Happy Dry January. I got a head start, I hope you don’t mind*.
I’ve just passed 500 (502 to be exact) days without alcohol, and before going any further it’s worth being clear about what that does, and doesn’t, mean.
I’m not “sober” in the traditional sense. I microdose THC gummies to help with some of my trickier autistic traits, particularly around unwanted hyperfocus, rigidity, and OCD-style looping. I also take prescribed medication for my ADHD. None of that feels contradictory to me. If anything, it feels consistent. This isn’t a story about abstinence or purity. It’s a story about regulation, intention, and finally listening to my nervous system.
I didn’t stop drinking because I wanted to optimise my life or adopt a new identity. I stopped because my body forced a reckoning I could no longer ignore.
A serious burnout stopped me being able to speak for over a week. Not metaphorically. Literally. I knew what I wanted to say, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. When my speech returned, it came back changed. Under pressure or overwhelm, I developed a stutter — something I’d never experienced before.
It was my nervous system telling me, very plainly, that the way I had been coping for years was no longer sustainable.
Alcohol wasn’t the cause of that burnout, but it was absolutely part of the ecosystem around it. It stealthily amplified stress, delayed recovery, and blurred signals I desperately needed to hear. It made things feel manageable when they weren’t, and allowed me to keep pushing long after my system had run out of capacity.
There’s a first irony here. When I was younger, I used cannabis and amphetamines (sorry, Mum!) with what I’d now describe as unwitting effectiveness. They helped me focus, regulate my mood, and navigate the world with more ease. Then 18 arrived, along with social norms, expectations, and readily available booze. Somewhere along the way, the things that genuinely helped were replaced by the thing that was most acceptable to others and wider society.
As someone who is autistic and ADHD (though I only found this out three years ago!), alcohol became a socially sanctioned shortcut. It softened sensory input, reduced friction in social spaces, and helped me appear more at ease in environments that weren’t built for my brain. It worked … until it didn’t. And when it stopped working, the cost was high.
Removing alcohol didn’t magically fix anything. What it did was remove interference, fuzziness, and perhaps ignorance. Without it, I couldn’t override warning signs so easily. I had to learn regulation rather than avoidance. I had to pay attention earlier, rest more deliberately, and accept that some limits aren’t negotiable.
Some changes were obvious: better sleep, clearer mornings, more emotional awareness. Others were quieter, but more important. I became aware of the moment just before overload — the tightening chest, the scrunching shoulders, the cognitive narrowing, the disruption to my speech — the point where my system starts protecting itself.
The stutter hasn’t gone away, and I don’t see that as something to fix. I see it as feedback. When it appears, it tells me I’ve gone too far, stayed in demand too long, or ignored too many small signals in favour of pushing on. Before, alcohol allowed me to bulldoze through those messages. Now, I stop.
There’s a second irony here too. Eight years ago, I founded an alcohol-free beer brand because I wanted to drink great beer, just without the alcohol. I understood the value of that alternative, and how it could benefit me personally. What I didn’t yet see was why I was still drinking alcohol at all, or how I was using it as a way to quieten anxiety, manage overwhelm, or dampen periods of low mood. I created space for people to choose something different, long before I fully understood what alcohol was helping me avoid noticing in myself.
The difference between alcohol and the supports I use now is intention. Alcohol dulled everything. The supports I use today are targeted, measured, and part of a wider effort to work with my brain rather than against it.
At 500 days without alcohol, I don’t feel transformed in a glossy, motivational way (though I’ve got to say, my skin is RADIANT). I feel more available. Available to notice when something isn’t working. Available to rest without guilt. Available to shape my work and life around how my nervous system actually functions, rather than how I’ve been told it should.
This isn’t about sobriety as an identity. It’s about capacity. It’s about effectiveness rather than endurance. It’s about reducing harm, not chasing purity.
Burnout took my speech to get my attention. I’m trying to listen before it has to shout again.
If you’re reading this and wondering whether alcohol is genuinely helping you cope or quietly making things harder — especially if you’re neurodivergent — you don’t need a dramatic reason to change your relationship with it. Curiosity is enough.
Sometimes clarity doesn’t come from adding something new. Sometimes it comes from noticing what’s been getting in the way all along.
* I don’t really care, there’s a post on that here – thank you again to Sophie the Great for opening my peepers.