I rearranged my spice cabinet this week. It felt like I was putting myself back together, one jar at a time.
I took everything out. The jars with crusted lids, duplicates of thyme, an old tin of smoked paprika that still smelled like late winter. I started fresh. Clean cloth, warm water, good music playing low. I stood there for over an hour, slowly wiping, sorting, smelling, remembering. It wasn’t about organization. It was about intimacy. About belonging again to my own kitchen.
For a long time, I didn’t belong there. Not really.
The kitchen used to be where I went to exhale. Not to ground or nourish. I went there to escape. The glass of wine at the end of the day wasn’t casual. It was sacred, in a way. A ritual I didn’t know was harming me. I believed I was unwinding, that I had earned it. But what I was really doing was checking out. The kitchen became the place I disappeared.
Drinking made things feel festive, too. Pouring a splash of Baileys into the cookie dough batter. Stirring cranberry sauce while sipping a holiday cordial. Lining the counters with appetizers and wine glasses. I mistook all of it for warmth. I thought I was creating memories. And I was. But some of them were stained with shame. Some of them I don’t even remember.
Sobriety meant losing those rituals. And for a while, it made the kitchen feel cold. Empty. Like something had been stripped away. I didn’t know how to mark time without a drink in my hand. I didn’t know how to feel celebration without alcohol softening the edges.
It took time, and so much grief, to begin again.
But slowly, the kitchen changed. Or maybe I did. I started with tea. I learned how to feed myself, even when I didn’t feel hungry. I lit candles before dinner, even when I was eating alone. I stirred soup like it mattered. I pressed garlic and paid attention to how it felt in my hand.
And the herb shelf became my altar.
There’s ground cumin in a glass jar that always tilts a little. Marjoram I only use when I’m being gentle with myself. A bottle of vanilla that smells like my grandmother’s apron. Each jar holds more than flavor. They hold memory. Return. Some kind of quiet grace.
I don’t label this as a ritual. I don’t need to. It already is one. The act of choosing mint for tea when I’m overwhelmed. Crushing dried rosemary between my fingers just to breathe it in. Stirring with care. Making something that doesn’t numb me, but wakes me up. Letting the scent of basil work like a balm.
I didn’t set out to become someone who cooked. I became someone who stayed. Someone who lights a candle and lingers. Someone who blesses her tea before she drinks it. Someone who doesn’t need wine to feel warmth anymore.
That’s what the herb shelf reminds me. That recovery lives in the repetition. That joy can come back in the scent of cinnamon. That healing is slow and deeply sensory. That it’s okay to begin again with something small, like a pinch of salt, a warm cup of lavender hot chocolate, a pot left to simmer while I breathe.
The herbs don’t care if I’ve cried that day. They just wait to be used. To be chosen. To be part of the meal. And in that way, they become part of the healing too.
They remind me that I don’t have to be fully healed to be fed. That I don’t need to earn comfort. That I can stand barefoot in my kitchen, weary and hopeful, and still make something good. Still make something sacred.
And tomorrow, I’ll come back.
To the cumin.
To the kettle.
To myself.
Kitchen Ritual for Recovery…a small way to begin again.
Choose one herb or spice from your kitchen that calls to you today. Don’t overthink it. Just open the cabinet and let your senses lead.
Hold the jar in your hand. Open it. Smell it. Let the scent rise up. Close your eyes if you want. Breathe with it for a few seconds.
Say (out loud or quietly to yourself):
“I am allowed to return. I am allowed to begin again.”
Sprinkle it into something like a mug of tea, a simmering pot, a piece of toast with butter. Let it bless whatever you’re making, no matter how simple.
Eat or drink slowly. This is your altar. You are the offering.
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.
LIFESTYLE: The Sober Guide to a Luxe Summer
SPIRITUAL GANGSTER: at The Sober Curator is a haven for those embracing sobriety with a healthy dose of spiritual sass. This space invites you to dive into meditation, astrology, intentional living, philosophy, and personal reflection—all while keeping your feet (and your sobriety) firmly on the ground. Whether you’re exploring new spiritual practices or deepening an existing one, Spiritual Gangster offers inspiration, insight, and a community that blends mindful living with alcohol-free fun.
Spiritual Gangster Line-up:
Stoicism & Sobriety – Ancient Philosophy for Modern Recovery with Sober Curator Contributors Derek Castleman and Tony Harte
The Card Divo – Quick & Sober Tarot Readings with Sober Curator Contributor Senior Daniel G. Garza
Classy Problems – Clarity, Restraint & Mindful Decision-Making with Senior Sober Curator Contributor Dan T. Rogers
SoberCast with Six – Astrology & Tarot for the Sober Life with Senior Sober Curator Contributor Analisa Six
Sobriety in Flow – Yoga Beyond the Poses with Senior Travel Sober Curator Contributor Teresa Bergen
Thirsty for Wonder – Recovery Coaching & Spiritual Companionship with Sober Curator Contributor Anne Marie Cribben
Spiritual Substance – Mindfulness, Science & Soul with Senior Sober Curator Contributor Lane Kennedy
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