The Night I Changed The Prophecy

Three years ago, it was 11:30 p.m. and I was watching the VMAs.  I was at my sister’s house, the only one still awake, staring at an empty bottle of wine I’d drained myself.  I ripped through her liquor cabinet like a rabid raccoon, desperate for scraps. Rum. I never drank it outside of vacations, but that night I wasn’t drinking for taste. I was drinking to disappear.

I poured it over ice and sat back down, waiting to see if Taylor Swift would win Artist of the Year.  The rum hit like sunscreen and regret, but I swallowed it anyway.  That was the night she announced her album, Midnights.  In my haze, I remember thinking how great it would be to get healthy and sober by the time it came out in October.  Only later did I realize that in the quiet living room, with rum in my glass and Taylor on the screen, I was already drafting the first line of my new life.

I never meant to get sober that night, but a seed was planted.  Maybe that’s why I feel such a deep connection to Taylor Swift and her music, because in a strange way she was there from the beginning.  Her songs don’t just take me back to that night.  They’ve stitched me together in the years since.

There are moments in every life that split the road in two. They don’t always announce themselves; sometimes they slip in quietly, disguised as ordinary nights. Some walk away from a marriage. Some from a career. Each choice rewrites fate. Mine came in the wreckage of a blackout, when I realized the life I was living was already over, and I had to choose another one.

Looking back, I believe I was handed an opportunity not everyone gets.  Nothing catastrophic happened.  I wasn’t robbed, assaulted, or arrested.  But something inside me died.  The lights went out, and I knew if I kept walking that road, I’d never find my way back.

If I had stayed, maybe my life wouldn’t have looked like a disaster.  Maybe I would have stumbled into a career or found a partner who stayed.  But the odds weren’t in my favor, and even if they had been, it wouldn’t have mattered.  Spiritually, I was gone.

The timing, though, was right.  I had just turned 30.  I didn’t have children I could hurt with my drinking.  And for reasons I’ll never fully understand, I was given something rare: a second chance.

The first year of sobriety was a fever dream.  I didn’t crave alcohol, but I was terrified of slipping.  Every day felt like walking a tightrope.  Food tasted different, sleep was erratic, emotions hit harder than I expected.  Some days I felt unstoppable, like I had uncovered a secret version of myself.  Other days I felt raw and exhausted, still learning how to live without the buffer I had always relied on.

The second year was worse.  The adrenaline faded, and I was alone with myself, stripped of the noise and the chaos I once used as cover.  My depression spiked and I often wondered if sobriety was making me miserable.  Spoiler: on the surface, it was. I grieved the people I lost, the life I thought I’d have, and the illusions I had clung to for years.  It felt bleak, and endless.

By the third year, something shifted.  Not a breakthrough, but a slow turning.  I began to feel lighter.  My body remembered how to heal.  My mind grew quieter.  I found new things to care about, new rituals to build a life around, new pieces of myself I hadn’t known were waiting.  Friendships changed too, fewer but more real.  For the first time, I wasn’t just refusing a drink.  I was reclaiming a life.

From there, the changes kept unfolding.  My ambitions sharpened.  My health improved steadily.  A quiet spirituality took root, not tied to religion but tethered to something bigger.  I began to believe the universe, and maybe a few unseen guardians, had been nudging me toward the truth: that I had more to give, and that I deserved more than the life I once thought was mine.

That doesn’t mean it’s been easy.  Friendships slipped away, not in flames, but in silence.  Growth is often a quiet separation.  Anxiety dug in. OCD twisted the knife.  My body demanded attention I could no longer deny.  And I’ve had to face my shadow self, the part of me I can’t seem to outgrow.

Mindfulness has saved me, but it has also drained me.  Always aware, always checking in, always trying to live “right” can be exhausting.  Lonely, even.  I used to thrive on noise and plans.  Now crowded rooms make me restless.  I crave my own four walls, the comfort of my cats, the safety of silence.  My obsessions have intensified too, some harmless, others less forgiving, especially when I’m dodging my feelings and hyperfixation takes the wheel.

And still, my purpose has never felt clearer.  For the first time, I’m mostly at peace with who I am, flaws and all.  The patterns I may never fully break don’t scare me anymore.  I trust myself now.  I know when something is wrong, and I don’t need anyone else to tell me.  That seed I planted three years ago, the fragile hope that I could get sober, has grown into something solid, alive, and worth being proud of.

The greatest gift has been freedom.  I’m no longer chained to alcohol, to systems, or to anyone else’s rules.  I can still be my own worst enemy, but at least the fight is mine.  Eighteen months out of AA, I’ve heard every warning: leave and you relapse.  But staying too long felt like another prison.  I had to walk out to see if I could stand on my own.  And I did.  Stronger, braver, and finally, me.

I’ve always gone against the grain, choosing the harder path simply because it was mine.  That choice comes with judgment, with uncertainty, with the terrifying possibility that everything could crumble.  But every risk, every stumble, has only made me more alive.

The seed I planted that night with the rum and the VMAs didn’t just grow.  It cracked through the concrete I once believed I was buried under.  And now, for the first time, I can breathe in my own skin, carrying the weight of the good, the bad, and the beautiful madness as mine alone.