My first morning sober, the day after alcohol had once again taken complete control, was one of the hardest I’ve ever faced. By 3pm the day before, I was lost in a fog of drunken oblivion, letting my wife and children down in ways that still cut deeply. My wife didn’t shout, cry, or berate me that night. Instead, she just waited. When I finally came round the next morning, her calm yet piercing words shattered me: “You need help, get it or it’s over.” Hearing that was agonising; it was the cold, hard truth I could no longer avoid. She wasn’t angry—she was done. And for the first time, I realised I might lose everything I held dear.
That first day sober, I retreated to my dad’s house, overwhelmed by shame and regret. My thoughts were consumed by the temptation to escape back to the bottle, the very thing that had brought me to my knees. Fear, remorse, guilt, and self-pity clawed at me from every angle. My mind churned with a vicious inner dialogue, insisting that this time I’d gone too far, used up all my chances, and ruined everything, yet again. The urge to numb those feelings was almost unbearable, but deep down, I knew that giving in would only lead to more pain. It was a battle I felt woefully unequipped to fight.
Reaching out for help that day felt like shouting into the void. The doctors’ advice to “cut down” or limit drinking to weekends felt woefully inadequate, and the counselling services, with their six-month waiting list, offered little hope. By nightfall, I lay in bed sober but utterly broken. My body ached, my mind raced, and my soul felt hollow. Sleep wouldn’t come, and every moment dragged on like an eternity. I felt abandoned by the system, drowning in despair, and desperate for someone—anyone—to show me the way forward.
The next day, my dad noticed the state I was in and mentioned a friend of his who had found freedom from alcohol through Alcoholics Anonymous. I clung to that suggestion like a lifeline and immediately called them. Speaking with someone from AA for the first time was like finally finding an anchor in a storm. I felt seen and understood in a way I hadn’t before. The next night, I walked into my first AA meeting, still sober but totally broken, soon feeling like I had finally found a place where I belonged. The people there didn’t judge or demand anything of me; they simply wanted to share their experiences and help me find what they had—a life free from alcohol’s grip.
Now, 10 months later, I am still sober and grateful for that pivotal moment. That call to AA marked the beginning of my surrender and the start of a journey that has transformed my life. The fellowship I’ve found within AA is beautiful, a network of support and understanding that has become my bedrock. I’ve learned that the greatest gift I can offer is to help others the way I’ve been helped. Every day I stay sober, I honour that gift, and I remain endlessly thankful for the chance to rebuild my life. Rock bottom wasn’t the end—it was the beginning of something better than I ever could have imagined.
If you’re struggling with alcohol addiction, take that first step and make the call to Alcoholics Anonymous. It can truly change your life if you surrender completely and embrace the help they offer. You don’t have to face this alone—AA is there to guide you towards freedom from alcohol. In the UK, you can reach Alcoholics Anonymous at 0800 9177 650. If you’re outside the UK, visit www.aa.org to find your local AA helpline or meeting directory. Make the call today; it could be the start of a whole new life.
The Morning After
Hungover, shattered,
the day after the storm,
a wasteland of regret,
shame a constant, gnawing worm.
My wife, a statue of silence,
her gaze a withering fire,
"You need help," she whispered,
a sentence igniting desire,
not for escape, but for survival,
for the children's laughter,
for the warmth of her touch,
a love beyond the aftermath.
Retreat to my father's,
a ghost in my own skin,
the bottle a siren song,
temptation pulling me in.
Fear, a venomous serpent,
coiled tight around my soul,
"You've gone too far," it hissed,
"Lost all control."
The doctors, the waiting lists,
a system that failed to mend,
a broken man adrift,
desperate for a friend.
Then, a lifeline, a flicker,
my father's knowing glance,
"AA," he suggested,
a chance, a second chance.
The first meeting, a sanctuary,
no judgment, no blame,
just stories of struggle,
and a shared sense of shame.
Ten months sober, a miracle,
a life rebuilt anew,
gratitude overflowing,
for the fellowship, strong and true.
Rock bottom, a turning point,
the beginning of a grace,
a life beyond the wreckage,
a smile upon my face.
