I used to say ‘Eating’s cheating’…but now I know ‘Boozing’s losing.’
Before I reflect on a year without alcohol, the first thing I must do is thank the haters, doubters and gossips: without you lurking in the shadows making snarky comments and murmured remarks that we were doomed to fail, we actually might have. Your certainty that Dave and I would fall at the first hurdle - and even actively trying to trip us up - gave us the resolve we needed in the early days to dig deep, grit our teeth, and order lime and sodas at the bar, when we could so easily have buckled under the intense pressure to carry on our existing wine-guzzling ways. Thank you for doubting us, because you’ve made this moment taste even sweeter.
In the past 365 days, I’ve seen more sunrises, ran more kilometres, eaten more healthily and built more muscle in my body than at any other point in my life. I’ve excelled at my job and saved a tidy sum in my bank account. My relationship with my partner has gone from strength to strength and I am the fittest I have ever been in my life, both mentally and physically. The palpitations and abnormal heart rhythms my Apple watch kept alerting me to have stopped. My VO2 max has massively increased, to an average of 49.7. During a pandemic which took so much, I’ve gained more than I ever expected.
So what drove me to make such a drastic change to my lifestyle in the first place?
It all started back in March 2020, when I broke my wrist at a nightclub after slipping on a drink-flooded dancefloor. It was the start of the pandemic, right before the clubs would close their doors for eighteen months; our last hurrah.
Having experienced the heartache of infertility and failed IVF, the final blow to my marriage came in the form of premature menopause, which unbeknownst to me at the time, was ravaging my mind and body following botched abdominal surgery. Fast forward 10 years, and I was now divorced and suffering multiple menopause symptoms and effects (following many years until the correct diagnosis, when I should have been on hormone therapy). One common side-effect of premature ovarian failure is weakening of the bones and, ultimately, osteoporosis, whereby the bones become thin and brittle, making breaks more likely.
That day on the dancefloor, when I skidded on spilt drinks and landed awkwardly, it was hardly surprising my wrist snapped like a piece of honeycomb brittle (despite all the strength training I’d been doing at the gym). What happened next was the wake-up call I needed: the hospital refused to treat me. Overwhelmed with panic about the risk of Covid transmission, they sent me packing with only a makeshift temporary cast, and when the day came to replace it with a full one they refused, sending me away in tears with a flimsy nylon splint. I was in agony.
Then followed a week of hell, until a series of desperate tweets to the hospital CEO finally resulted in them relenting and agreeing to plaster my arm, having admitted they made a mistake. The relief was instant; but in those dark days of pain the reality hit me that now more than ever was the time to take charge of my health, and to do everything in my power to look after myself as best I could - after all, who else could I rely on to do it? I’m a childless divorcee…and the NHS have proved to me time and again that, despite their efforts, they are a flawed organisation, stretched way beyond their limits. Neglect your health at your peril, because they can’t - and won’t - always be able to fix you. Their ‘cradle to grave’ pledge may cover a shorter span than you envisage - not least because the care you receive from them may not always be up to scratch. Now I know this negativity towards the NHS is unpopular - especially following the toughest challenge it’s ever faced in the form of Covid-19 - but my doubts are not unfounded: the list of failings in care over my lifetime would shock you (and it’s only going to get worse in a post-Covid era with waiting lists in their millions). But that’s a blog for another time.
So, after a few bleary-eyed blowouts, when the novelty of lockdown was still fresh, the furlough flowed and the sun shone daily, I took stock of my life and health and found it to be lacking. Change was long overdue. Having drunk alcohol for 30 years, I was finally ready to look it in the eye and challenge it to a duel. Gazing down the barrel of the gun, or should that be into the barrel - the one filled with booze - I focused my resolve and stayed determined not to succumb.
And to my surprise, I won.
And it was the most rewarding win of my life: my eyes shone; my sleep improved. My fitness soared. I took up running, and entered a half marathon for charity (which takes place in a few weeks’ time, so feel free to sponsor me here 😉).
My Nike Running app tells me I’ve run 125 times in the past 7 months, 840km in distance, including 4 half-marathons - the fastest of which was yesterday morning:
Every few days I’ve run alone - in all weather conditions - manoeuvring my backside out of the door and into driving rain/boiling sun/snow/ice/frost - usually while everyone else is still in bed. Regular as clockwork. Ditto my gym classes. That would SO not have happened had I still been drinking. Ok, so my social life might have waned slightly, but hasn’t everyone’s?! And what I’ve lost in slurred chats that I never remember in the morning (and hangovers that I definitely do 🤕), I’ve gained in a sizeable chunk of savings and oodles of optimistic plans for my future sober self.
Have I had tough moments and momentary wobbles? Most definitely. Would I go back to my old life? Not in a million years. Why would I swap this fit and healthy human for one that was full of self-loathing after every sesh, sluggish, and suffering from hidden health issues that were being exacerbated by imbibing alcohol on a regular basis? It’s nothing short of madness to fatten and poison your body with ethanol at any time, let alone in the middle of a global pandemic, when you need your immune system to be as strong as it can be to fight a potentially deadly virus.
When I fell and smashed my head against the floor at that London nightclub last year, I finally knocked some sense into myself. It didn’t feel that way at the time, but that accident was the wake-up call I needed. It gave me the impetus to take stock of my life and responsibility for the health of my future self. After all, your health is your wealth; without it you have nothing.
What will it take to make YOU wake up?
Sam x
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
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