Dear Alcohol, we need to talk.

I have not been quiet about my sobriety journey, but I have also never explicitly talked about it.

Today, I’m going to.

I’d like to share with you a letter I wrote as the final assignment for the first phase of an outpatient recovery program I’m completing with Lakeside-Milam Recovery Centers, at their East Lake location. The letter is a breakup letter to alcohol. It’s something everyone who goes through the first phase of the program does. It sounds silly—and maybe it is, but I found doing it to be deeply cathartic.

Some quick background.

I started drinking when I was 18 years old. By the time I was 19, I was drinking every day. I maintained this daily drinking for the next 25 years. The only exceptions were days in which I literally could not get my hands on alcohol. I rarely drank to excess—I was an alcoholic, but not a binge drinker—and though I did plenty of stupid things due to my drinking, I was never a “problematic” drunk. I didn’t get belligerent, I didn’t get clumsy. Most of the time even the people closest to me would not know I had been drinking.

But I sure knew.

For years I tried to quit drinking on my own. It was a question of health. Once my daughter was born, I decided I wanted to try and live as long and as healthy a life as I could. Cutting back on drinking was part of that commitment. But as any addict can tell you, your rational brain is not always in control of your body.

I tried quitting with the help of friends. I tried with therapists. I tried with the help of a psychiatrist and prescription drugs. 

In September of 2023, my therapist, perhaps sensing my growing desperation, casually suggested that it couldn't hurt to try out a couple of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.

As an atheist, I’d always avoided AA. The spiritual elements, intertwined with the organization's religious history, were hard to stomach. What finally convinced me to reconsider was the inspiration I drew from two other folks in the food industry: Andrew Zimmern, who has been extremely vocal about his recovery over the last couple of decades, and Devan Rajkumar, a fellow chef who embarked on his own recovery journey a couple of years ago. Hearing their stories of struggle and triumph, witnessing their raw honesty about addiction, and speaking to them personally about their recovery gave me the courage to take those first tentative steps. In fact, their openness is part of what has inspired me to share my own story.

Despite my lingering misgivings, I reluctantly attended a couple of AA meetings. (As it turned out, my preconceived notions about AA were completely unfounded. I’ve since come to have a much deeper understanding of the role of spirituality, both in AA and in life, but that's a subject for another day.) I continued to drink during those first couple months of meetings, grappling with denial and resistance, but eventually, I found a sponsor and began the challenging work of the steps.

On October 29th, 2023, I decided that I’d had my last drink. With the exception of a one day relapse in the spring of 2024, I maintained that sobriety until last June, when I decided that I could re-introduce some marijuana into my life. My reasoning was that in the years I had been drinking, marijuana had never been an issue for me to pick up and put down at will. I had an alcohol problem, not a marijuana problem, I thought to myself.

After I started smoking pot, it quickly escalated into an addiction that nearly approached the problems I had with alcohol. It took some time to realize it, but I did, and I’ve since committed to quitting marijuana and all other mind-altering substances as I move forward in life.

I had my last joint on September 15th and started my outpatient program at Lakeside-Milam on September 23rd.

I’m now at just over 90 days of full recovery, and feeling great.

There’s a lot to learn about this disease, as I’ve been discovering over the last year and change.

But the big thing—the thing that really transformed my perception—was to learn that alcoholism is not a moral failing. It is not a personality flaw. It is not something to judge yourself on, and not something to be ashamed of or to hide away.

It is a disease that affects millions of people, and if those people are anything like me, it’s a disease that can fill us with shame. It’s a disease that can turn us into liars and cheats. It’s a disease that can make us feel like we are alone, or that we are undeserving of love and respect.

I’m still in the early stages of my own recovery, but I’ve been encouraged by folks in the program to share my story publicly, with the hope that others will know that the shame they feel is not unique to them.

I’m sure I’ll be sharing more about my recovery going forward, but suffice it to say for now, I’m going to continue walking this road.

So without further ado, here is my breakup letter to alcohol.

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Dear Alcohol,

This is a letter I never thought I'd write, a farewell to a companion who has been by my side for longer and more consistently than any other friend I’ve ever had. It's time to say goodbye. After all these years, after all the laughter and tears, the highs and lows, the triumphs and the regrets, I'm finally breaking up with you.

I remember when we first met. Eighteen years old, crammed into a bathroom with friends after a chamber music concert, passing you around in a bottle. You turned me, the shy, awkward kid, into the life of the party. Suddenly, I was funny, I was engaging, people were actually drawn to me. You were like a magic potion, dissolving my anxieties and unlocking a version of myself that had spent years locked away, hidden from view. A side with confidence and charisma. A side with the ability to speak to other people. For the first time in my life, I felt truly comfortable in my own skin, thanks to you.

Remember those early days in college?

You were there, supporting me as I redefined myself. You helped me break free and transform from the shy, insecure kid I used to be. You gave me the liquid courage to approach people, to make friends, to learn how to start relationships. Admittedly, you made it difficult to build those relationships in honest, healthy ways. Still, the confidence you gave me was invaluable. You transformed my life.

With you, I conquered my fear of rejection. You silenced the doubts that used to hold me back. With you by my side, I could be anyone I wanted to be; a confident, charming version of myself. You fueled those nights of fleeting connections, the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of proving myself worthy. You made me feel desired and wanted. You made me feel invincible; like I could do anything, be anyone, and be with anyone.

And that was enough. I made a commitment to you. The longest, most loyal commitment I’ve ever maintained. I told you we’d be together every day, and I’d stick with you as long as you stuck with me.

Sure, some of your ugliness started to show even then. You convinced me to be with people I didn’t want to be with. You convinced me that if I was ever alone, that the loneliness might last forever. You convinced me that I should sleep around, to always keep my options open. You convinced me that if anyone ever questioned your intentions, they were the problem, not you. You convinced me that nobody would ever be as faithful to me as you were.

I trusted you to guide me, and followed your every instruction. You were the most reliable friend I had, always there when I needed someone to celebrate with or commiserate with.

You were there through the long hours in restaurant kitchens, a loyal companion who met up with me every night to help me calm down after an adrenaline-packed shift, to help me unwind, or to help pump me back up if I had a difficult night.

But mornings were a different story. You were never kind in the morning. I remember going into work feeling like we’d gotten into a fight the night before. Like my head was still in a fog. Like I needed to sleep to get you out of my mind. I sometimes thought to myself, “this relationship isn’t working. I’m going to stop seeing you.”

But every time, when nighttime rolled around, you’d be back, and I’d welcome you with open arms (and an open mouth).

You were my companion during those long days at the magazine test kitchen, and you introduced me to new friends. The other folks who loved your company even more than I did. Introducing me to those friends was a smart move on your part. You made me believe that because your relationship with them was so much more fraught, so much more difficult, that you and I had something special. That we supported and looked out for each other. Compared to them, we had it great.

Still, those difficult mornings continued. There were days when you left me in such a haze that I had to sleep on the floor of the bathroom or take long walks in the park just to get you off my mind. We were real good at keeping our affairs secret though. (Or we thought we were good at it, at least). My friends and co-workers knew you as the fun companion who tagged along from time to time. Sometimes they might catch a whiff of you on my breath in the morning, or notice that I was more tired than I should have been after a night with you. But they didn’t see the reality: we saw each other every single night, and even during the day, my thoughts were often preoccupied with you.

After I got married and life started to get more serious and quiet, you were still there. I found ways to incorporate you into my work, my weekends, all of my routines.

You were there when I was alone. Helping me find inspiration as I wrote my first cookbook, the one that would launch my career and change my life forever. You were a fixture in my office, always by my desk, an arm’s reach away when I needed a quick escape from the pressures of deadlines, or if I needed some liquid inspiration while writing in the late afternoon. You were my indulgence, a way to celebrate small victories and cope with the inevitable setbacks. You were a part of my creative process, a muse that helped me unlock new ideas and push the boundaries of culinary innovation.

You were there for the milestones, the celebrations, the moments of triumph. We toasted to every success, every achievement, every dream come true.

But somewhere along the way, the shine started to wear off. Those doubts you used to silence? They came back, louder than ever, amplified by the hangovers and the regrets. The confidence you gave me? It started to feel hollow, a performance rather than a genuine reflection of who I was.

You became a master of disguise, hiding your true nature behind a veil of good times and fleeting escapes. You convinced me that I needed you to cope with the stress of my growing career, the pressures of fatherhood, the challenges of marriage. But the truth is, even though those problems would have existed without you, you were the one exacerbating them. You were the one deceiving me and preventing me from being honest about what my problems truly are.

Remember those nights I'd come home from work exhausted, promising myself I'd just relax with my wife? You were always there, whispering in my ear, tempting me with the promise of a quick release, a temporary escape from the demands of life. And I'd give in, time and time again, sacrificing precious moments of connection with my family for your fleeting embrace.

Even then I knew we had to break up, but it was just so hard to quit you.

As time went on, you fueled my anxieties, turning me into a liar, someone who hid bottles in the garage, who snuck sips when no one was looking, who downplayed the amount I drank to doctors and therapists. You eroded my wife's trust. Her observation that I was spending a little too much time with you, despite my hiding it, turned into a recurring accusation, a reminder of my inability to control myself.

You were there during the darkest moments, the depression, the loneliness, the overwhelming pressure of trying to be everything to everyone. You offered a temporary escape from the pain, a fleeting moment of oblivion. But the relief you provided was always short-lived, leaving me feeling worse than before, trapped in a cycle of dependence and despair.

You even followed me on family vacations, turning what should have been relaxing getaways into stressful exercises in hiding my drinking. I'd meticulously plan my days around your availability, making sure that no matter where we were, you could be with us, whether it was at a distillery tour, a fancy restaurant, or a quick trip to the hotel bar to see you while my kids napped. You were a constant shadow, a weight I carried everywhere I went.

And then there were the blackouts. The lost nights, the fragmented memories, the fear of what I might have done or said while under your influence. You snuck your way into me just before a plane ride, even though I swore I’d take the trip alone. You hitchhiked your way into me at the bar by the gate just before takeoff, then you hijacked my body and knocked me out. I found myself waking up on the floor in the airplane aisle, surrounded by concerned faces, my head pounding, my dignity shattered. You did this to me.

That was a wake-up call, a stark reminder of the danger you posed, not just to myself, but to others.

The truth is, Alcohol, I've outgrown you, and I’ve outgrown your cousin marijuana and all of your other mind-altering relatives. I've learned that true strength comes from facing my challenges head-on, not from numbing myself to the world. I've discovered that real happiness lies in genuine connection, in vulnerability and authenticity. I’ve found that I am enough just the way I am, that I do not need you to be confident or loveable. I’ve realized I do not need to hide behind a mask of intoxication.

Leaving you won't be easy. I know there will be times when I miss your comforting presence, when I crave the temporary escape you offered. But I'm committed to moving on, to building a life that is grounded in reality, in honesty, and in self-love. I’m doing it for my children. I’m doing it for my family. I’m doing it for my friends. I’m doing it for every stranger I meet. I’m doing it for my partner.

And I’m doing it for myself.

Thank you for the lessons you've taught me, both good and bad. I will carry the confidence you gave me with me for the rest of my life. But it's time for me to say goodbye, to finally let go of the past and embrace a future without you. A future filled with hope and possibility.

Farewell, Alcohol.

Sincerely,

          Kenji

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Resources for Alcohol Abuse and Recovery

Alcoholics Anonymous (AA)

Website: www.aa.org

Find a meeting near you and access valuable resources for those seeking support through AA’s 12-step program.

National Helpline for Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services (SAMHSA)

Phone: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

Website: www.samhsa.gov

A free, confidential helpline available 24/7 for individuals and families facing substance use issues.

Al-Anon Family Groups

Website: www.al-anon.org

Support for friends and family members of individuals struggling with alcohol addiction.