I didn’t get sober to be “healthy”. I got sober because I nearly died, in the sea at 6am.
👉 If you think sobriety is boring, read the Manifesto.
Hmm.
Yes. Every damn time.
The first year I got sober, I practically lived at dessert shops in Brighton. Jojo’s pancakes, creamy sugar bombs, Cadbury Caramel bars at 2AM, white Twix as religion. I measured that year not in days, but in sugar grams.
And people still had the audacity to lecture me: “Sugar is bad for you.”
No sh*t. But sugar never landed me in the hospital. Sugar never made me black out and wake up in a stranger’s flat. Sugar never told me to walk into the sea and not come back.
I’ll take a white Twix over a white line any day (now anyway… lets see what happens in 12 month time)
The Dopamine Relocation Program
Let’s be clear: I didn’t stop wanting dopamine when I got sober. My brain didn’t suddenly learn to meditate on mountaintops and live off kale. It wanted the hit. It always wants the hit.
All sobriety did was force me to relocate my dopamine dealer.
Think of it like moving your family out of a war zone. Yeah, the new house is cramped, and the neighbours complain about noise, but at least no one’s firing bullets through your kitchen window.
Sugar, caffeine, nicotine. They’re the suburbs of dopamine. Not perfect, not clean, but safer than the cartel I was working with before.
The Brighton Dessert Chronicles
Let me take you back. Brighton, Year One Sober.
I’d just lost my old world. I had no idea who I was without it. The only thing that made sense was the sugar rush.
- Jojo’s: a weekly pilgrimage. Syrup-soaked stacks that could put a diabetic into a coma. I’d order them with pride.
- Cram’s ice cream: the rude guy behind the counter once pissed me off so bad I nearly fought him. Over sprinkles.
- Late-night Cadbury Caramels: two, sometimes three, on the walk home.
- White Twix: my holy grail. Bite, chew, dopamine. No afterparty required.
I wasn’t proud. I wasn’t ashamed. I was alive.
Sugar is the New Dealer
Here’s the thing: when you quit the big stuff, sugar sneaks in like a rebound relationship. It’s waiting at the door, arms wide open, whispering, “I won’t hurt you like he did.”
And for a while, it’s true. Sugar keeps you upright when your body is screaming. It keeps your hands busy when cravings creep in. It makes boring moments tolerable.
Do I binge? Of course. Do I care? Not enough to trade Haribo for heroin.
Caffeine Chaos
Now let’s talk coffee.
Airports at 4AM are hellscapes. Everyone looks half dead. The only thing that kept me from collapsing was double shot espressos and cans of Monster.
I’ve argued with baristas about which energy drink is better like it’s fine wine. “Red Bull has more prang. Monster hits like a hammer. Relentless is the poor man’s speed.”
I once had so much caffeine I shook through an entire plane ride and nearly bit my own tongue off. It was hell. It was also harmless compared to what I used to do.
Caffeine is chaos in a can. And I’ll drink it, because it won’t kill me the way alcohol nearly did.
The Smoking Math
Ah, cigarettes. The last socially acceptable vice that still gets you judged.
People love to lecture: “Did you know smoking is bad for you?”
No sh*t. So is snorting grams of coke until sunrise, but I don’t do that anymore.
Smoking for me has always been a bridge, not a home. A crutch, yes. But one that never toppled me over. And honestly? In the early days, that crutch kept me standing.
Why Perfectionists Can F*ck Off
Here’s where I get angry.
There’s a certain brand of recovery perfectionist who thinks you need to quit everything at once. No sugar, no caffeine, no nicotine, no fun. Just yoga and green juice and journaling at dawn.
Good for them. Really. But for me? That level of “purity” would’ve killed me.
Because here’s the truth: sobriety is not about becoming perfect. It’s about not dying.
I’ll eat Haribo until my teeth fall out if that’s what it takes to keep me from picking up a drink.
Perfection is a trap. Progress is enough.
Guardrails That Keep Me From Going Off the Rails
I’m not pretending sugar and caffeine are harmless. They can wreck you if you let them. So here’s how I keep them in check:
- Intentionality: I choose my sugar hits, I don’t just autopilot them.
- Movement: I box, I train. Burn it off.
- Sleep: sacred. No Monsters after 6PM (I try but sometimes fail)
- Water + protein: sometimes. Enough to not feel like a walking Haribo.
- Honesty: I tell people when I’m binging. No shame, just truth.
That’s it. No fancy hacks. Just basics that stop me from turning into a sugar gremlin.
When to Tighten the Screws
Sometimes even soft vices get too loud. I’ve had weeks where I couldn’t stop eating chocolate, where I felt sick from caffeine, where cigarettes made my chest hurt.
That’s when I pause. Pull back a little. Reset. Not out of guilt. Out of respect.
I don’t beat myself up. I just remind myself: these are bridges, not mansions. Don’t move in.
The Funny Sh*t People Don’t Tell You
- Jelly babies at 3AM can feel like MDMA if you’re tired enough.
- Airports sell caffeine shots that taste like battery acid but hit like amphetamines.
- Smoking behind a church after a meeting feels like a sacrament.
- Haribo in bulk is cheaper than therapy (but don’t quote me on that).
Sobriety is weird. You find joy in places you never expected.
Why I Don’t Care What Perfect Internet Thinks
Instagram recovery gurus will show you their smoothies, their abs, their “day 1 no sugar, no caffeine, no nicotine, no screens.”
I clap for them. I also know most of them would’ve relapsed if they tried my route.
Recovery isn’t a contest. It’s survival.
And here’s my math:
- White Twix = dopamine, alive.
- Cocaine = dopamine, dead.
The choice is easy.
The Deeper Point: Progress, Not Purity
I’ve been alive long enough to know this: perfection is fiction. It’s a cage dressed as a goal.
Progress is what matters.
Not dying is what matters.
Building a life you can stand sober is what matters.
If that life includes Haribo, Monsters, and cigarettes? So be it.
Final Word
I don’t worship sugar. I don’t glorify caffeine. I don’t recommend smoking as a lifestyle.
But I do know this: those “vices” kept me alive long enough to build a sober life. And I won’t let anyone shame me out of gratitude for that.
Sobriety isn’t about purity. It’s about staying alive long enough to figure out who the f*ck you are.
🍭 Want more chaos without collapse? Then pack like I do: The Sober Packing List.
