Overcoming Relapse by Finding a Sober Community

We don’t have to do this alone.

Throughout life, we are constantly supported by communities, whether we actively seek them or not. When we first start school and someone takes our hand in the playground, when we join university or college and talk about our lives “back home,” or even when we buy the latest gadget and spend our evenings trawling through internet forums to figure out how the hell it works, we are part of a community.

We constantly seek connection, often without even realizing it, and these micro-communities become the essence of life. In their simplest form, they help us feel less alone without us even noticing. At their fullest, they give us a sense of belonging to something bigger and more meaningful.

In the five years I’ve spent stopping and starting my life without alcohol, I’ve realized that I was trying to navigate sobriety without the kind of community that could truly support me. I’d been ignoring a vital part of the process: seeking out support from other like-minded individuals.

I became sober-curious in my late twenties after years of being a heavy binge drinker and a self-confessed “party girl” from the age of 16. This mindset fueled a very hazy three years at university and beyond.

However, shortly after the COVID pandemic, I reached a point where alcohol just stopped working for me. In my late teens and early twenties, I could get away with bratty behavior, putting myself in dangerous situations, and wrecking my health after every night out. But, by the time I entered my late twenties, with a new career, more responsibilities, and the challenge of learning how to function as a real adult, alcohol no longer fit into my life.

It also stopped “working” in the way it once did. I no longer got the fun effects of losing my inhibitions; instead, I got crippling anxiety, a bright red face, and the unpleasantness of spending the entire next day in bed or on the toilet. I was spending hundreds of pounds on my health and well-being, only to sabotage it every time I had a few glasses of wine. Someone, please, explain that logic.

Yet, every time I decided to get sober, I faced a mini existential crisis and had nowhere or no one to turn to.

As a young woman, I was the only person I knew who had willingly chosen to abstain from alcohol, and it was a daunting and uncomfortable place to be. At first, I feared judgment from others—that I had become “boring” or lost the labels that had defined me in my youth: free-spirited, fun, exciting to be around.

Then came the internal questioning: Was I “giving in” to my anxiety by not drinking? The amount of questions and soul-searching in the early days of sobriety was something I hadn’t anticipated. But now, after speaking with many others in the sober community, I realize that this questioning is a natural part of the process.

My world as I knew it didn’t really make space for sober people. Alcohol is etched in the blueprint of socializing in our modern-day society, especially within my age bracket—us millennials. We grew up on binge drinking, resorting to “tactical chundering” halfway through the night to make space for more booze and using it as the gateway drug to many others.

Don’t get me wrong, these experiences for the most part were fun at the time, but what happens when the fun stops?

I found myself, for many years, toying with the idea of sobriety but continuing to exist in a very “un-sober” world. This is why I found it so easy to start but, a few months in, would relapse and once again chase an outdated narrative of what alcohol meant to me. Trying to get sober made me feel too excluded from my community, so I would repeatedly relapse and return.

I’ve had many relapses during my years of sobriety, and I now genuinely believe that most of them were due to the absence of a sober community that understood how complex this journey can be.

Sobriety throws up a lot of questions, opens your mind to new ways of thinking, and leads to realizations that are difficult to ignore once you’ve had them.

It wasn’t until my most recent decision to go sober that I recognized I didn’t have to feel excluded from my community and I was determined to find a place to exist within. A community that would listen when something deep came up after my first sober holiday, cheer me on when I politely declined a boozy brunch, and help me redefine what fun means without alcohol.

So, that’s exactly what I did.

I joined a brilliant virtual community of like-minded women who have since become essential to my sober journey. I am currently three months sober after my last relapse, and this time, it feels completely different. It feels like I’m starting my journey for real this time and I am embracing it with open arms.

In today’s world, we’re fortunate to have countless resources and networks available at our fingertips. I found my sober community online, and I urge you to take a moment—right now—to search for one that suits you too. There are so many communities out there, and what works for one person might not resonate with another. Don’t be afraid to try different ones until you find the right fit. Or, if you're feeling brave, create your own.

How about you?

We’d love for you to share in the comments:

• What’s helped you feel most connected on your sobriety journey?

• Any favorite communities, people, or spaces that have made a difference?

And if you found this article helpful, please tap the little heart. It lets others know there’s something useful here and will help us grow this community.

We know that sharing about recovery and sobriety can feel vulnerable. Like in recovery groups, we ask that commenters in this space refrain from giving unsolicited advice or spreading hate and division. Rest assured, anyone who does not honor this request will be removed from the comment section. Thank you for helping us foster a kind and inclusive community!

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Rosie Pennicott is a storyteller, writer, and community builder passionate about honest conversations and connection. She writes a regular newsletter, RP IS WELL, where she shares personal reflections on millennial life, mental health, and self-discovery. Rosie is also the founder of The Working Women’s Movement, a supportive community space for ambitious, values-led women.

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