing community in real time was genuinely thrilling. (BTW, PWN will be exhibiting at AWP again this year. Join us in Baltimore in March!)

Soon, I think I’ll be able to hold a physical Advanced Reader Copy (those in the biz say ARCs) of Sober Mom: A Memoir. That’s going to be surreal. I plan to host a book launch party in July with a cake decorated to look like my book. You know, the important things.

I didn’t have too much success on the literary magazine publication front — I had two short pieces published, one in January and one in July — but I will have a flash essay coming out in Under the Gum Tree in January 2026. That’s a win for me, as Under the Gum Tree is a beautiful print literary magazine, which is classified as “More Challenging.”

I’ve written a post here on “Elizabeth’s Substack” once a week (mostly) for all of 2025. That’s bananas! And you, readers, have reached out to let me know that something I said struck a chord with you. And THAT is what it’s all about for me. Writing is the need to feel seen, and, hopefully, to connect with a reader so they feel seen. It’s a win-win situation, and I truly appreciate your support.

3. In my work life,

I’m grateful to find fulfillment by doing what I love with wonderful people. The non-profit organization I work for, Project Write Now, has a mission to transform lives through writing. I get to work at a place that also supports my hobby. But in addition to helping my writing career, Project Write Now provides expressive writing programs to those who need them most.

If you’re looking to donate your hard-earned money to a nonprofit that is changing lives in the community, look no further than Project Write Now. DONATE HERE.

4. In my recovery life,

well … things continue one day at a time as they are supposed to.

Can I end the year feeling like I’ve reached some upper level in recovery? Do I get a special sobriety badge or honor? No, because that’s not how recovery works. If you’re doing it right, you realize you’re just another bozo on the bus. In a funny twist, the more sobriety I have, the more I realize how little I know … about anything!

Was my recovery year the best it could be? Did I attend as many meetings as I should have? Did I get a new sponsee? Did I connect with as many newcomers as I could have? No. Did I stay sober one day at a time? Yes. Did I help another alcoholic achieve sobriety? I hope so.

Happy Holidays and See You Next Year!

Again, I’m so grateful for you, readers. It’s been my pleasure to connect with you each week. Please keep reaching out to let me know how you are doing. I can’t wait to see what 2026 has in store for us!

Elizabeth’s Substack will be on break until January 6. Have a very happy holiday season. Good luck surviving the season with grace and dignity. And if you need some extra recovery, go to a meeting!

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