We don’t talk enough about the wild in recovery.
We talk about steadiness, which matters. We talk about structure, which is essential. We talk about peace, and we talk about pain. But we rarely talk about the part of us that still longs to run barefoot. The part of us that wants to shout, or kiss the wind, or laugh too loudly in church. The part of us that isn’t reckless but untamed. The part that is aching to be free.
In early sobriety, I was terrified that choosing to stop drinking meant choosing to live a small life. I had internalized the belief that wildness was dangerous, and that in order to get well, I needed to become predictable, careful, and composed. I thought I was trading passion for peace.
I didn’t know that I was learning how to be wild in a whole new way.
I think of the hedgerows in Ireland this time of year. It’s the season of Bealtaine — a. An ancient Celtic festival that marks the beginning of summer, a celebration of fertility and fire. The world is awake and unruly. Hawthorn blossoms burst from branches. Ferns uncoil like they’ve been holding their breath. Foxglove and buttercups spill through the hedgerows, brazen and unbothered by boundaries. Nothing is in a straight line. Nothing asks for permission.
Everything is alive.
That’s what I mean by wild.
Not chaos. Not collapse. Not losing ourselves.
But the wildness of aliveness. The creative spark. The sensual, spirited, sacred return to being of the earth, not above it. It is easy to forget that recovery is not meant to flatten us. It is meant to root us, so that we can grow in directions we didn’t even know we could reach.
I used to think wildness had to come with destruction. I thought the only way to feel something big was to burn something down. What I know now is that wildness without safety is trauma. But wildness with safety is sacred.
Sobriety gave me the ground I needed to grow in all directions. I built something steady. It doesn’t limit me. It holds me. I created rhythm and ritual, not to tame myself, but to give my body a container for its power.
When I am most in my body, most in my senses, most rooted in what matters, this is when I feel most wild. It is a wildness that is radiant and reverent. I feel it when I’m sweating through a workout. When I’m writing with the windows open and the smell of honeysuckle floats in. When I’m sitting on a porch with people who see me and I laugh so hard I spill my tea.
The wildness isn’t gone in sobriety. It’s just changed its shape.
It’s not about doing something dangerous or defiant. It’s about feeling awake. It’s about reclaiming that sense of sacred self that existed before the world told us to quiet down. It’s about trusting your instincts again. It’s about reclaiming joy, creativity, lust, connection. It’s about believing that you get to be whole, not just healed.
You don’t need to run into the woods to find it. Sometimes the wild lives in the way you let your heart soften. Sometimes it’s in the way you let yourself desire. Sometimes it’s in the way you remember how much you love being alive.
The hedgerows of Ireland do not ask for permission. They bloom anyway.
So do we.
Recovery didn’t strip the wildness from me. It helped me build a life where I could finally let it breathe.
And that’s the work. Not to shrink. Not to numb. Not to disappear.
But to rise with the season. To remember who we are when we are fully, fiercely alive.
THIRSTY FOR WONDER: at The Sober Curator, led by Anne Marie Cribben—a passionate recovery coach and spiritual companion based in Washington, DC—offers 1:1 coaching, spiritual guidance, and recovery support rooted in compassion and empowerment. As the creator of The Wellspring: A Celtic Recovery Journey, Anne Marie blends the Celtic calendar with sobriety, connecting participants to ancient wisdom and the rhythms of nature.
A fierce advocate for sobriety as liberation and self-love, she challenges the targeted marketing of alcohol to women and champions authentic, joyful living. Her work goes beyond addiction recovery, fostering a life of vibrancy, purpose, and connection.
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