The Wake-Up Call
I’M Dal, a British Indian woman in recovery, and I’m an alcoholic. I would never have called myself that until recently. When I was younger, I barely drank — just the occasional Indian tipple when I was sick as a child, or a glass of something alcoholic in my early thirties.
My dad, a kind gentleman, worked long hours in a foundry, shoveling coals into open furnaces. After work, he’d often stop for a drink on the way home. He was sociable too — weekends meant time with friends and family, often ending in the pub. Women in those days did not drink. They stayed home to cook, clean, and host. That was just how things were. Men gathered around alcohol, women around tea. That quiet separation shaped how I understood drinking and who it was meant for. But the lines blurred for me later in life.
When I moved to work in a Middle Eastern country in my mid-thirties, everything changed. Trips with friends to a nearby island known for its nightlife felt like visits to a candy shop. Every trip meant laughter, drinks, and blurred memories, followed by hazy drives home. Whenever I had to fly somewhere, I made sure to route my journey through that island so I could start drinking early in the airport lounge. A few more drinks on the plane, and I’d sleep through the flight. Jet lag was never a problem. I told myself I was a sophisticated drinker because I chose expensive, luxury brands. I wasn’t.
When my son died suddenly, everything changed again. The shock and grief broke me open. I started drinking to numb the pain, to quiet the emptiness. Alcohol became anaesthesia — my way of surviving. Soon, every trip outside that country revolved around drinking. Anything I could find. I’d grab a bottle and drink it fast, desperate to cry, to feel something, or to stop feeling altogether. It’s only recently that I’ve admitted what I was: a binge drinker. I didn’t drink every day, but when I did, it was to get as drunk as possible, as fast as I could. It was my way of shutting out the pain, of forgetting reality for a little while.
When I moved back to the UK, everything I’d been running from came with me — family tensions, the loneliness of grief, and the trauma of being abused as a child. That’s when I started sneaking drinks at night, telling myself it helped me sleep. Over time, I became a secretive drinker. I’d hide bottles, pour quiet glasses when no one was looking, convincing myself it was harmless. But people noticed. Family and friends began to see it, and that was humiliating. At social events, I’d even take drinks from other people’s tables, calling it funny, sophisticated, clever. It wasn’t. In the light of day, it was embarrassing and sad. It wasn’t who I wanted to be.
My breaking point came during a family celebration which was meant to be a joyful, memorable weekend. It was memorable, but not for the right reasons. I was sneaking straight shots and got drunk. I said and did things I didn’t mean. It was ugly, embarrassing, and humiliating, for me and those involved. A month later, I still haven’t managed to give a sincere, meaningful apology because I don’t know where to start. That trip was my wake-up call.
The next morning, hungover and ashamed, I searched for an AA meeting. I didn’t know what to expect, but with a heavy heart, I went. From the moment I walked in, I was welcomed, not as a stranger, but as someone who belonged. There was no judgement, only understanding. For the first time in years, I came to realise I had a choice. Even without speaking, I felt understood. Listening to others share their stories, I heard echoes of my own, the pain, the hiding, the loneliness, and the small, steady hope of change. I was also given my first coin; something I have carried every day since.
Now I go to several meetings a week, both in person and online. Each one gives me something to hold onto: a story, a phrase, a bit of honesty that gets me through the day. I’ve been sober for a month today. The cravings still come, and some days are harder than others, but I haven’t given in. Someone at my second meeting suggested I read the Big Book. I bought it right away. The first few chapters drew me in, and I recognised myself in those pages. But when I reached INTO ACTION (BB p.72), I honestly thought, I need a drink just to read this. But I didn’t drink. Because I know the real work, the difficult, uncomfortable, necessary work, is what’s going to set me free.
My next step is to find a sponsor: someone to guide me through the Steps and reach a place where alcohol isn’t even an option when life gets hard. There’s still a lot ahead. Losing my only child is something I’ll never get over and need to live with, sober. And early next year, I’ll be facing a legal process connected to my past, for which staying sober will ensure I am present, clear-headed, and strong enough to talk about what happened.
Sobriety isn’t easy. Some days it feels like walking through fog: heavy, slow, uncertain. But every day I don’t drink, I get a little closer to myself. I’m learning that sobriety isn’t a punishment or a loss. It’s a quieter, deeper kind of freedom, one built on truth, not escape. Being sober is the best gift I’ve ever given myself. It’s the first real act of love I’ve shown to the person I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid: me.
DAL