I had tried many times before to stop drinking. I had tried everything I thought would work: tapering off, switching types of drinks, setting time frames—all the classics. I had even just tried stopping, as simple as that sounds. But a drink always wound up back in my hand. It felt like years that I was trying to stop or at least slow down, but my drinking only got worse. Every time I picked up a drink, I would hate myself. Every time I told myself, hungover, that it was the last time, I truly believed it. It was a vicious cycle, and by the grace of some divine force, I could at least see that. I was desperate to break free. I wanted out. I knew I needed out. I had known for far too long.

I tried AA, therapy, changing schedules, changing hobbies, changing social scenes. It all helped for a bit, but it never seemed to stick for me. Throughout my life, I’ve always been athletic, and even while drinking, I managed to maintain some semblance of fitness. As I rounded into the third or fourth attempt to quit drinking, I started to get more serious about running something I was doing in background at different intensities but never consistently since gradeschool. Somewhat on a whim, I signed up for a marathon, and six months later, I ran another. I started to run more on trails, and during training, I did something new: I started to routinely make space for myself.

The trail became a sanctuary for me. There’s something profoundly restorative about being in nature, surrounded by trees, mountains, and the rhythm of my own footsteps. Out there, on the winding paths, with the sun filtering through the canopy and the sound of feet pounding repeatedly, a sense of peace and clarity that I had never experienced before started to emerge. The fresh air filled my lungs, and the natural beauty around me became a backdrop for introspection and healing. It was as if the trail offered me a space free from judgment, where I could confront my demons head-on and find solace in the simple act of moving forward.

I realize now that I’ve never been skilled at making space for myself—normally, I put myself and my needs aside or used my needs in maladaptive ways that only created further problems. With running and training, there was only myself to meet, and whatever showed up in those 30 minutes or few hours of training was what I had to face. The solitude of the trail allowed me to process my thoughts and emotions in a way that I hadn’t been able to in the past. I had spent plenty of time on trail hiking and in the backcountry before opting to pick up the pace. For me it did not seem to give me the same sense of peace that the running and pushing my limits in a more concentrated effort could. Even as I got more into training, I still drank and struggled. But in those windows of time, I began to find moments of clarity and insight that I could later apply in moments of trial. I was creating space to have conversations with myself that I had previously avoided.

The more these moments of honest self-reflection stacked up, the more I was able to put the drink down when I needed to. The trail taught me resilience, patience, and understanding in these moments of trial when I found myself faced off with . Each run, each mile, has slowly became a metaphor for my journey to sobriety. The physical exertion mirrored the emotional and mental effort required to break free from addiction. The exhaustion I felt after a long run was a reminder of my strength and my ability to endure. The satisfaction of reaching a summit or finishing a challenging trail mirrored the small victories along the way.

The general format of this blog will follow my races and training, along with the lessons and understandings I’ve gained about myself and maintaining sobriety. If anyone takes the time to read it I just hope it can help. That is the intention. One of the hardest lessons for me to learn and practice in what it takes to stay sober is the importance of reaching out for help. Whether it’s day one or day 800, you need to be able to reach out. I hope the insights I share can be a source of support if you need it. The trail has taught me that we are never truly alone, and there is always a way forward, one step at a time.