70 days sober in greece
The minute I got to the airport the cravings started.
The airport pint. The wine with breakfast that everyone else seemed to be having without a second thought. I could almost feel the anxiety and cravings sitting beside me at the gate. Months of hard work suddenly felt fragile, like it could all unravel before I’d even boarded the plane.
The plane wasn’t much better. People ordering beers before take-off, couples clinking plastic cups like the holiday had officially started.
But landing in Greece was the real shock.
That first terrace. The heat in the air. The waiter smiling and asking if we wanted a beer like it was simply part of arriving. Our old ritual. “Happy holidays.” The first cold drink overlooking the sea.
I almost cracked.
What frightened me wasn’t just wanting a drink — it was the force of it. The speed of it. It felt physical, like my brain had been lying dormant waiting for sunshine, airports and Greek tavernas to wake it back up again.
I genuinely thought I’d be stronger than that by now.
I thought nearly 70 days sober would mean freedom.
Instead, for a few moments, it felt like all my hard work was hanging by a thread held together by pure stubbornness. And the strangest part was nobody around me even knew there was a battle happening.
I’m four days into the holiday now and I’ve realised something strange.
The mornings are beautiful.
Really beautiful.
Coffee in the sun. Quiet seas. Swimming. Reading. Feeling healthy and calm in a way the old me never really allowed herself to be.
But the nights are hell.
As the sun starts going down it’s like a switch flicks somewhere in my brain. Everyone around me relaxes into wine, cocktails and that carefree holiday feeling I used to live for, while I sit there trying to wrestle cravings, anxiety and this horrible feeling that I’m somehow missing the point of being away.
It’s exhausting acting normal while your mind is arguing with itself across the dinner table. By nighttime I feel completely drained.
Because when I’m at home, sober life has started to feel manageable. I have routines now. The gym. Morning coffees. Swimming. Better sleep. Clearer thinking. Somewhere along the way I genuinely started believing maybe I was past the hard bit. Maybe I’d fixed it.
So I came to Greece thinking it would be easy. Healthy food, sea swimming, sunshine, early nights. I pictured myself glowing with wellness while drinking fresh orange juice overlooking the sea.
Instead, I realised holidays are memory banks. Airports, terraces, late dinners, cold beers in the heat, wine at sunset — every part of it was tied tightly to the old version of me.
I think that’s what shocked me most. Not that I truly miss alcohol itself, because I don’t miss the fear, blackouts or shame. It was realising how quickly my brain still recognised holiday = drink immediately.
And yet here I am.
Four days in.
Still sober.
The nights are hard. Sometimes really hard. But every morning I wake up relieved I protected this version of myself instead.