Waiting for the red light of the live video-feed, all I could think of was the intro to The Christmas Song.
"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose"
In front of me, my phone and its tripod stood waiting on my desk. On the screen, the Substack app outlined the face of Josh Woll from The Sober Creative as we kicked off our live-streamed conversation about my journey with sobriety and creativity.
"Take me back, what was life like before you got sober?"
As a podcast host myself, I'm pretty used to being the one who asks the questions. Josh was looking at me expectantly, and I suddenly felt a flash of understanding for those on the other side of the interview.
I took a deep breath.
My mind flipped through a rolodex of memories in search of any good ones. I talked about life back in Wyoming, about working multiple jobs to pay the bills after my traumatic brain injury, and about the time I sobbed alone in my apartment while reading an article on addiction and suicide in mountain towns.
But I couldn't get Nat King Cole out of my head.
"Everybody's mother's child is going to spy
To see if reindeers really know how to fly"
It wasn't until our conversation ended that I realized why I'd had that song stuck in my head. The memory had come flooding back.
My last Christmas before getting sober, I was working the closing shift at a brewery. My girlfriend at the time had been back home in Massachusetts. I hadn't been home for the holidays in a few years, which was actually pretty normal in my social circle. Most of us worked at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort in some capacity and the holidays were money makers. I also happened to work nights and weekends, splitting my time between the brewery, marketing projects, and writing assignments.
For whatever reason, that Christmas just felt different.
I was running on fumes—totally and completely burnt out. The only thing keeping me going was the camaraderie of the staff. We knew how to make food service fun. The taproom was completely booked all night, full up with folks on vacation. So we cranked the music, donned elf ears and stocking caps, danced to Mariah Carey, and let loose the libations.
At the end of the night, after the chairs were stacked and the glassware was restocked, I thanked everyone for their hard work. I lined up a row of shots on the bar and we all said cheers and Merry Christmas. People chatted for a bit, and then started to make their way out into the snow and onward toward home. Eventually it was just me, the sales reports pulled up on my computer, and the beer in hand.
I stayed and had a couple more, all by myself.
It was snowing. There were about eight TVs lining the perimeter of the tap room, so I went to YouTube and put a fireplace video up on the one nearest the windows overlooking town square. I then put a snowboard movie on the projector and an instrumental playlist of Christmas jazz on the speakers. I sat there and just watched the snow fall out over the balcony for a long while, backlit by the white lights of Jackson Hole's famous antler arches.
That was the night I said goodbye—to that town, to that life, and to the version of myself who was happy to drink alone on Christmas Eve. Eventually, with all the lights off, I took one last look before pulling the door behind me.
Then I stepped out into the night.
Think of a turning point in your life—can you find the inciting moment that came before it?
onward.
Help me grow BUDS by passing this to the person it made you think of.