When the streets are quiet and darkness spreads across the asphalt outside my home, my children asleep in their beds, I listen for my husband’s snoring. It starts soft and steady, a rhythm that might lull me to sleep if it weren’t for my obsession. But as the snores grow louder, more erratic, I know it’s safe to sneak downstairs. His sleep is deep. I whisper to myself, trying to talk myself out of it: You don’t need any more. Just go to sleep. Please, just go to sleep.
But wine always wins. Its pull is magnetic, stronger than my whispered pleas. I leave the television on for background noise as I tiptoe down the long, carpeted staircase, gripping the rails with hands that shake. If I fall, at least the carpet will cushion me until I hit the tiled floor. It’s 2 a.m., dark, but the neighbors behind us leave a single light on in their home. I don’t look long enough to see if anyone is awake—I’m afraid of being caught. In my mind, they’re a sweet old couple, already well-rested, enjoying their first cup of coffee. He reads the newspaper; she knits or reads her favorite book. Occasionally, they glance toward me as I stumble to the fridge, sipping from the bottle of wine by the sliver of light sneaking into the room. They mutter, “Bless her heart,” or “What a shame,” and watch me do this three times a night until the bottle is dry.
When the kitchen is empty and my brain chants, drink, drink, drink, I move toward the bathroom, as softly as any drunk woman can. There’s no need to sneak, but fear drives me. My husband will wake if he hears me stumbling, surprised because we’d only had two glasses each before he fell asleep. He would start asking questions. I can’t let him know. If he finds out, it will be over—and I’m not ready for it to be over, not this liquor affair.
I take the green mouthwash from the medicine cabinet, unscrew the lid, and swallow. It reminds me of the Peppermint Schnapps I drank in college. I remember a woman at a recovery meeting years ago saying she relapsed on mouthwash. Ugh, I thought. Never me. And yet, here I am, out of wine, too drunk to make it down the stairs even if there were more. I drink the only thing left to silence the chanting in my head. No neighbors, no windows, no one watching. And my husband remains oblivious.
The next morning, I wake with a pounding head, dry mouth, and anxious heart. I rush downstairs and execute my cover-up: filling the empty bottle of white wine with water and apple juice before returning it to the fridge, just in case my husband ever checks. I’m not worried he’ll drink it—he prefers red. I like the crisp tang of a Pinot Grigio or the grapefruit zing of a Sauvignon Blanc. But any wine that brings relief is enough. It feels like holding my breath all day, and the first gulp each night is the deep exhale after endless crying children, piles of laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning—keeping up appearances while inside I feel like a mess.
We rise and shine like a normal family. I pack my son’s lunch, drive him to school, and watch as other moms kiss their children goodbye. Their smiles look effortless. Fit moms in workout gear, working moms in blouses and skirts, hair and makeup perfect. But I wonder—am I the only one suffocating under sadness and shame? My sunglasses hide my tears as I watch my son smile a genuine, toothy grin. I search for signs he’s forcing it, unhappy, but he seems oblivious to yesterday’s chaos. I wave as he enters the classroom. He blows me a kiss and mouths, “You’re the best!” My chest aches. I wish I were the best. I’m not even halfway there.
When I return home, my husband leaves for work, and I can barely meet his eyes. I hug him goodbye, pretending the night before never happened. Then I collapse on the couch and sob while my daughter finishes her yogurt and strawberries. What is wrong with me? and You’re so stupid, have become daily mantras.
Later, at the grocery store—where alcohol is plentiful—I pick up a bottle of red for my husband and my bottles of white. The cashiers hand me the cute red canvas totes with grapes, six compartments for six bottles. I think, clearly I’m not the only one. I grab my six-pack like all the other normal people. My husband always asks why I don’t reuse the totes in the coat closet. I must have fifty. I forget, that’s all. And so it continues. Day after day.
I thought motherhood would save me. I was 25 when I learned I was pregnant for the first time, convinced I could stay sober. But holding my baby boy in my arms didn’t cure me. I tried to control it—weekends only, beer only, socially only, just a few. But addiction is relentless. I had recognized the signs years before—memory gaps, guilt, family history—but I hoped motherhood would fix it. It didn’t.
In our culture, wine is touted as self-care, a reward for exhausted moms. For me, it became a cage. I know I’m not alone. Many mothers are here, or afraid of being here, wanting to stop but unable, no matter how much they love their children. Addiction is not a moral failing. We are not bad mothers, not hopeless cases, not alone. In the depths of my drinking, I felt utterly isolated. That’s why I recover out loud now—to tell other women, you are not alone, and there is always hope.
A little over five years ago, on February 22, 2016, a door cracked open, a sliver of light shining in. Grace found me, and I had to walk through it or risk losing it forever. Walking through meant telling the people I love that I needed help. Not all the details, but enough: I have a problem. I’m scared. I need help. I can’t keep living like this.
As they say, we are only as sick as our secrets. Bringing mine into the light began my healing. I took cravings moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day. Months passed without desire. Then years.
What a miracle—from sneaking downstairs nightly, hungover and full of shame, to waking each day sober, proud, and free. From self-hatred to self-love, from feeling unworthy to walking in the gift of God’s grace. A miracle.
If you are struggling, your miracle is waiting too. Walk through the door. Tell someone. And if there is no one, tell me. I will help you. Not every day is perfect, but living sober, free from the pull of alcohol, is the grace you have always needed—and it is yours.
