A Toast for Healing

During the pandemic, the silence inside my home was deafening. The days blurred into nights, and the isolation felt endless. Somewhere along the way, I found myself reaching for alcohol, not to celebrate, but to survive. At first it was just a glass to take the edge off, but soon it became every day. I told myself it was normal, that everyone was coping in their own way, but deep inside I knew I was drowning. Each sip numbed the sadness, yet it only pulled me further into it. What made the difference was not a single turning point, but the steady kindness of people who reminded me I was not alone. Friends I met online, strangers who became safe spaces, who listened when I could not even find the right words. Their presence, even through a screen, was enough to give me something I had lost, hope. They reminded me that I was still worth saving. Slowly, I began to replace the bottle with conversations, with laughter, and with the fragile beginnings of self-belief. Recovery was not fast and it was not perfect, but it was real. Today, I can sit by the beach with a cocktail in hand and feel something I never thought I would again: peace. The drink no longer carries the weight of loneliness or despair. It is simply part of a moment; of joy, of company, of being alive and free. And when the sun sets and the waves crash softly against the shore, I remember that there was a time I thought I would never see myself here. Yet here I am, living proof that healing is possible, and that no storm lasts forever.

• Alcohol
• Recovery
• Healing