I’m Not That Fun

Sobriety, performance, and what changed when I stopped trying to prove I was

Trying to be someone else’s version of fun is exhausting. I just didn’t realize how much of my early sobriety was built around that.

For the first two, maybe three years of this journey, I insisted on going out. Late nights, clubs, navigating sweaty crowds just to get to the bar and loudly order a “Diet Coke because I don’t drink.” I loved taking selfies that showed how much fun I was having because, look y’all, sober isn’t boring.

And then one day it hit me: who the hell was I doing all of this for?

I was hanging out with a guy I met while out in Tampa, and I remember how excited I was at the idea of being picked. While out. And sober.

See? I told myself. Sobriety doesn’t make me undesirable.

But as the night went on, he kept drinking. And drinking. To the point where his drink was splashing over the rim and onto the floor, and I remember thinking, well, that’s a waste.

But also, I kept having to fix my face.

Because I was seeing it clearly for the first time. From the outside. Just how wild someone can be while drunk. So many raised eyebrows. So many moments of my eyes widening before I had to soften them back down. So many times I wanted to loudly groan, I’m too sober for this.

And still, despite having a terrible time, I felt like I needed to prove I could “hang.” So I stayed. We ended up back at his place, where he got progressively worse and eventually just nodded off.

And there I was.

Sitting on his couch, staring at his liquor display. Full of bottles I previously would have loved to drink, but never would have spent money on. I drank a fifth a day. Anything nice would have been gone too quickly to justify.

I just sat there. Looking at the bottles. And the bottles looking back at me.

And the thought came quickly, almost casually:

No one has to know.

I started negotiating with myself. My heart started racing. My hand almost twitched, like there was an itch in my body that could only be scratched by opening one of those too-fancy bottles.

I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Maybe that would help. It didn’t.

And then I thought about the fact that just a few months earlier, I had shared publicly that I was getting sober. I thought about the messages that filled my inbox. Strangers telling me they were praying for me. Sending love. Sharing that they had someone in their life who struggled but didn’t make it, and that they hoped for a different outcome for me.

When I expected judgment, I got kindness.

And for some reason, thinking about all of those unknown faces was enough.

I grabbed my purse, slipped out quietly, and walked back to my car.

As I sat there and pushed the key into the ignition, I remember thinking, could you imagine if I had drank? I wouldn’t even be able to get home.

I rushed back to my sister’s place and walked in almost in tears, telling her what had happened.

And after that, while it’s not like I stayed indoors forever, I started to understand something: I don’t always have to prove that I’m the fun one.

Years later, I really don’t try to prove it at all.

I let moments of joy happen organically. I let what actually lights me up guide me. Not to prove anything to anyone, but because I finally get to enjoy the life I worked really hard to save.

Like when I saw that Mariska Hargitay, one of my favorites, is starring in a one-woman show on Broadway. I immediately texted my two best friends from home to ask if I could crash on their couches so I could make a weekend trip out of it and go see her.

It won’t be a wild night out.

I’m picturing waking up early, drinking coffee, laughing over inside jokes, and then sitting in a theater, completely locked in, watching her do her thing.

It’s not wild. It’s not what a lot of people would call fun.

And I love it.

Maybe it’s because I’m in my 40s. Maybe it’s because I’ve been sober longer. Maybe it’s both. But I don’t try to be someone else’s version of fun anymore.

I try to be honest about what actually feels good.

And it turns out, that version of me enjoys her life a whole lot more.

What does fun look like for you in sobriety? We’d love to hear in the comments.

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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. Thank you for helping us foster a kind and inclusive community.

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Jessica Dueñas is an educator, sober life coach, and TEDx speaker who writes about self-worth, the cost of success, and recovery. Her work explores how shame keeps people silent and what makes honesty feel safe. She is currently working on a memoir about achievement, secrecy, and the courage to live without hiding in a world that asks us to stay quiet. You can find her newsletter at Bottomless to Sober and her website here.

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