Settle in. I wanna paint you a picture.

Ten years ago today — probably right around the time you’re reading this — I woke up coming off a brutal three-day bender. I was a complete wreck. I hadn’t showered. I hadn’t left the bedroom except to pee. Empty wine bottles were scattered around my room like evidence from a crime scene.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognized the guy staring back. Puffy. Disheveled. Bloated. How bad was it? I looked like I’d been held underwater for 72 hours.

Three days earlier, my physician had absolutely laid into me during my annual physical. Finger wagging. Head shaking. A tone I had never heard before. My bloodwork was a mess. I had gained sixty pounds in a year. Everything was going sideways.

“You have put on five pounds a month, Michael,” he said vehemently. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it needs to stop.”

Uh, what I was doing was drinking an entire bottle of wine every night after work.

By myself.

Alone.

And if we are being honest, towards the end of 2015, it was closer to a bottle and a half of chardonnay before bed.

Mmmmm … chardonnay. Drink of the gods.

Up until that moment, I had never been confronted about my out-of-control alcoholism. Well, it wasn’t so much confrontation as it was accusatory medical berating. I left with a bruised ego and a lot of shame. Petulant child that I was, I pouted. Then I crawled into bed, and proceeded to stay there for three days, guzzling an unholy amount of wine.

By myself.

Alone.

When I finally emerged from my slovenly, sweaty cocoon on January 2nd, reality hit. Hard.

The first thing I really noticed? I stunk so bad I was offensive to myself. The sheets and duvet were vile. They were gonna need to be replaced. I’m almost certain I wet the bed at some point during the blackout. That’s not rock bottom, people. That’s sub-basement material.

I sat on the edge of my bio-hazard bed and made a vow that every alcoholic has made at least once. I swore I would never drink again.

Ask any alcoholic — that never works.

Except when it does.

And I’m living proof.

After my literal come-to-Jesus moment, I called a friend and emotionally vomited in a way that still makes me cringe. That friend happened to be in recovery. After listening patiently, he said something so simple and so profound that it changed my life.

“The key to recovery is three words,” he said. “Just. Don’t. Drink.”

He went on to explain that it sounded almost laughably basic, but it had saved his life more times than he could count. “When you drink, bad things happen,” he told me. “So, the goal moving forward is simple: Just. Don’t. Drink.”

I have repeated that mantra thousands of times. I have shared it thousands of times.

I started writing openly about my sobriety, not to inspire anyone, but to survive it. Writing kept me honest. It kept me accountable. Somewhere along the way, it created a ripple effect I never expected. People started reaching out. Quietly. Honestly. Vulnerably.

Many asked the same question. “Do you think I have a problem?”

My pat response was always the same. “If you have to ask, you already know.” (Coddling is not my strong suit.)

There’s even a chapter in my book dedicated to all my friends in recovery. I affectionately called it “The Sober Whisperer.”

Ten years ago, I hit the bottom of the (wine) barrel. My addiction was secretive, isolating, and all-consuming. Honestly, barrels don’t even deserve the metaphor. I relied on AA to carry me those first couple years until I got my bearings.

Today, in fact, I went to an AA meeting for the first time in years. Not because I was necessarily struggling, but because I wanted to remember. I wanted to sit in that room and remind myself that by the grace of God, go I.

I picked up my ten-year chip, which still feels surreal.

My drinking days feel like fourteen lifetimes ago. And yet I know this with absolute certainty: wine will always be my kryptonite.

So, as I head into 2026, here is what ten years clean has taught me:

Sobriety is not about grand declarations or heroic willpower. It is not about never wanting a drink again. It is about understanding the rules of your own life.

For me, alcohol is a cliff. There is no edging closer. There is no careful step. There is only falling. To my doom.

So, I don’t debate it. I don’t romanticize it. I don’t negotiate with it.

I simply follow the steadfast rule that continues to save my life:

Just. Don’t. Drink.