Still Sober, Still Drowning: What Relapse Looks Like When You’re Leading, Parenting, and Performing
- Updated: June 10, 2025
This is your survival guide.
You’re not relapsing in the ways people expect.
You’re not purging. You’re not drunk at noon.
You’re not maxing out your credit card on dopamine highs.
You’re still sober.
And yet—
Your new assistant, the one with the glowing resume, can’t even manage the basics.
Your partner’s acting off—and they keep saying “I’m fine,” but you feel the shift.
And if one more client asks to expand the scope “just a little,” you might actually scream into your inbox.
You don’t want to pick up the bottle.
You don’t want to spiral.
But the pressure’s building. And it’s hitting harder than usual.
Not because you’re weak.
Because this is what real recovery in the real world looks like—especially when you’re leading, parenting, or performing with a legacy on your back.
This isn’t a guide for people who want to avoid discomfort.
This is a guide for people who want to stay sober, honest, and functional—while the real world keeps coming.
Without spiritual bypassing. Without self-betrayal. Without selling the truth short.
Welcome to your war journal.
A Survival Guide for the Sober Days That Still Feel Like Hell
The Tension Between Functional and Fractured
Why no one realizes you’re unraveling—until you do.
It’s Tuesday morning.
Your calendar is full, but manageable.
You’re on time for once. Your inbox isn’t a disaster.
You even slept through the night—sort of.
By all accounts, you’re “fine.”
Except… you’re not.
Your new assistant sent another half-assed deliverable.
Your partner made that face again—you know the one—and now your chest feels tight.
And one of your clients just tried to slide in “a few extra tweaks” outside the project scope like it’s no big deal.
And suddenly your sobriety feels like a goddamn balancing act—held together with prayer, caffeine, and the sheer willpower not to scream.
You’re not drinking.
You’re not binging.
You’re not spiraling yet.
But you’re white-knuckling it through every conversation.
And you’re emotionally tap dancing to make sure nobody notices the static under your skin.
This is what no one talks about:
High-functioning relapse doesn’t always look like destruction.
It looks like perfection. Control. Smile-on-your-face misery.
You hit deadlines. You lead meetings. You send thank-you notes.
Meanwhile, your nervous system is screaming for relief.
But you won’t slow down—because slowing down would mean feeling it.
And God help you if you actually feel it.
When we make the decision to get well, do to better in our lives - it appears things are getting WORSE instead of better.
— Denise G. Lee (@DeniseGLee) July 8, 2024
🤦🏿♀️Our drinking "friends" don't like the fact we aren't wanting to get wasted on the weekends.
We feel lonely.
🤦🏿♀️🤦🏿♀️Family members will get upset that you…
What ‘Almost Relapsing’ Actually Looks Like
You didn’t use. But you still disappeared a little, didn’t you?
You didn’t pour a drink.
You didn’t call the ex.
You didn’t spiral all the way.
But—
You stayed up until 2am doomscrolling.
You fixated on your competitor’s launch like it held the secret to your self-worth.
You micromanaged your assistant because it gave you a false sense of control.
You said “I’m fine” when your partner asked what was wrong—then shut down for the rest of the night.
This is the part of recovery no one claps for.
The almost-relapse. The emotional escape. The moment where you didn’t pick up—but you wanted to.
Or maybe… you just wanted to not be here for a while.
And that’s still a moment worth naming.
Because this is what relapse can look like when you’re high-functioning:
Obsessively rearranging your calendar instead of feeling what’s really off.
Refreshing Stripe like it’s a slot machine.
Practicing your podcast intro 14 times because God forbid you mess up now.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic.
It’s subtle. Sneaky. Functional sabotage.
And the kicker?
The world sees you as “doing better.”
Maybe even thriving.
But you know the truth.
The Shame Spiral of High-Functioning Recovery
“I should be past this by now,” you whisper. But you’re not. And that doesn’t mean you failed.
You’ve been sober for months. Maybe years.
You’ve done the therapy. You’ve journaled. You’ve shown up.
And still—some days, you want to disappear.
Not to relapse. Just… to not have to hold it all anymore.
But here’s the catch:
When you’re the strong one, the stable one, the coach or the leader or the reliable friend—there’s no script for this.
No one teaches you what to do when you’re 82% okay and 18% unraveling.
So what do you do?
You overwork. You over-help. You push harder to prove you’re still “better.”
Because if you stop proving, what’s left?
If you’re not the healed one, the productive one, the emotionally intelligent one—then who are you?
This is the shame spiral of high-functioning recovery:
You don’t fall off the wagon.
You tighten the reins until you can’t breathe.
You become afraid to admit you’re still struggling—because what would that mean about your healing?
About your leadership?
About your worth?
And suddenly, you’re more afraid of being seen in your struggle than you are of the struggle itself.
Losing My Mind Over A Misplaced Bullet
Some years ago, I remember snapping at my assistant over a typo in an internal document no one would ever see. I wasn’t just annoyed—I was volcanic. Five minutes later, I was apologizing with the same intensity I’d just unleashed.
But it wasn’t just about the typo.
It was because I was two seconds from spiraling—and that misplaced bullet point felt like the straw that would finally prove I was losing it.
That day, I didn’t drink.
But I did check Stripe five times.
I rearranged my project timeline three times.
And I spent an hour “editing” a landing page I wasn’t even planning to publish.
Because when I’m afraid I’m not okay, I try to control everything else.
Your Relapse Survival Tools (That Actually Work)
Because willpower is not a strategy.
This isn’t the part where I tell you to take a bubble bath or write five things you’re grateful for.
You already know how to journal. You already know about deep breaths.
What you need are real anchors—the kind that hold when everything in you wants to disappear.
Here’s what I reach for when the craving to escape gets loud:
🛑 1. Cut contact with anyone selling fantasy.
That Instagram coach telling you to “manifest peace”? Gone.
That friend who says “just have one drink, you’re doing great now”? Blocked.
If they were part of the ecosystem that fed your spiral, they cannot be your support system.
🔁 2. Replace the exit ramp.
You’re going to want out. That’s okay. But instead of reaching for the old escape route, pick a less destructive one ahead of time.
Not “ideal.” Just less harmful.
Go for a rage walk.
Scream into a pillow.
Leave the house without telling anyone and drive in silence.
Name it, prep it, use it. No shame.
🔎 3. Ask: “What am I really craving right now?”
The drug, the sex, the food, the dopamine—they’re just messengers.
Pause. Ask what the craving is covering.
Loneliness? Powerlessness? Exhaustion?
Answer that honestly and you reduce its power.
📵 4. Create a no-contact zone.
Phone off. Email paused. Social media closed.
Sometimes the most sobering thing you can do is get quiet enough to hear your body’s “no.”
Make a practice of walking away—even for 10 minutes.
🤝 5. Have one person who can handle your truth.
Not your client. Not your old drinking buddy.
Someone who won’t try to fix you—but will hold the moment with you without fear or shame.
If you don’t have that person yet, you can still be that person for yourself. Sit down. Breathe. Don’t lie to yourself.
That’s the beginning of safety.
When You Slip—but Not All the Way
The damage isn’t always visible. But you still felt it, didn’t you?
You didn’t have a full relapse.
You didn’t go on a bender or disappear for days.
But something inside cracked a little—and you felt it.
Maybe you spent the entire weekend numbed out.
Maybe you said something you regretted just to feel control.
Maybe you flirted with danger—just enough to remember the high, but not enough to lose everything.
And now?
Now you’re trying to convince yourself it wasn’t that bad.
Because if you admit it…
If you call it what it really was…
Then what does that say about your healing?
But here’s the truth:
A slip isn’t a full fall.
It’s not the relapse itself that defines you—it’s what happens next.
Do you spiral deeper because of the shame?
Or do you pause, own it, and make a different choice the next hour, the next day?
You can feel disappointment without drowning in it.
You can feel regret without turning it into a sentence.
You can still choose clarity. Right here. Right now.
Because the person who slips and tells the truth about it?
They’re stronger than the person who hides behind a streak.
FAQ: For the Ones Holding It Together (Barely)
1. Am I still sober if I didn’t use—but I numbed out all weekend?
You didn’t use your primary addiction, no.
But you also didn’t connect, didn’t feel, didn’t care.
That’s a form of disassociation—and it matters.
This isn’t about labels. This is about patterns. If your nervous system had to shut down to survive the week, let’s tell the truth about that. And let’s get curious about why.
2. Do I tell my clients, friends, or team what I’m going through?
Ask yourself:
Are you sharing for connection—or absolution?
Are they safe—or will they weaponize your honesty?
You don’t owe anyone your recovery status. But you do owe yourself boundaries. And sometimes those boundaries look like: “Not now. Not with them.”
3. What if I’ve been sober a long time—and it’s still this hard?
That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human.
Sobriety isn’t a straight line—it’s a spiral.
The longer you stay in it, the deeper it goes. You’re not starting over. You’re just being invited to look at the next layer.
4. Why does this feel lonelier the longer I stay sober?
Because most people don’t live in this kind of awareness.
You start to see through things—performances, power games, escapism—and that kind of clarity can feel isolating.
But it’s also where freedom lives. The goal isn’t to be liked. The goal is to be well. Even if that means walking alone for a while.
5. What if I don’t have anyone safe to talk to?
Then start with the truth in your own journal.
Voice memos to yourself.
Walking prayers.
A blank page that holds you without judgment.
And when you’re ready: seek someone who understands trauma, leadership, and sobriety without selling formulas. (Yes, that person exists.)
Final Thoughts: You Don’t Have to Do This Alone Anymore
You’re not a failure.
You’re not back at square one.
You’re not broken because this is still hard.
You’re sober. You’re tired. You’re still here.
And maybe that’s the bravest thing you’ve done all week.
You don’t have to figure this out alone.
You don’t need a perfect plan.
You just need to tell the truth—and let someone hold it without fixing or judging.
💌 Write me. Seriously.
If this hit you in a way that you didn’t expect—let me know. I read every message. You don’t have to be polished or eloquent. Just honest.
👉 Send me a note
Not ready to reach out yet? That’s okay too.
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