Missing My Wild, Reckless Self That Nearly Killed Me

The Wild, Feral Me

Here’s the truth: I miss the old me.
The wild, reckless, feral me.

The me that didn’t just party until sunrise… he invented new sunrises.
The me that said “just one more pint” at 3am… and somehow meant it at 9am too.
The me that thought being awake for 36 hours straight was a personality trait.

I miss him sometimes.
He was chaos, he was energy, he was stories.
He was “you had to be there” in human form.

The Parts I Loved (And Lied About)

I miss:

• The get-togethers where the common enemy was feelings.
• The come-up (well… cocaine come-up. The others were sh*t).
• The weird flirting where everyone suddenly became hot in nightclub lighting.
• The sesh, the afters, the “best friends” you’ll never meet again.
• The excuse to do dumb sh*t because “I was drunk” (like falling down stairs and calling it “dancing”).

That stuff? Addictive. It felt like freedom.
Like being untamed, uncaged, a feral animal in a human zoo.

The Ugly Truth Behind the Romance

But let’s not lie. Wild me was a prick.

Because with the high came:

• Afterday shame.
• Risky sex with people whose names I couldn’t remember (or never asked).
• Violence in my early drinking days.
• Endless arguments with partners I “loved” but couldn’t stay loyal to.
• Overdoses.
• Trying to drown myself in the f*cking sea.
• Loneliness when the drugs ran out.
• Hangovers that felt like I’d been hit by a truck carrying another truck.

The “best mates” from the night before? Ghosts by morning.
The connection? False.
The freedom? A cage.

The Wild, Reckless Self I Can’t Stop Missing

What I thought I missed wasn’t me.
It was the illusion.

The mask.
The costume.
The “main character energy” version of me who existed only because I was high.

I thought I was flirty. Turns out I was just numbed out.
I thought I was funny. Turns out I was just loud.
I thought I was free. Turns out I was chained to a bag and a bottle.

It wasn’t real.
It was me playing myself on stage. But the actor never got to go home.

The Identity Crisis

Here’s where it gets messy.

When I first got sober, I thought:

• “I’ll never party again.”
• “I’ll never laugh again.”
• “I’ll never flirt again.”
• “What’s the point of even going out?”

I honestly thought being sober meant being boring.
Like I’d swapped chaos for crossword puzzles.

But the real kicker?
Sober me felt like a shell at first. Empty. Exposed.
No mask, no armour, no excuse.
Just… me.

And I hated him at first.

Where I Actually Find Wildness Now

Here’s the twist: wildness didn’t die when I put the bottle down.

I still dance. I still rave. I still let go. Only now I remember it.
I still mosh like a lunatic.
I still DJ.
I still chase adrenaline (boxing, pushing limits, traveling solo).

But I also find chaos in sh*t I never expected:

• Coffee at sunrise.
• Writing this blog raw as f*ck.
• Building my van like a teenage dreamer with power tools.
• Running a business that could actually collapse if I slack.
• Sitting with sober mates talking real sh*t instead of blackout nonsense.

Chaos without collapse. That’s the sweet spot.

The Funny Bit No One Tells You

Here’s what’s hilarious:

Flirting sober? Way harder.
Turns out you actually need to like the person.
And it’s wild how many people are not hot when you can see straight.

Dancing sober? Looks weirder but feels better.
Because now it’s not performance, it’s therapy.

Conversations sober? 100x deeper.
But also 100x more awkward if you’re stuck with boring people.

The irony: I thought I’d lose freedom, but I gained it.
I thought I’d miss the wild, fcked-up me.
But it turns out, he was just a shtty stunt double.

Final Word

So yeah, I miss him sometimes.
The wild, reckless, feral me.
The one who gave me stories and scars in equal measure.

But he almost killed me.
And honestly? He was never really me.

Because the real me. The one writing this, building this, living this. Is wilder.
Because he survives the night.

🔥 If this resonated, read what happened the night I nearly didn’t come back: The Night I Should Have Died (But Didn’t).

Aaron Mouland

Quit drinking on 23 July 2021 after a two-day bender and swapped bars for border crossings and 12-step meetings. Three sober years, 36 countries, 113 travellers (totally dry), fuelled by street food, jelly babies, and a broken Google Maps app. Wandersober is my journal, my SEO lab, and my mission. Featured in GQ, Mirror, Evening Standard, MarketWatch, and more.

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⚠️ The night I should have died, but didn’t. Read the full story →