Matt: My Road to Sobriety

“I woke up this morning, with a bottle next to me and my head upon an old wooden floor.”

That’s a line I would come to write years later, trying to make sense of the last days of my drinking. But before it was a song lyric, it was a moment I lived through—one that took place in New York, where I spent most of my adult life. I was 33 when I woke up on a cold wooden floor with a pounding headache and no memory of how the night had ended—or how the woman I had been on a date with had left my apartment. I lay there trying to piece the night together, but there were only fragments—a conversation I couldn’t fully recall, flashes without context. My phone showed missed calls around 3 a.m. and one text: “You said a lot of stupid things—and you need help”.

While this exact scene hadn’t happened before, versions of it had. Blacking out and not knowing how the night ended was nothing new. But something about that morning felt different. No one had ever said it to me so directly, and for whatever reason, this time I actually heard it. For years, I had gotten good at hiding things. I was what some would call a functioning alcoholic. I earned degrees, held jobs, made music, built relationships. From the outside, my life looked full—and in many ways, it was. But running alongside all of that was something quieter that I wasn’t ready to admit.

Drinking wasn’t just something I did. In earlier years, it helped me loosen up, feel comfortable, and feel connected. But by my early thirties, there was no enjoyment left. It had become something I depended on. It wasn’t just a crutch—it was a liability. Once I picked up the first drink, I had no idea how the night would end. I learned how to live in two worlds at once. In one, I showed up and did what was expected of me. In the other, I stayed out too late and drank to what can only be called oblivion.

The morning on the wooden floor was one of many that had accumulated over years. There was nothing especially remarkable about it. But for whatever reason, it cut through the noise. It gave me what people in recovery call the gift of desperation. I was finally tired of acting in ways I couldn’t control. That same month, I walked into my first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. I didn’t go in with certainty. I wasn’t even sure I belonged there. I just didn’t know what else to do.

What I found wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t just a room full of people with stories like mine, but people who were honest, direct, and, to my surprise, genuinely funny. I couldn’t believe how recognizable everyone’s struggles felt. People spoke openly—about things that, outside that room, might have felt too embarrassing to say out loud. And yet there was an ease to it, even humor. I raised my hand, said my name, and spoke honestly about what I was going through—only to look up and see heads nodding. After my first meetings, people came over with a handshake, a hug, a phone number, and an offer to grab coffee. It wasn’t just acceptance. It wasn’t just relief. It became one of the most meaningful periods of my life—when I learned how to spend time with people without getting drunk or wondering when I could leave so I could get drunk alone.

I consider myself lucky that I haven’t looked back since getting sober. There have been periods when I’ve gone to fewer meetings or felt less spiritually grounded, but I haven’t returned to drinking. Sobriety hasn’t made life easier. In many ways, it’s made it more real. I’ve gone through breakups, difficult jobs, and financial uncertainty.

But I’ve also experienced things I never could have imagined. I’ve seen more of the world, had meaningful professional successes, written and recorded the best music of my life—and I play it better now than I ever did when I was drinking—and published my own book. I’ve fallen in love, gotten married, and somewhere along the way, I got a dog—who I now walk every day along the Ohio river in downtown Cincinnati (my home since 2023) which is probably my greatest source of joy.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in AA, it’s the importance of showing up and practicing gratitude. The truth is, I don’t always do that well. There are times when I go to fewer meetings, complain, get stressed, act out, and create stress for others. And yet, I know a different way is available to me. When I show up—when I stay connected and practice gratitude—things shift. I become more grounded, more present, more like the person I want to be.

I’m still amazed that something so simple works. Part of me resists it—the idea that I need to keep coming back, over and over, just to stay steady. But another part of me recognizes it for what it is: a gift.

Because those rooms are where the change happens. Where we are helped, and where we learn to help others. And that, more than anything, is why I keep coming back—even if I drift at times.

To learn more about Matt’s story, feel free to listen to him on the CCAR Recovery Matters! Podcast. Just CLICK HERE.