❄️ January Writing Workshop is THIS Sunday, January 30th. Please sign up in advance here here (Sunday, 1/30, 10am - 12pm PST).
❤️🩹Next Sober From Bullshit Recovery Club: Storytelling Edition is Wednesday, February 2nd. Register here.
Questions? Ask. I’m here and I’d love to hear from you.
In the fall of 2018, I was a year booze-free and my first article over at The Temper hit the internet. My dear and sweet and I’m guessing somewhat bewildered mom posted it on her Facebook feed, and an acquaintance of hers commented that I was doing it wrong; that I WAS an alcoholic, and that I should be “in the rooms,” and that there wasn’t another way.
In retrospect I feel pretty lucky that I made it over a year sober without being on the receiving end of Other People’s Opinions. Sure, there was the occasional eyebrow raise, and sometimes I could see people’s ears perk up at the prospect of getting in on some “rock bottom” story. But mostly, I’d been floating along in a protected bubble. I had a solid sober community, thanks to the Sober from Bullshit Recovery Club (formerly known as Bridge Club via Tempest), and all of us were orienting to recovery in a way I had never considered: as a path of liberation, rather than deprivation (I am forever grateful that by the time I was finally able to make a different choice for myself, I could stumble upon posts like these and see my experience reflected back to me, and though SO MANY things have changed over the past almost-five years, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that discovering Holly’s work had a profound impact on me).
This is not to say that figuring out how to be a person in the world who no longer drank wasn’t hard. It was so hard. And, my god, recovery was the sincerest relief: life was immediately less of a struggle. Walking away from alcohol turned the lights on; it illuminated the path that up to then had been full of thorny brambles I’d spent the last almost two decades macheteing my way through in the dark. I still had no idea where I was going, but at least I could see.
These days, I’m much more able to brush off shitty opinions and not take it to heart (I mean, I think? I’m not really sure. As my identity as a nondrinker has solidified—now that it’s just another fact about me, like having a buzzed head and green eyes, or one cantankerous terrier—I don’t really get weird comments anymore), but back then, heh, not so much. At the time, I was pissed. Who the fuck are you, random internet person? In case it needs to be said: PEOPLE DON’T LIKE BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO. Bleh. It’s this type of condescending, know-it-all, sanctimonious bullshit that keeps so many of us from seeking help in the first place (<end rant>). I responded that I was gobsmacked that someone in recovery could look at someone else’s path and condemn it rather than celebrate it. If a person has found something that works, why wouldn’t we consider that a success?
Like I said, I was lucky—who knows the impact that bummer comment might have had earlier on. But when it happened, I was standing on the foundation of over a year’s worth of practice. I had a community of peers who had my back, who helped build me up instead of tell me I was “doing it wrong.” And while there was still so much I wanted to transform, I was well-resourced and steadier in myself than ever.
I still crowdsourced and processed with friends (still do; forever will). I still looked to others further along their paths for help, inspiration, tools and practices. Healing doesn’t happen in a vacuum, after all. And, what this experience taught me—reminded me—is that ultimately, I know best. The work isn’t about making conflict go away, but to nourish our knowing. To become fiercely protective of our unique processes. To take up space, to stand up for ourselves. To fortify ourselves from the inside, so that—what’s that sound ping ping ping—Other People’s Opinions slide right off like butter.
DEE-LISH.
This standing up for oneself; this boundary of ferocious protection; this practice of inner-fortification; all these things I weave together into an invitation I extend to you.
*
Yes, Dani, I hear your cogs turning, but what does any of this have to do with public transportation?
When I was first getting started, a group of us who met through Hip Sobriety School had this saying: “drive your own bus.” This was our way of reminding ourselves, and occasionally each other, that each of us were unique, and our task was to focus on our own path, doing our very best to not compare our bus to others’, or to, you know, reach over and take someone else’s wheel.
I’m sure y’all have seen that meme running around (I have no idea if there is a person to whom to attribute this—there’s lots of variations and the internet is a quagmire): “Your past is not your fault, but it is your responsibility.” This is the essence of bus driving. I can’t change my past. I don’t get a do-over (though you can bet I’ve spent years of my life fantasizing about one). What I can do is take responsibility for my healing. What I can do is focus on the road ahead of me, even if there is so much fog, I can barely see past the headlights.
Driving my own bus is boundaries, with myself and others. Driving my own bus means that I can’t drive anyone else’s, even when I’m obviously a better driver (tongue firmly in cheek here). Driving my own bus means keeping my eyes on my own recovery, and not worrying myself with what the shiny sober social media influencers are doing. Driving my own bus is minding my own business. Driving my own bus is an opinion-silencing side-eye if someone needs a ride but also is trying to tell me my business.
See these hands on the wheel? These are my hands. I’m driving. And no one else can drive this tin-can but me.
*
Over time, our bus driving metaphor expands to include visions of driving across the country and collecting each other. This is the nature of buses: they are meant to transport multiple people. Bring all your people; fill all the seats on the bus. We are not meant to go on these journeys alone. We are not meant to leave anyone behind. We are meant to pick each other up at the proverbial airport—you’ve arrived! I’m so happy to see you—and to shuttle each other to the great grand parking lot where all the busses are parked. We sniff around, we let ourselves be led to the one with the red leather seats and the dice dangling from the rearview.
We fire up the engine. We drive.
We heal, we decorate our buses. We change the oil, we tend to the transmission. We squeegee the windows, we vacuum the crumbs and the dirt the dog dragged in. We wave to bystanders, we take up three parking spots, we turn up the volume, dance on the roof.
From the archives ~ this time last year:
⭐️How to Live/How to Keep Living (note: this one is BIG SIGH ENERGY - vibing out on imminent vaccines and there being an “end” to the pandemic. Oof.)
⭐️Tell Me Your Gut-Punch Songs
SELF MADE is a newsletter for fellow 🌺late bloomers🌺 with a focus on recovery, creativity and community. It's written by me, Dani, a writer, coach, and recovery advocate in San Francisco, CA.
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Love this Dani. I remember stumbling upon your writing when I was questioning my drinking. It took me a long time to dump booze for good, but the way you shared your personal experience helped me so much.
Hi Dani. I am a friend of Molly Fuller's. She directed me to your website because she had a feeling that I would love your writing. She was right! Keep up the awesome work.