Oct 5, 2016

I tell my daughter she came to me to help get me sober. She smiles and graciously agrees. She was 5 when I had my last drink.

The months leading up to that day were difficult.

Like my own mother, I was depressed for years without calling it that, never thinking my happy-go-lucky self could have the disorder. The mask I wore fooled those around me, as my dark moods grew deeper in the year before I stopped drinking.


Purple Clover

Walking Alone in the Dark of Night

Not only is it a quiet space to hear myself think, but it has also made me more fearless











Melancholy has followed me around for years. It’s a feeling I’ve learned to grow comfortable with. And now it’s become part of my fitness routine.

I’ve been an avid exerciser since my late twenties. I started running in that carefree time of life and loved the surge of endorphins that filled my body with their feel-good rush. It helped stave off depression and made it OK to eat and drink as much as I wanted. But after years of punishing my joints by pounding pavements, I’ve since replaced it with walking. Something I prefer doing alone, in the dark of night.

For years, I exercised with my husband—our love of sweating out the beer we drank the night before a common goal. But when I got sober and the glue that held us together came undone, our marriage split at the seams and single motherhood became my life. I relied on friends to fill the void my divorce produced and exercised with them.