Man, alcohol withdrawal was legit hell. I don’t think other younger people realize how brutal it can be — not just physically, but emotionally too. Shakes, sweating, insomnia, the works. But what hit hardest for me wasn’t the detox itself, it was the identity crisis that came after. I’m in my 20s, and when you’re young, so much of your social life is built around drinking. Every invite is a bar, a party, a kickback with bottles lined up on the counter. And when you say, “I’m in recovery,” you’re met with that awkward silence or the classic “come on, just one drink.” It’s isolating.
Rehab helped, but the stigma stuck with me for a while. I felt like I had to explain myself constantly — like people couldn’t wrap their heads around someone “so young” needing help. But addiction doesn’t care how old you are, and honestly, I’m proud I caught it when I did.
The biggest challenge after rehab wasn’t cravings — it was social readjustment. You can’t go to the same places, can’t hang with the same party crowd. Not unless you want to white-knuckle your way through every night, and that’s just not a way to live. I had to grieve those old friendships in a way. It felt like starting from scratch socially, which is scary as hell when you're still figuring out who you are sober.
But I started leaning into film, something I always loved but never really pursued when I was drinking. It began with watching old indie movies obsessively, then writing short scripts, and now I’m actually filming my own short pieces with a couple of new friends who are also sober or just live a clean lifestyle. We stay up late working on creative stuff, having deep conversations, laughing, sometimes just watching weird art-house films until 3am.
It filled that gap I thought would never be filled. The nights out, the laughs, the feeling of belonging — I still have all that, just with different people and without the hangovers or guilt. I guess what I’m saying is, yeah, sobriety comes with loss. But it also clears space for things that are actually you. Not the version of you that drinks to fit in or cope, but the real version that maybe hasn’t even had a chance to exist yet. I'm finally meeting that version of myself — and I kinda like him.