Some people may find it shocking that I began drinking again, after three years without a drop, just as Brad Pitt recently caused a stir by saying he’d ended seven years of sobriety. The actor had signed up to a 12-step programme following his divorce, but after seven years has said he now occasionally drinks “in a more restrained manner”.

Eventually I accepted what seemed to be the only option for me. I thought: Fine, I’m an alcoholic. Make it stop.

I didn’t understand that, for me, alcohol was a symptom – of pushing myself so hard to be everything to everybody – rather than the problem.

The slippery slope to drinking

It was in my early 30s when drinking changed from being sociable to a daily habit. By then I’d been married for a decade to my first husband, a hospital CEO, and I’d swapped teaching for fitness coaching because it offered more flexibility while raising our four young children.

I remember returning from a family holiday to Florida in 2006. After enduring 18 hours of car squabbles, I got the children to bed, sorted the laundry and “rewarded” myself with a vodka cranberry in front of the television. After that, a glass of wine, then a bottle, became the fastest way to unwind from full-throttle days of parenting and work. My tolerance rose so I never seemed drunk. I’d pop liver supplements in the morning and shake off hangovers with 16km runs.

Privately I worried about my drinking, but any attempts at Dry January or Sober October were short-lived. Even when I had the flu I imbibed.

With private school fees to fund, my husband understandably worked long hours, but in hindsight I was lonely. He was irritated when he’d return home and I was already tipsy, emotional and quick to bicker. And I’d get irritated by him remarking: “You’re drunk.” I could hardly argue; he was right. His working pattern and my drinking eventually led to our divorce in 2013.

By 2015 I’d met my second husband, a neurosurgeon with three children of his own. With our blended family of seven children, I continued pushing myself to be superwoman, aided by my trusty crutch of alcohol.

During Covid, with more time and no structure to my days, wine was opened earlier. And when even that wasn’t hitting the spot, I switched to vodka.

My rock bottom – and AA

By April 2020, I knew I needed help. During a morning run, I listened to a sober podcast and Googled the Alcoholics Anonymous hotline on my phone and hit dial. Three minutes later I’d agreed to attend my first meeting.

For the next three years I did not drink. I’m naturally very all-or-nothing, so I adopted the sober identity completely, went cold turkey and trained as a sober coach. I already had a Master of Science degree in health coaching, so I earned my certification in addiction and recovery and I became the finger-wagging person saying: “Let me tell you why you should quit drinking.” The first six months of sobriety felt euphoric. Not filling my body with toxins, of course, felt better.

But I had some niggles. I remember saying at one meeting all the things I wanted to do now I felt better. A man stood up and said: “You’re too confident. That confidence will kill you because you’ll end up drinking again.”

I bristled. How was confidence bad for me?

While I know that many people – quite rightly – credit the organisation and community with saving their lives, it’s not for everyone. I’ve since come to believe that AA works well for privileged white men who could perhaps do with a dose of humility. But for women who have been drinking, because we feel powerless, telling us to give up power we never had is not the solution.

Sobriety didn’t fix everything

I also realised that simply removing alcohol hadn’t solved all my problems. I was still trying to be everything to everyone – good wife, good mother, good daughter – but I wasn’t truly happier. I still had anxiety, low energy and I’d lost my spark.

By then, working as a sober coach, I helped other women on the same journey I’d walked. I’d see them fall into old habits because the real problem inside hadn’t been solved. They would be consumed with shame, feeling like failures.

Then I started thinking: “Wait, this isn’t about the alcohol.”

One day, a client who’d been sober for eight months told me she was going to a wedding “and I’m going to have a drink”. In that moment I said: “I will support you in that decision. Let’s not assume it’s bad or good; let’s be curious.”

Coaching is supposed to be neutral, with the client deciding what she needs and learning from what works – or what doesn’t. Insisting “the answer is to never drink again” is condescending, not coaching.

It was better to give her the power to know she was capable of drinking and deciding for herself.

Taking back the power

It felt such an important change that I switched from being a sober coach to a mindful drinking coach, researching the latest advice from world-renowned addiction experts. I’d realised that my issues didn’t stem from my relationship with alcohol, but from my relationship with myself. Alcohol should never have been the first problem to be tackled, but the last, once everything else was easier.

It took another six months for me to take my tentative few sips of wine at a funeral in 2023. It felt liberating, but I tortured myself over whether it was a slippery slope to addiction. And what would people say?

My husband – a wine snob – was actually happy when I started drinking again so we could tuck into a tasty meal and a nice glass of high-end cabernet together.

This time, however, I’d had time to reflect on the fact that I’d always drunk in the same way I had lived my life as a busy woman. I didn’t allow myself to feel; I refused to stop or slow down. Of course I drank like that too.

Previously, I could drink a whole bottle and not feel a buzz, because I simply wasn’t paying attention to myself. That is the fundamental difference in my approach now.

I learned that my own alcohol cravings are in direct proportion to my stress levels (yours might be boredom or loneliness). More important than stopping drinking entirely was focusing on looking after myself. Whether it’s meditation, yoga or seeing friends, I now do whatever it takes to feel calm and in control. When I feel relaxed, I drink like someone who feels relaxed. Over-drinking is a symptom of feeling out of control, not the cause.

One glass is enough

So yes, these days I can easily wave away a wine waiter because I’m attuned to how I feel. I’ve not gone back to daily drinking. I’ll have one glass of wine, if dining out in the week, perhaps two at weekends. I’ve learned that’s enough to give me that buzz without tipping over into regret.

This doesn’t mean I’ve never accidentally finished the entire bottle once or twice. But instead of beating myself up, I’ve used it as crucial learning.

My own life changed enormously alongside all of this. After 10 years of marriage to my second husband, he was offered a job in 2023 that required us to move across the country. I didn’t want to leave my children – now aged between 21 and 29 – or my grandchild.

We divorced very amicably in 2024. All the work I’d done on myself made me understand there was nothing wrong with him, and there was nothing wrong with me for wanting what I want.

Putting myself last was why I drank the way I did. It feels good to finally trust myself.

How to drink mindfully and safely

According to Colleen Freeland.

As told to Susanna Galton