When "I'm Done" Isn't Enough: The Lies of Addiction

In January 2014, I stood in front of my kids and made a spirited proclamation: I'm done drinking. I meant it with every fiber of my being. We celebrated my newfound determination with ice skating and a feast at our favorite pizza spot that night. My kids beamed with hope, believing their mom was finally unburdened by the bottle that had stolen so much from all of us. I believed it, too.

And then, two days later, I was drinking again.

It's hard to explain the insanity of the alcoholic brain to someone who hasn't lived it. How could I, someone who loved her children more than anything, someone who truly wanted to quit, pick up that drink? The answer lies in this disease's cunning, baffling, and powerful spirit.

The alcoholic brain is a superior manipulator, convincing us that we don't have a problem—or that if we do, we can handle it. It whispers lies: You're not like those other people. This time will be different. One drink won't hurt. And it's so compelling that we believe it, even when our lives fall apart.

In the months leading up to that declaration in 2014, I'd tried to stop drinking more times than I could count. Every time, I meant it. Every time, I believed I could do it. And every time, I failed. The disease had its claws in me so deeply that no amount of love for my kids, my family, or myself could break its grip.

That hopeful day in January was a turning point, though I didn't know it then. It was the moment I realized just how powerless I was. Despite my best fruitless endeavors and my deepest desires, I couldn't stop drinking on my own. The condition of addiction doesn't care about logic, love, or resolve—it flourishes on despair and isolation, keeping us trapped in a cycle we can't escape.

It would take another six months of erratic promises, failed attempts, and increasingly dangerous behavior before I hit bottom. But when I did, I finally succumbed. I acknowledged I couldn't do it alone, and that's when the real work commenced.

Looking back on that day in 2014, I feel a mix of emotions. I'm sad for the hope I saw in my kids' eyes, knowing I let them down. But I'm also grateful because that moment planted a seed. It showed me that I wanted sobriety, even if I wasn't ready yet.

If you're in the thick of it, combating the untruths your brain tells you, please know you're not weak and alone. Addiction is a disease, not a choice. Recovery is possible, but it starts with surrender—admitting that you can't do it alone and reaching out for help.

Today, I live a life I couldn't have imagined back then. My kids are proud of the mom I've become, and I'm proud of the woman I've fought to be. Sobriety hasn't just saved my life—it's given me a life worth living.

If you're struggling, keep going. The fight is hard, but the freedom on the other side is worth it. You're worth it.