In 2021, I thought a lot about sobriety. I thought about the pull of alcohol, and about the reasons for its use. I thought a lot about life without its presence too, and the state of being sober. I also thought about the word ‘sobriety’, and its associations and its implications.

I made the decision to go sober in January 2020. At that time, pre-pandemic, I was planning to take advantage of the flurry of bank holidays around Easter and backpack around Central America for a few weeks. It started out as a temporary, disciplined act just to see whether I had the willpower because I knew I’d inevitably let loose on my travels. But then it turned into my new normal during the pandemic: I just never gave up the act of giving up.

I stopped chasing those types of highs and instead pursued the wholesome, natural kind, revolving around health, fitness and creative endeavours. I felt good, looked good and thought good. And, even in the face of a pandemic, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

But that was last year. At this point, I’m nearly two years into sobriety but I’ve found that this personal choice – one that has little to no impact on anyone else – still throws up things to consider. In 2021, I’m still considering how to navigate my objective abnormality.

An overwhelming majority of Brits are partial to a drink, especially the English. According to Alcohol Change, 49% of English people drink at least once a week, and 82% of them have drunk alcohol over the last year. When you couple that with recreational drug use, almost 10% of the UK’s adult population have taken a drug in the last year.  In other words, to drink and to dabble is to be ‘normal’ in this society. So, although it’s an unfair assumption, it’s not an entirely surprising that chance meetings with people outside my inner circle often look like this:

What you having?

A soda water and lime please, bro.

You cool, bro? Sick?

Nah, I’m all good, why’d you say that?

I dunno... Why aren’t you having a proper drink then?

I’ve actually given up, man.

This year, I’ve spent far too much time pensively critiquing the responses I’ve had to my newfound sobriety.

“I’ve actually given up.”

There’s always an unconscious yet visible flinch after those 4 words land, but the conscious reactions seconds later have been diverse. They’ve been met with polite inquisition: “Oh, wow! When was the last time you drank, do you miss it?” Genuine curiosity: “How interesting. Do you feel more productive? Is getting up easier?” Even a high five for my courage: “Good for you, that’s wicked. I don’t know if I could order a lime and soda at the pub.” And occasionally, I’ve been hit with the projection of the other person failing to understand the drastic lifestyle change away from the norm: “What?! Why though?” Other times with hushed-voiced concern: “Did something in particular happen that made you make that decision?”

It’s that last one that gets me – I know the implication here. It is very difficult to divorce being sober from the presumption that I was once an addict. Even though they don’t all say it, I wonder how many of them think it. After all, this is how heavily ingrained drinking culture is.

For me, the pandemic as I knew it seemed to end in April this year. I didn’t really know how to feel. I didn’t know how I’d function in a society that would likely have the same pre-pandemic, pre-sobriety expectations of me.

I wondered how it would be when I saw my friends again – some friendship groups were held together by a shared love of hedonistic fun. I didn’t know how socialising with people from work would go either. Would I be able to delve deeper and have the stamina to engage without liquid courage? I also didn’t know what romantic encounters would be like.

For a short time as the world was opening up again, I didn’t really know why I was still sober. Until this point, I’d never had to interrogate the decision I’d made when drinking culture was locked down. I’d just made the decision and I’d stuck by it. But why, with no real rationale, would I continue taking a path which was looking like hard work?

I took my time to figure it out.

I felt assured of my sobriety. Then conflicted. Then confident in it again. Speaking to those I felt most comfortable with helped me get some clarity: alcohol has been my way to navigate discomfort. I hated being uncomfortable. It goes hand-in-hand with unhappiness, and who the hell wants to be either of those things? Alcohol is a rapid, pain free and inexpensive way to take the edge off and overcome inhibitions. Great then, for anyone with a fear of being their authentic self.

I spent far more time seeking what I viewed as conventional fun than I did seeking the things that truly made me feel good about myself. But external solutions aren’t the answer. They are short-term sticking plasters that do the job for a few hours, but longer term, they wouldn’t serve me – the cut was too deep. I needed to learn to sit with my uncomfortability. Let it in. Acknowledge it. Think about why I feel it. And, with a clear head, think about how to navigate the feeling.

In 2021, I thought a lot about the reason why I embraced sobriety. In 2022, I won’t spend another minute doing so. Not because I have the answers, but because I have committed myself to finding comfort in myself.