Clear Head, Open Heart

By Heather Shoning

I didn’t stop drinking because I hit a dramatic low point or woke up with some grand revelation. I stopped because, one day, I realized I was tired of the static. Even when I wasn’t drinking much, it lingered—this background noise that dulled the edges of everything. The mornings after a glass or two of wine felt a little foggy, my energy off, my intuition muted. It wasn’t a crisis. It was just… noise I didn’t want anymore.

So I decided to try life without it. Not forever. At first, I was nervous about what I might lose—rituals, social ease, that sense of fitting in. How do you relax when everyone else is two drinks in and you’re suddenly on a different frequency? I felt outside the circle, still present but slightly removed, watching the version of me who used to blend right in.

But what I gained was peace of mind. I didn’t realize how much energy I’d spent negotiating with myself: whether to pour the glass, whether to stop at one, whether to “make an exception.” I wasn’t waking up replaying conversations, wondering if I’d been too loud, too blunt, too much. All that mental chatter vanished. In its place came space—real, honest quiet.

For a long time, I thought I could find the middle ground. I told myself I’d drink just sometimes, that I could learn moderation the same way I’d learned everything else—with enough self-control and good intentions. But every time I went back, it became clear: there was no middle ground for me. It was all or nothing. And “just a little” always turned into “too much.”

So now, it’s nothing. Not because I’m saintly or disciplined, but because I finally know myself well enough to stop trying to be someone I’m not. I don’t drink because peace of mind is worth more than fitting in, even on the nights when that choice feels lonely.

The truth is, I’m still figuring out how to exist in a world where drinking is the default language of connection. I still show up at dinner tables and holiday parties and feel that small ache of being different. But I also know that every time I say no, I’m saying yes to something steadier.

And here’s the thing: I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. I don’t go to meetings, and I’ll never get a chip to mark the time—I don’t even know the exact date of my last drink. I do know there are people who can’t simply turn it off like I did, who are fighting something far more entrenched and relentless. My story is one of personal choice and clarity—not one of recovery or clinical addiction. If anything, it’s made me more aware of how complex our relationships with alcohol can be, and how much compassion we owe one another around it.

If you or someone you love is facing that deeper struggle, Boulder County has excellent resources. Mental Health Partners offers addiction recovery and counseling services (mhpcolorado.org), and Boulder Community Health has an outpatient treatment program that provides both medical and emotional support (bch.org). And for anyone simply questioning their relationship with alcohol—unsure where they fit on the spectrum—organizations like Moderation Management and SMART Recovery can be a good place to start.

This season—this quiet, reflective stretch of winter—reminds me that clarity doesn’t always sparkle. Sometimes it’s just the absence of noise, the space you clear to hear your own voice again. I don’t know if that makes me enlightened or just sober. But I do know it makes me honest. And that feels like a kind of light I can live with.