🎶 I’ve Got Friends in Low Places 🎶

(And Also the Internet, Apparently)

So I’m driving home from an AA meeting, sipping a seltzer like a badass, when Garth Brooks comes on the radio.

I’ve got friends in low places...

And I’m like—damn right I do.

Not in the “I make poor choices” kind of way (well, not lately), but in the “I’ve found love in the trenches” kind of way. You know, the gritty, beautiful, soul-saving kind of friendship. The kind that hugs you with side-eyes and sarcasm and still shows up at 2AM with snacks.

Anyway—today marks six years of not drinking. No booze. Not even when I’m crying, stressed, or surrounded by people who make me question my life choices. Not even when my Mom passed away. Six years. That’s like... first grade, but in healing.

AA folks showed up today and loved on me. It was simple and kind and sacred. And no, I can’t share details—what happens in the circle stays in the circle. I respect the space too much to turn it into content.

But I will say this: AA is not a cult.

Seriously. I study power dynamics like other people study wine labels. I can smell coercion from a mile away. So when people throw around “cult” about AA, I get a little twitchy. If love, structure, and mutual survival now count as cult behavior, then we’ve got way bigger issues than one lady’s trauma projection on a Tiktok.

Ahem. Anyway.

Today I also made a new friend on the internet. As usual, it started with a disagreement (classic me). Something about language or power or neurodivergence—who knows, the details are blurry. But by the end of our 30-minute public thread exchange, we were laughing, nodding, and low-key soul bonding.

This is how it always goes.
Disagree.
Pause.
Realize we’re saying the same thing in different dialects.
Boom: friendship.

It’s a strange gift—this social courage I have. It gets me into some beautiful messes. Also: actual messes. But I’ve made friends all over the world by being willing to engage in good-faith conflict. That’s the AuDHD charm—equal parts connection and chaos.

Yesterday I wrote something on Facebook about what these six years mean to me. But then my sponsor—who is 80-something, majestic, and secretly a wizard—told me, “Six is integration.” And now, of course, I’m spiraling down a rabbit hole of symbolism because how could I not?

Anyway. Here's what I wrote (with a few tweaks, because writing is also practice):

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Try, Fail, Try, Fail, Try, Fail, Succeed: How Practice Saved My Life

I was a gymnast as a little girl. So “practice” is basically in my bones.

Fall down. Get back up. Try again. Not because you’re guaranteed to stick the landing, but because sticking the landing isn’t the point. Trying is the point. Growth is the point.

That instinct never left me. Even when everything else did.

I say this with full transparency: I’ve wanted to die. I’ve struggled with alcohol. I’ve been hospitalized. I’ve screamed into the void wondering if it was all just... me.

And now, somehow, I’m six years into recovery.

Six years of choosing myself.
Six years of breaking cycles.
Six years of feeling things all the way through.
Six years of unlearning shame and remembering who the hell I am.

And let’s be clear—I did not get here through perfection.

I got here through practice.

Try. Fail. Try. Fail. Try. Fail. Succeed.
(Repeat as needed.)

Finding out I’m autistic was a game-changer. Suddenly the intensity made sense. The overwhelm. The way I felt too much, or not enough, or like the world had no place carved out for someone wired like me.

I wasn’t broken. Just… untranslated.

Healing didn’t turn me into someone new. It gave me back to myself.

So I practiced.
Boundaries.
Self-trust.
Saying “no” without apology and “yes” without guilt.
Falling down and getting up, again and again.

That’s recovery.
Not a finish line.
Just the courage to keep practicing.

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So yeah, six years. Of not dying. Of choosing life. Of becoming someone I’m actually kind of into.

And if you’re reading this in the middle of your own low place, I hope you’ll hear this part loud and clear:

You’re not failing. You’re practicing.

And someday you might look back and realize: this messy moment was one of the first steps toward freedom.

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Cue Garth. Volume up.
Cracks open LaCroix.
Toasts the void.

“Low places” never felt so damn good.