Tag: recovery

sober lifestyle

Art

jenwielgusjournalism
A window into the mind of an 80s kid, shaped by Disney, Kenner, MGM and heteronormativity! 🙃 (No idea why poor Toto’s down there looking like Jesse from “Family Guy”…)

On a recent trip back west to visit the parents, my dad went digging in a remote corner of an upstairs closet and produced a bunch of laminated drawings he and Mom had saved from my glory days as a pint-sized art prodigy. 🤣

These prize-winning works are legendary in our family, but not so much for the content as the controversy. Supposedly, the panel of judges at the Morton Grove Library were so enamored with the childish scrawlings I entered in their kiddie art contest every year that they basically rubber-stamped the blue ribbon on everything bearing my name. My dominance so aggrieved some other kid’s mom that she asked them to ban me so her little Picasso would have a chance. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Not to worry, though; my head never gets a chance to swell much before Dad busts out some or other cringey writing project from that era, like my “children’s series” featuring anthropomorphic insects/animals. Somehow, the stories always seemed to cut off before I could come up with an acceptable ending — I apparently was fond of the “it was all a dream” plot device — but each book had a complete “about the author” bio listing all my elementary school accomplishments. 😬

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sober lifestyle

Love

jenwielgusjournalism
People, Places and Things: My best guy (JP) and my sacred nature spot (Tyler State) were huge factors in helping me earn my six-year chip. 😍

My husband and I went on one of our walks Monday morning, getting a later start and moving slower than usual after spending 12+ hours in the car the previous day, and five whole days in the Central time zone prior to that. We’d both taken an additional day off to recover from our annual Midwestern vacation — and to celebrate another recovery milestone.

July 7 was my six-year sober anniversary.

This, naturally, was the topic of discussion as the two of us set off for our local state park, slogging through oppressive heat and soupy humidity, each carrying a hand towel to wipe sweat and shoo bugs.

I admitted to feeling kind of numb, or neutral, about the day, as I typically do about these “big” days. After six years, alcohol-free living is just regular old life. No big deal. But I was curious what he thought, since our lives are intertwined, and of all my loved ones, he’s the one who’s been with me the whole time in the trenches of addiction and recovery. He goes to 12-step meetings and therapy and really “gets” what’s going on.

“It’s impressive to me,” he said, swatting his towel at buzzing sounds in the air around his head, “because I think about how hard it is to do something consistently every day for six years.”

Is it? I’ve always been a determined and disciplined person for whom “hard” things seemed like requirements if they led to my chosen goal. Sadly, in my transition from adolescence to adulthood, the “goal” I chose was, “check out of reality by any means necessary,” and no one can deny I went HAM in chasing that for 20 years! 😳

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sober lifestyle

Fun

jenwielgusjournalism
Snack break between therapy sessions in the Doylestown Cultural District, where it’s possible to imagine for a moment that the world is not completely on fire. 🌿

It’s been about a year since I started working full-time as a therapist. And these days, whether it’s because the mental health field can be incredibly intense and all-consuming, and/or I’m starting to feel my age, and/or the world seems more f*cked-up with each passing minute, my concept of time is really slipping.

I have trouble remembering what day it is, especially during the week; they all blend and blur together as I shift from appointment to appointment, then zone out watching Hulu before falling into bed. I’m able to focus solely on the individual face in front of me, then the next one, and I move through my waking hours with a jumble of clients’ words, gestures, facial expressions, heavy experiences and perplexing questions — not to mention cringey things I said or did in session — endlessly swirling through my head. An occasional “doomscroll” through IG Threads only adds more chaos to the mental clutter.

So, the reason I’m aware of this professional anniversary is that my boss used the final five minutes of our monthly meeting to congratulate me.

She also presented me with a pay raise.

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sober lifestyle

Moodiness

jenwielgusjournalism

Monday morning: My eyes darted upward at the pale blue, predawn sky as I jogged through my neighborhood, and I was struck with a bolt of inspiration. Or maybe it was a jolt of caffeine from the BCAA+Energy drink I’d mixed and guzzled as extra oomph to help force my ass out the door.

Either way, I felt a euphoric mix of emotions — joy, relief, gratitude — course through my body in that moment. I was back on track!

I was out doing something I love! I mean, I was doing something athletic that I love, because I also love to sleep, but I’d just done that on and off for the past 48 hours straight. I had trudged back upstairs shortly after breakfast on Saturday and Sunday, to yank the blackout blinds and burrow into my blankets while munching a melatonin gummy to self-medicate a mental state the AA folks would describe as “off the beam.”…and all my perimenopausal pals likely know as “the norm.”

It had been, more or less, a lost weekend. But moving toward the state park at the start of the work week, I felt reborn as a fully functional human! My heart was pumping, creative juices flowing, brain whipping up ideas I couldn’t wait to share in my blog…

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sober lifestyle

47

jenwielgusjournalism
Not intended as an ad/shameless plug — but I do love ‘47 and would totally welcome a blog sponsorship! 😉 I think a responsible sober sports fan makes a great brand ambassador out in the wild, don’t you?

It’s fun having my real birthday and sober birthday on the same day — of the month, not the actual date— because it gives me an extra excuse to treat myself.

Not that I need any excuse. I’m pretty spoiled, y’all, though like most humans, I sometimes get mired in the uncomfortable business of being human in a capitalist dystopia and lose sight of my big, beautiful and immensely privileged picture. I ignore the abundant gifts surrounding me and slip out of “an attitude of gratitude” into the scarcity mindset that consumer culture loves to perpetuate and exploit for profit. Shoot, look at the pic I chose to open this post!

If I haven’t mentioned it 70 times already — that’s my tally of sober months as of April 7, 2025 — quitting drinking absolutely opened the door to “building a life I don’t want to escape from,” but it did not totally stop me from self-medicating anxiety/depression/stress or stuffing my feelings with other obsessions/compulsions.

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sober lifestyle

Ability

jenwielgusjournalism

The video was my husband’s idea, and in hindsight, I’m so glad he “pulled over” trailside and took it, because otherwise, I’d have precious few visuals to use with this post. True, it’s a poor representation of the lovely images flashing through my memory of our late Valentine’s date at Elk Mountain Ski Resort. But despite how nonchalant I might seem transitioning between the “Mahican” and “Schuylkill” runs, I was far too focused on staying upright, injury-free, and warm, to go through the trouble of digging out my phone and snapping photos of my own.

The views at Elk were breathtaking, and I mean that literally. In the moments I felt controlled enough to look up and out, I found myself gasping, yelling, “Look at that!” to no one in particular, and smiling so widely and for so long that my face froze, painfully joker-esque. 🤡

Outdoor activities always seem to morph me into a jubilant little kid; I don’t need to be an expert schussing down black diamonds to feel the intoxicating rush of the purest “natural high.” Skiing offers a potent cocktail of freedom, empowerment, possibility, and connection to all that’s “right” with the world.

I mean, when I was an actual little kid tagging along with the ski club at my aunt’s school back in the Midwest, I remember spending entire outings tugging on the tow rope and snowplowing down the bunny slope and feeling the same exhilaration.

Skiing reminds me that the mere ability to move, regardless of skill level, or how I look, is a precious gift. A celebration of life.

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sober lifestyle

Philly

jenwielgusjournalism
Blown away by all the brother/sister/nongender-ly love for my latest Thread! Only had to block one comment…so, in the great social media shakeup of 2025, I’d say this platform is a winner. 🤞🏻

It occurred to me (again) recently that I came here due to DEI, answering an ad on JournalismJobs.com that explicitly stated “women and minorities encouraged to apply.” I’m just as embarrassed to admit that today as I was back then.

Which is to say, I’m not. Even a little.

I mean, it’s been more than 22 years since I UHauled in from Macon, Georgia, a chubby-cheeked, recent Medill grad who’d spent just enough time covering sports down in Braves — or was it more like Dawgs? — Country to know that I was undoubtedly “of the North,” like a wild direwolf destined to find my Winterfell. The Bucks County Courier Times sports editor picked my resume and “clips” over what he said were over a hundred other hopefuls, making me the latest non-white-male reporter to “diversify” the staff at phillyburbs.com.

I was (am) a strong writer with a unique style who knew her shit and embraced covering the local sports scene as much, if not more than the pros. I deserved that job and did it well, rolling with every punch the company threw at us as the newspaper industry began its death rattle, until Gatehouse Media came along and knocked the whole operation flat on the canvas.

Yes, since settling in suburban Bucks County in the fall of 2002 — with a brief stint as a bona fide Philadelphia resident in ’04-’05 — I have done a bunch of regrettable shit “off the field” in my immaturity and addictions. Still, I’ve always felt pretty good about the way I served this community, first as a writer/videographer…

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sober lifestyle

Winter

jenwielgusjournalism

A familiar scent hung in the frigid morning air, and it grew stronger as I traced the usual path from my neighborhood to the state park. I wouldn’t call it pleasant, and it took a while to ascertain that no, my coat hadn’t fallen into a dumpster full of trash juice; there were tractors out fertilizing the fields. But it worked the old magic that smells always do, shooting through my nasal passages straight into my memory bank and time-machining me back to childhood on my grandparents’ farm.

Manure never bothered me anyway. 😉 And my Midwestern blood feels right at home in the cold. Just as I recall bundling up to seek adventure in the frozen Wisconsin woods, dragging my sled on a search for the slightest elevation or white-knuckling rocket-speed snowmobile rides with my dad, I hit the trails of Southeastern PA for daily 4- or 5-mile nature walks, come teen temps or bitter windchills. What was true in ’88 remains so in ’25: Being outside keeps me sane.

Well, sort of.

This winter season, traditionally a minefield of mental health triggers stretching out from January all the way into April, has been fertile ground for my anxiety in the early weeks of this new year. A Thanksgiving back injury, followed by a respiratory bug that hit right after Christmas, has forced me to slow down, pull back and sit still longer than any anxious person would ever voluntarily choose. Particularly an anxious person who’s sober, possesses a social conscience, and is responsible for helping others with their mental health.

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