The hardest conversation for me to have the last couple of years has been around my sobriety.
Not because I don’t like talking about it, but because I feel so many times I want to throw in a thousand caveats: all the reasons you shouldn’t think of me as someone with a previous drinking problem.
I want to convince you that I am above it all. But that doesn't do justice to the journey, nor does it honor the growth and transformation I've experienced.
It steals the glory right out of the story.
A few evenings ago, Matthias and I sat together in a dark restaurant. The white tablecloth on our small round table already stained from our well enjoyed meal. Filet for me, ribeye for him.
We lingered there with our drinks of choice, since there was no way we’d be able to eat dessert after that dinner.
A decaf amerincao in my hands, an international red in his. I laughed, “I’d drink that if it didn’t lead me to wanting to drink every red in this restaurant. I don’t have any self control.”
It was just a passing joke.
To my surprise, his response was more serious than I expected. “But it’s not a self control thing. You have so much of that. It’s something different, genetic.”
We wondered aloud together if science would ever find that in people. If we’d ever be able to isolate some gene and alter it, change a persons DNA so they weren’t bent towards addiction.
He asked me if I had the ability to change my DNA, would I? If they could isolate this tendency within me and give me the ability to moderate like a normal person, would I choose that?
Probably if you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d say yes. Change it all, take it away from me, give me the normalcy others experience.
Now though, my answer is definitely not that.
Choosing sobriety is such an important piece in my story.
To me, it’s a picture of what God is doing in my life.
It’s an assurance to me that He’s interested in and mixed up in my story, because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen him. We shared conversations about the topic for years before I made my move into being alcohol-free.
I had to put down a piece of myself, and it felt like an end, but it was a beginning, and it was more beautiful than it was hard.
It’s his graciousness that gave me the privilege of owning this story, owning this suffering and then moving on into freedom.
This morning in church we sang,
“the cross bids me come and die and find that I shall truly live”
and in those words, in that picture, I saw myself in my struggle, not wanting to let a part of myself die, not believing that there was life on the other side of that death.
I truly didn’t believe there was a better life on the other side.
The thing about giving things up is… it always feels like it’s just giving something up.
It feels impossible to believe that there’s something on the other side of laying a piece of yourself down.
It appears laying that thing down is the end of the story, but nothing just ends at sacrifice.
Sacrifice is just movement towards an ultimate goal, not an end goal in itself.
But it’s hard to see that in the middle of it all.
It felt unfair. Why me? And why this?
Why does this need to be my story?
I didn't want this to be my journey. I wished I could easily quit drinking, that it wouldn't be so emotional and challenging.
I thought it would be better, that I would be holier if giving up drinking wasn't a problem, if it wasn't hard, if it didn't feel like a battle.
But now I realize, loving God and following Him isn't about NOT having sin or struggles.
An imaginary version of me who never struggled with obedience in this area is not holier than the real version of me who struggled with obedience, and then obeyed anyway.
I’m not a better follower of Jesus if I don’t need God because I’m already so ✨ good✨. I’m not better off not having to go to war against the darkness.
I used to value the appearance of holiness so much, maybe because I wanted people to see Jesus in me or maybe just under the pressure of a conservative circle that wanted to look like the “right kinds” of christians.
But I've come to understand that God isn't concerned about others' opinions of me.
I'm not Jesus or the Savior people should be looking to.
I am His child, living in surrender, answering his specific calls on my life.
It's okay if others think I'm a mess or if they see my struggles.
It’s okay if people know I had to choose sobriety.
If I didn't have these battles, I might be consumed with my own righteousness, thinking I've got everything under control.
But I see so clearly in my adulthood, the great need I have for a savior, the one who loves me endlessly and chases me with His love. God's love for me is profound, and I'm just starting to understand its depth.
It's endless and boundless, and I am overwhelmed by the realization of how deeply He cares for me.
I’m so thankful to have a story where I can see God’s hand in my life. Where I can see obedience and I can talk about my experiences within bondage & freedom in a way that is relatable for some people.
And if I have to be misunderstood by some or most to make a difference to just one, it will all be worth it still.
If my story of struggle and victory can offer comfort or hope to even a single woman out there, wondering if she’s alone in her experience, then no shame or fear matters.
Sharing our vulnerabilities is a gift and an opportunity to find healing, connection, belonging with the right people. It is in our willingness to be open that we break down the walls of isolation or shame.
For every person who misinterprets my words or misjudges my intentions, I remember that there might be someone quietly struggling, desperate to hear a story like mine. Because I was once that girl, wishing to hear stories like mine.
There may be someone yearning for the reassurance that there is life on the other side of laying yourself down. Hear me, friend: You can go to war with God and with yourself and in the end, surrender… and find that in surrender, is actually the victory.
