Sobriety Isn’t the Glow-Up I Was Promised, But I’m Showing Up Anyway
My life isn’t polished, but it’s mine—and I’m actually in it.
I believed it. I believed hard.
That if you just made it through the messy part (college, the party girl years, that weird phase when you treat matcha like a personality trait), you’d arrive in the land of being figured out. You’d have a skincare routine. A go-to salad order. A therapist you don’t lie to. A stable relationship and some throw pillows.
So two years ago, I stopped drinking.
Not because I was blacking out every weekend or waking up in gutters. My drinking was sporadic but... impressively chaotic. When I drank, it tended to end with emotional whiplash, impulsive decisions, and a 48-hour shame spiral that ended with me apologizing to my own reflection.
I wasn’t a daily drinker. I didn’t have a rock bottom. I had what I like to call a series of vibes-based epiphanies and a gut feeling that alcohol was no longer adding value. So I quit.
And like any good main character, I assumed that once I stopped drinking, I’d wake up one day with inner peace, matching workout sets, and an inexplicable ability to meal prep. I figured I’d become one of those women who journals at sunrise and says things like, “I’m really into adaptogens right now.”
Instead? I’m 28, almost two years sober, and last week I ate an entire bag of Lime Tostitos in bed and called it dinner.
This is the blurry middle zone of life—not the dramatic Before, not the glowy After. It’s the part where you’re off autopilot but still don’t feel fully in control, where you’re doing the work, checking the boxes, and somehow crying because your calendar said “self-care” but all you did was stare at the wall.
It’s the stretch of life that feels slightly off-kilter. You’re no longer leaning on old habits, but you’re not quite the stable, glowing version of yourself who wakes up at 5 a.m. with green juice and matching Tupperware either.
You’ve got some things together: your skin’s looking decent, your routine exists, you’re showing up for the people who matter. But most days, you still feel like you’re guessing, just hoping the path ahead doesn’t involve pretending to enjoy making small talk past 10 p.m. or a job that makes you want to scream into your salad.
Speaking of jobs…
Career-wise, I went from working in crypto—equal parts terrifying and exciting (we got hacked and the company went down)—to a corporate finance job that laid me off anyway. Now I’m in my pivot era, mostly Googling “jobs that don’t ruin your soul” and pretending I have a five-year plan.
My resume reads more like a personality quiz than a career path: marketing, partnerships, project management, and vibes.
And dating?
It’s been a mixed bag. I don’t need someone sober. I just need them not to act like I said I hate fun when I tell them I’m not drinking. You’d be surprised how many grown men take it personally that I prefer Diet Coke over their IPA.
One guy wanted to find cool mocktail spots for us and actually did his research, which was thoughtful and rare enough that I told my entire group chat about it. Another tried to convince me to drink on his birthday because “it would be funny,” which is exactly the kind of joke that makes me want to fake an emergency and climb out the bathroom window.
I also once asked a guy what his hobbies were, and he said, very seriously, “tanning.” Not beach days. Not vacations. Just tanning. Like it was his side hustle, his passion project, and his reason for living. The good news is I’ve managed to avoid being someone’s part-time girlfriend with no benefits.
Luckily, my friendships have made all of this feel a little less like a never-ending identity crisis and more like a group project where none of us read the instructions but everyone brought snacks. I have the best people—the kind who show up uninvited with Diet Coke and emotional stability, send $6 Venmos labeled “mocktail fund” or “emotional damages” without needing context, and never question it when I Irish exit at 9:45.
They’ve witnessed every unhinged pivot, from “I’m starting a candle business” to “Should I move to Idaho and raise goats?” to “What if I started a wellness empire?” They’ve nodded earnestly when I said things like, “I just think I’m in a season of transformation,” even though that season has lasted 17 months.
No matter what, they never flinch. None of them are trying to fix me. They just let me be—a little feral, very tired, and occasionally very into one specific kind of Dorito.
So here I am.
Two years sober, semi-employed, emotionally stable in theory, and still spiraling over what to eat for dinner. I haven’t had a spiritual awakening in a meadow or discovered my life’s purpose during a sound bath. I have, however, cried in a Whole Foods, panic-bought every Poppi flavor out there, and run a marathon. On purpose. For fun. No one made me. I just woke up one day and thought, “What if I solved my life by jogging aggressively for four hours?” (Spoiler: it didn’t work. But I did get a medal and an IT band injury that has yet to go away.)
And I’m learning that that’s what the middle really is. Learning to sit in it. Not sprinting toward some perfect version of yourself who meditates and never double-texts. Just figuring it out as you go. One week you’re meal-prepping quinoa bowls, the next you’re eating peanut butter out of the jar and calling it “intuitive.” One area of your life starts to make sense and another falls apart. Laundry’s done? Great. Emotionally bankrupt. Applied to five jobs? Cool. Haven’t spoken to a single human in two days.
But even here, in this weird, still-sorting-it-out place, there’s something real. My life isn’t polished, but it’s mine. I’m not numb anymore. I’m not trying to escape it. I’m actually in it. Which, for me, is progress.
So no, this isn’t the glow-up I was promised.
It’s not a clean girl aesthetic and a stable relationship and a dream job and a purpose. But it’s honest. It’s showing up, even when I don’t have it together. And honestly, that’s pretty much the best I can do right now.
Turns out the “glowing” part of the glow-up is just sweat and survival instincts.
How about you?
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I love this to bits, Emily. Thank you for sharing with us!
Emily. First, great piece. Second, sad to tell you but "the middle" IS life. There is no glow up. There is always something off kilter even during the perfect days, but the perfect days mask it for that moment. This isn't a bad thing. I mean, you have a pretty cool life. Super friends. You date. You haven't settled on a career. And your 28. Girl, (hope you don't mind, and hear it in the proper tone) you got this. You good.