I always believed I knew better than to ever pick up a drink. My father was an alcoholic my entire life, and because of that, he missed out on my entire childhood. Growing up, I saw firsthand how addiction could steal a parent away, and I told myself I would never follow that same path. Most people know addiction often runs through generations, continuing until someone makes the conscious choice to break the cycle. As a mother myself, I knew I had to be that person. I wanted to be the one who stopped the generational curse before it reached my own children. What I didn’t realize was that before I could break the cycle, I would fall headfirst into my own battle with alcoholism—and it happened so fast, I barely noticed it beginning.
I was raised by a single mother after my dad chose drugs and alcohol over being a father. I resented him deeply for most of my childhood. Because alcoholism ran in my blood, I avoided drinking for a long time. Throughout my youth, I was an all-around athlete and stayed focused on sports, school, and staying busy. Drugs terrified me after seeing my dad high so often, and alcohol simply didn’t interest me much. I drank occasionally, but it was never a big part of my life—until everything changed.
That change came the day my brother died. That was the first time alcohol made me feel numb. And once I felt that numbness, I realized I never wanted to feel anything else again. Alcohol quieted the pain, made me stop caring, and for the first time since losing him, I felt some relief. Over the next seven years, I sank deeper into drinking. By day, I was the picture-perfect social media mom. By night, I was a complete blackout drunk. It became a vicious, daily cycle that I repeated without hesitation.
Even during my darkest moments, I still appeared to have everything together. My kids were always on time for school. I attended church every Sunday and never missed an extracurricular activity. From the outside, no one suspected a thing—not even some of my closest friends. I lived this double life for years, stopping only during my pregnancy with my son and while I breastfed him.
But as soon as I was able to drink again, I picked up exactly where I left off. My relationship with my children’s father was barely surviving, as we both struggled with our own drinking. I couldn’t hold a job for more than six months before moving on to the next. By the time I turned 28, I realized I was going nowhere fast. I wanted to quit drinking—but I was in too deep, and quitting was far harder than I ever imagined.
I began to dread nighttime, when I usually drank. Alcohol made me sick, and panic attacks became a daily struggle. Still, I kept drinking. I could make it about one day without alcohol before detox symptoms set in, forcing me back to the bottle. I called treatment centers repeatedly, but I couldn’t afford help and had no one to care for my kids. Even at the height of my addiction, I was still a devoted mother. I loved being a mom, and no matter how bad things got, my children always came first.
After countless failed calls to treatment facilities, I gave up trying and continued drinking. I wanted to quit so badly but physically couldn’t. I even prayed for a DUI while driving to the liquor store, hoping legal trouble would force me to stop. It never happened. Instead, I was in and out of the hospital for anxiety and panic attacks so often that EMTs and hospital staff knew me by name—even during the height of COVID. Until one hospital visit finally changed everything.
This time felt different. It wasn’t anxiety or a panic attack, but I knew something was wrong. I’ll never forget when the doctor walked into my room and didn’t immediately give me a diagnosis. Instead, he asked, “Nicole, are you a daily drinker?” Like any alcoholic, I lied and said I only had wine with dinner. He didn’t miss a beat before calling me out—because 29-year-olds don’t get pancreatitis. No one had ever confronted me so directly before.
Then, without judgment, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Nicole, do you want help getting sober?” Before I could even think, the word “YES” spilled out of my mouth. I was admitted to treat my pancreatitis while detoxing from alcohol. I spent a week in the hospital. Some days were awful, some days are a blur—but I remember waking up each morning knowing I had another day of sobriety.
Getting sober in the hospital was the easy part. Staying sober afterward was the real test. The first week out was a whirlwind. My 10-year relationship ended, and I became a full-time single mom while navigating early sobriety. But I had promised my 8-year-old daughter that alcohol would never be part of our lives again, and I was determined to keep that promise.
Some days were hard—and some still are. I’m now approaching one year of sobriety and am proud to say I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol in nearly 365 days. For someone who drank daily, that means everything.
A year ago, I hit rock bottom. But rock bottom became one of the greatest blessings of my life. When I first got sober, I had no home, no car, and no money. Still, I refused to give up. In the past year, I’ve bought my own car, rented an apartment for my children and me, held a job for almost a year, built real friendships that don’t involve drinking, and become a better mother than I ever thought possible. I’m grateful for my rock bottom because it taught me lessons I never want to forget.
One of my favorite quotes by J.K. Rowling says, “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my entire life.” I remind myself of it daily.
Below is the letter I wrote to my addiction—for my one-year sobriety anniversary and for anyone still struggling. There is always hope. Sobriety is possible.
My name is Nicole Marso. My sobriety date is August 26, 2020. This is my letter to my addiction.
