The Longest Night Ends First

It’s 10:59 PM.

“I’m in Love with Stacy’s Mom” seeps through a fire door at exactly the volume where your brain fills in the rest. Somewhere beyond it, a sober dance party at Bristol Recovery is ringing in the new year with pizza, string lights, and the strange comfort of knowing everyone here has already survived worse than this playlist.

And it’s funny how, when you pause long enough to notice moments like this, your body already knows how to settle—how to take stock—how to quietly decide what comes next.

I chose my sober date deliberately: December 21st.

The winter solstice.

The shortest, darkest day of the year.

Symbolism matters more than people admit. When you mark a beginning at the bottom, there’s a peculiar relief in realizing that from here on out, the days must get longer. The light has to return. Whether you watch it or not, it does. And sometimes just knowing that is enough to let your shoulders drop a half-inch.

As I step into 2026, I step into a new year of me.

And it’s interesting—really interesting—how those questions start to rearrange themselves once you’re sober enough to hear them clearly.

Who am I, when I’m not running?

What do I stand for, when no one’s watching?

What values remain when the noise dies down?

I’ve always been a wallflower. Large groups, loud music, the unmistakable aroma of Other People™—all of it scrapes my nervous system like nails on a chalkboard. My instinct is to shrink, to observe, to stay near the exits. And yet… here I am.

A new friend from the rooms drove me tonight and even paid my $20 cover. That kind of kindness lands differently when you’re paying attention. The least I can do is pretend to enjoy myself.

Which is the strange part.

I actually am.

I mean—truthfully—I’ll go almost anywhere for free pizza. I am alarmingly easy to kidnap under the right conditions. But there’s something else happening too: a quiet sense that showing up counts, even when you don’t dance.

Earlier today was simple. Walgreens. 10 AM. Saliva in a cup so my new employer can verify I’m not dabbling in PCP, MDMA, or THC. I passed. Obviously. Now I wait for my manager to call with my first shift.

A small wrinkle: schedules are made three weeks in advance.

So I exist, briefly, in employment purgatory—hired but unscheduled, available but waiting. And it’s fascinating how waiting has a way of sharpening awareness. You start noticing numbers.

Like how my sober house rent—$150—is due Friday, January 2nd.

And how my Venmo balance currently reads $29.29.

Numbers have a way of focusing the mind.

Old me would spiral here. Spreadsheet the panic. Try to force an outcome. New me is experimenting with something radical: letting go. Handing it over. God. The Universe. The Big Whatever. Blessed be He, She, or the Algorithm.

And as uncomfortable as that is, it’s also oddly freeing.

Because when you stop gripping the wheel, you start seeing options.

And when you see options, you take the next right step.

And when you take the next right step, momentum tends to follow.

So tomorrow looks like this:

Working on this website.

Hitting at least one meeting.

Seeing my psych nurse.

Finding creative ways to make my phone ring—side gigs, odd jobs, small openings that turn into larger ones.

And maybe—this part is curious—maybe someone reading this feels that familiar itch. The one that shows up when a story lands just a little too close to home. The quiet impulse to participate. To help tip the scale. To be part of the moment where things turn.

No pressure.

No drama.

Just a button. Sitting there. Existing. Patient.

The dance floor is full now. Some people look genuinely cool. Some look like they’re trying to exorcise a demon through their hips. Everyone belongs. That’s the point.

And for once, so do I—even if I’m leaning against the wall, chewing pizza, grateful the music is muffled by a fire door.

It’s a new year.

The days are getting longer.

And sometimes the smallest action—taken at exactly the right moment—changes more than you expect.

Funny how that works.