December 18: Thirty-Seven, Sober, and Still Becoming

Today is my birthday.

December 18.

I’m thirty-seven years old.

There was a time when saying that out loud would have made my chest tighten. Not because of the number itself, but because of everything I thought I was supposed to have figured out by now. The timelines I didn’t meet. The versions of myself I outgrew. The dreams that had to die so better ones could breathe.

But today feels different.

Today doesn’t feel heavy.
It feels honest.

This birthday isn’t about candles or cake or pretending I’m younger than I am. It’s about presence. About clarity. About the quiet power that comes from choosing yourself when no one is watching.

Five months ago, I made a decision that changed everything.

On Saturday, December 20th, I will be five months sober.

And that milestone means more to me than any number attached to my age.

Sobriety didn’t just take alcohol out of my life—it stripped me down to the truth. It forced me to sit with myself without numbing, without escaping, without pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. It held up a mirror and said, Here. This is who you are when you stop running.

And at first, I didn’t like what I saw.

I saw grief I hadn’t processed.
Anger I had buried under smiles.
Trauma I had normalized just to survive.

I saw patterns. Cycles. Generational habits dressed up as personality traits.

But I also saw strength.

The kind of strength you don’t post about.
The kind that shows up at night when the cravings hit.
The kind that chooses water when your body begs for escape.
The kind that says, Not today. Not anymore.

Turning thirty-seven sober feels like reclaiming something that was always mine.

My time.
My mind.
My voice.

For so long, I lived on autopilot—doing what I thought was expected of me, minimizing my pain, maximizing everyone else’s comfort. I learned early how to be the strong one, the fixer, the one who holds it all together. And alcohol? It became the pause button. The off switch. The way I could soften the edges without ever addressing why they were sharp.

Sobriety took that option away.

And in its place, it gave me clarity.

Clarity about who I am and who I am not.
Clarity about what I tolerate and what I no longer will.
Clarity about the difference between surviving and actually living.

Thirty-seven is not about starting over.
It’s about starting aligned.

It’s about understanding that healing doesn’t mean erasing the past—it means integrating it. Carrying the lessons without carrying the shame. Honoring the woman I was while becoming the woman I’m meant to be.

I don’t regret my twenties.
I don’t resent my thirties.

Every version of me did the best she could with what she knew at the time.

But this version?
She knows more.
She demands more.
She settles less.

Being sober has taught me patience. With myself. With my process. With life. It’s taught me that discomfort isn’t something to escape—it’s something to listen to. That emotions aren’t enemies. That rest is productive. That boundaries are holy.

Five months ago, I didn’t trust myself.

Today, I do.

And that trust is sacred.

This birthday is quieter than some of the ones before it. There’s no chaos, no numbing, no trying to outdrink the weight of another year. There’s gratitude. There’s reflection. There’s a deep sense of peace that comes from knowing I’m finally walking in integrity with myself.

I’m not where I want to be yet.

But I’m closer than I’ve ever been.

Thirty-seven feels like standing at the edge of something new—not because everything is perfect, but because I’m present enough to receive what’s coming. Because I’m no longer sabotaging my growth to stay comfortable. Because I’ve learned that growth doesn’t always feel good, but it always feels true.

Sobriety didn’t make life easier.

It made it real.

And real is something I can work with.

So today, I celebrate differently.

I celebrate waking up clear-headed.
I celebrate choosing myself again and again.
I celebrate the courage it took to stop numbing and start feeling.
I celebrate the woman who survived what should’ve broken her—and decided to heal instead.

Thirty-seven is not a deadline.

It’s a declaration.

A declaration that I am allowed to evolve.
That I am allowed to change my mind.
That I am allowed to release what no longer serves me—even if it once saved me.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own becoming—if you’re questioning your habits, your patterns, your coping mechanisms—know this: it’s okay to outgrow versions of yourself. It’s okay to choose differently. It’s okay to start again, no matter how old you are.

Healing has no age limit.
Sobriety has no expiration date.
Growth doesn’t care what the calendar says.

Today, I turn thirty-seven.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of what’s ahead.

I’m sober.
I’m present.
I’m becoming.

And that is more than enough.  🌹⛓💥

If this reflection resonated with you, if my story made you feel seen, or if you simply want to help me celebrate thirty-seven and five months sober—you’re welcome to send me a coffee or a small birthday treat. No obligation, just gratitude. 🤍

Cash App: $ayyyrose0824

Your support, in any form, reminds me that this journey doesn’t happen in isolation—and I’m thankful for every soul walking alongside me.