The essay “100 Stones” was written as a gift to my closest friends and family after I completed my first 100 days of sobriety. I gave the essay, and a vessel containing 100 stones, to the people I felt the most accountable. I didn’t go “public” with my sobriety on social media until the one-year anniversary of my final drink. Two weeks later I discovered the Sober Curator website and shared 100 Stones with them. Now I’m an official Sober Curator—it’s amazing what happens when you speak your truth!
I’ve now been alcohol-free for nearly 14 months. I still give myself a choice when it comes to abstaining, but the cost of having a drink seems so high that I can’t imagine an occasion that would warrant it. I just know myself well enough to understand that I do much better making a choice than obeying a mandate.
100 Stones
It is with great pride that I give you these 100 stones, representative of the stones I gathered one at a time on the walks I have taken every day since I made the decision to suspend my relationship with alcohol.
This was not a rash decision made as to the result of an embarrassing act, hitting “rock bottom,” or due to someone’s ultimatum. Rather, this was a decision I made slowly, over the course of a year, after observing my behavior and how I used alcohol to numb fear, disappointment, and emotional turmoil.
Initially, I was afraid of the physical symptoms relating to alcohol withdrawal, but my desire to live honestly allowed me to make the change organically—without medical or mental assistance. I simply stopped pouring vodka into my glass, and, just like that, I quit drinking.
Once my decision was made, I did what I’ve always done during periods of transformation—I found a trail and I started walking. I hiked up and down the hills, drawing the clean forest air deep into my lungs and exhaling fear, resentment, and regret. I felt the strength return to my body, and I felt the fog begin to lift from my brain.
And every day along my walk I’d pick up a stone. I’d keep it in my pocket and rub it as I walked. I would contemplate my decisions, face my weaknesses, and find comfort in the smooth, hard surfaces of the stones. The stones didn’t judge me. They brought me peace. When I would get home, I’d empty my pockets and I began to place the stones in a dish on my desk. It didn’t take long for me to notice how the stones were adding up—I needed a larger dish to hold them—and they began to take on significance. I began to look forward to placing my daily stone in the dish. I was amazed to watch their mass grow—each stone symbolizing a day I had abstained from alcohol.
The stones became an incentive—as my body detoxified from the effects of alcohol and I struggled to deal with complex emotional issues, I thought of the stones. On more than one occasion I refrained from drinking to numb the emotional pain and anxiety I was experiencing for the simple reason that I did not want to dump the stones out of the dish and start over. When I questioned whether I was capable of dealing with my emotions on a particular day I would take the stones out of the dish and hold them in my hands, feel their mass and their weight, acknowledge what I had accomplished, and somehow summon the strength to take another walk and gather another stone.
I haven’t made a life-long commitment to abstinence or a declaration of powerlessness over alcohol. No meetings. No steps. No Higher Powers. Just a decision to live honestly, outside the vodka fog. I’ve given myself permission to choose to have a drink—I’m not yet willing to forever forego champagne on New Year’s Eve or a glass of Bordeaux to accompany a fine meal. But after achieving my initial goal of 100 days, I’ve decided to extend my sabbatical for a year, in order to learn how to address stress, anxiety, and depression in more holistic manner.
There you have it. One woman, a handful of stones, and a choice, coupled with a sincere apology for unknown transgressions and gratitude for the role you have played in my journey.
And so, I share my 100 stones with you, as a symbol of my journey, and as encouragement that you can start—or stop—anything if you commit to it. With all the wisdom and perspective one can amass in one hundred days of sobriety, I wish you the most important thing of all. I wish you Peace.
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