It started with a casual question from a friend: “Do you think you have a drinking problem?” I scoffed, “Only three glasses of wine a day?” She chuckled, “But I *have* to have them.” Back then, we were both young bloggers in New York, where after-work drinks were as commonplace as breathing. Her comment, however, lodged in my mind. Was it the *need* for the wine, not the quantity, that mattered? That nagging itch, that undeniable pull?
I drank every day, my love for wine eclipsing any inner doubts. The voice in the back of my head, whispering about potential issues, was quickly silenced. “Do what you love,” they say. “Follow your passion.” I was like, okay, so am I supposed to be a sommelier? The idea of quitting alcohol seemed extreme, bordering on boring. I knew a handful of non-drinkers, but they were distant acquaintances, not close friends. Quitting seemed like a drastic measure, a denial of my deeply ingrained pleasure. Besides, it wasn’t like the downsides were that bad, right? Hangovers, weight gain, bad skin, blackouts—nothing too serious, I convinced myself. I didn’t need to quit. I just needed to find a way to keep the parts I loved and cut the rest.
But in my 30s, something shifted. One morning in May of 2016, I woke up and felt a profound desire to stop. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my musty Cape Cod rental, I thought, “I want this to be over.” The daily routine of drinking myself into oblivion, the relentless cycle of self-destruction—I was done. The miracle was that quitting wasn’t difficult. I know this isn’t true for everyone, but for me, it felt incredibly easy. I stumbled upon Allen Carr’s *Stop Drinking Now*—a book I’d purchased on a whim after a friend praised his quitting-smoking book—and it helped me see drinking in a new light. Giving up felt like shedding an unflattering outfit, simple as that. I was done with it, moving on to the next chapter.
The real challenge, however, wasn’t the quitting, but the *what next*. I realized I had no hobbies, no passions beyond my compulsive work and drinking. Suddenly, with the fog of intoxication lifted, I found myself staring at a blank canvas of time, unsure what I actually enjoyed. It’s a common feeling, they say, when you quit drinking—a sense of nakedness, of existential questioning. Who am I, what do I actually like?
I filled the void with murder thrillers, took up knitting (a skill I’d learned while drunk), and spent countless sober evenings crafting scarves while watching ASMR videos on YouTube. The rhythmic clicking of needles and soothing whispers created a trance-like state, a strange echo of the inebriated state I’d left behind. My love for coffee deepened, transforming my morning café visits into a ritualistic counterpoint to my previous bar-hopping nights. Hours spent at the bar became hours spent in the café, fueled by caffeine and a newfound sense of clarity. I started journaling, eventually transitioning to sketching, which blossomed into comic panels, a visual diary that I continue to create today. I began publishing my comics on Instagram, quit my job, and eventually launched a newsletter dedicated to my work.
And then came running, a passion that had no roots in my pre-sober life. I’d never been athletic, intimidated by exercise. My one attempt at running in my 20s—half-drunk, fueled by a pseudo-boyfriend’s encouragement—felt like a near-death experience, a burning inferno of lungs and a face flushed crimson. But after trading Cape Cod for Brooklyn, I stumbled upon a barre class near my new apartment. I loved the blend of intensity, femininity, and mindless repetition. It was a routine I could follow, a structured escape from the complexities of thought. When the pandemic hit, the barre classes went virtual, and I quickly realized they weren’t for me. I joined an online running group, intending to log my daily walks in Prospect Park as runs. But one day, I found myself breaking into a trot across the grass, determined to keep my run discreet. To my surprise, I actually enjoyed it. “A pain I want to feel again,” I thought, surprised by the unfamiliar feeling of exertion.
I started punctuating my walks with jogs, gradually extending the distance until I was jogging the entire length of the park. Within a few weeks, I was running four days a week, logging my progress on the running app Strava. My life, aside from the few hours I dedicated to my comics newsletter, felt open, free. Running became an obsession, a high that filled the void left by alcohol. There was no pain, no injuries—yet. I remember the first time I ran twice around the park, a sense of exhilaration washed over me. I could keep going, I thought, forever. Running was good. It made me happy, it made my life better.
The parallels between running and drinking were uncanny. I felt antsy on days I couldn’t run, that familiar itch scratching at the surface of my being. I’d backpedal on rest days, convincing myself a quick jog was necessary. I couldn’t understand my friends who ran only once or twice a week. Why not more? Wouldn’t you want to do it every day? Like with my previous drinking habits, my running became a point of contention with my husband, who I met through the dating app Bumble, thanks to a running selfie and a bio line that declared my newfound obsession. We matched, and I moved into his apartment within weeks. From a distance, my running habit might seem “together,” but up close, it was a messy, chaotic affair, especially when other people were involved.
“It doesn’t make everyone as happy as you think it does,” my husband pointed out one day. “I have to make time to support it, it’s not a purely healthy, positive activity when it becomes a requirement.” My most vivid memory of my first year of motherhood was sitting on the bed, seething with frustration as I waited for my husband to come watch the baby so I could run. We’d moved upstate, where I felt like my running freedom was being squeezed by the demands of family life. “I need this,” I thought, furious at my husband for “ruining my life.” It echoed the fury I’d felt when a former boyfriend—a non-drinker, ironically—had encouraged me to abstain from alcohol for a week. At dinner, all I wanted to do was drink. I sulked, my eyes fixed on the flickering candle in the center of the table. “You don’t know me,” I thought, “Who are you to take this away from me?”
I still run. It’s more like 25 miles a week now, weaving through beautiful farmland, witnessing wild turkeys, black bears, vultures, and porcupines. I still knit, watch ASMR videos, draw, and read thrillers. But running is different. My life hinges on it, even though I know an injury could take it all away. After the birth of my second daughter, my first run felt like a miracle, a confirmation of everything I’d imagined. The frigid February air, the invigorating exertion—it was exactly what I wanted. I knew I should take a day to recover, but the urge to run was too strong. My knee felt a bit off, but I pushed through, hoping the discomfort would subside. It didn’t. My foot began to ache, forcing me to stop, limping home in a panic. My foot has never been the same since. The tenderness fades after the first mile, but it still hurts when I walk barefoot and put my weight down evenly. I keep running because, honestly, I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. Sometimes it feels like I’m edging toward a kind of religious faith, a spiritual practice where prayer takes the form of constant movement. It’s like I want to shut off my mind, yet merge with something bigger. It’s the same feeling I craved in those dimly lit bars, with a glass of wine in hand. While running, I often find myself begging or thanking. “Thank you for this life, thank you for my children, thank you for my husband, for my mother…please protect my children.” For a fleeting moment, my life feels perfectly clear, and the words seem to flow effortlessly. What would I do with these entreaties, these expressions of gratitude, if I lived in a different time and place?
The other day, I was running with my daughter Holly in the stroller. It was a hot day, and she was fussy, but I ignored her, and she eventually settled down. We hit a stretch of smooth road, the sun was shining, crickets chirping, the rhythm was perfect, and I felt like I could run forever. I thought about my past: the drinking, the smoking, the Adderall abuse. It was tempting to think of my sober self as whole, healthy. But then I remembered my constant phone addiction, scrolling through Instagram while my toddler Georgia tried to engage me in conversation. My foot was still tweaking, and I was ignoring the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, I should stop running. Holly wanted to go home, but I didn’t want to stop.
Becoming a runner after getting sober is a cliché, so I googled it and found an Instagram post from an inspirational podcaster. He outlined the ways that running was better than drinking, how any good new habit was better than the old bad one. It started out cheesy—“alcohol is a way out, running is a way in; alcohol constricts the mind, running expands it”—but then it resonated with me. “Yes,” I thought, “that’s exactly what it’s like.” Running did reveal the truth, it did foster acceptance. I scrolled through the comments, filled with messages of agreement. But then I saw one that stood out: “Just because running is ‘healthy’ doesn’t mean that one’s relationship to it is.” It’s the same point I’ve been trying to make in this essay. But what do you do with that information? How do you turn it off? Am I supposed to turn it off? I don’t want to. I want to keep going.
