Four Years Sober, 24 Years Old, and Still Trying to Catch Up

I remember pulling my car over to throw up on the side of the road on several occasions.

These particular memories are from the early days of my recovery, when I was driving to intensive outpatient treatment meetings. I was shaking, sweating more than usual (which was particularly unpleasant because I already sweat a ridiculous amount), and dealing with constant nausea and headaches.

My thoughts were cloudy, my skin looked ashy, and I felt absolutely miserable.

I had reached a point in my drinking where my body had become physically dependent on alcohol. Going without it was no longer simply uncomfortable.

A couple of weeks earlier, I'd also purchased marijuana online from a less-than-reputable source. Whatever I received got me considerably higher than I expected. It didn't even feel like marijuana, but at the time, I didn't particularly care.

Looking back, I find that indifference disturbing. I had become so accustomed to putting substances into my body that I barely questioned what I was consuming.

I grew up Muslim and have always believed in God, although I'd spent the years leading up to my recovery taking my faith and relationship with my Higher Power for granted.

During those early weeks of sobriety, I started thinking much more seriously about my life, my family, and the damage I'd done to my relationships.

And in some ways, confronting those things was more difficult than the physical withdrawal.

Rebuilding Trust Was Harder Than I Expected

I remember struggling to make eye contact with my parents.

I didn't know what to say to them or how to behave around them. Every interaction felt uncomfortable, and I constantly wanted to say something profound that would convince them I was finally heading in the right direction.

I wanted them to believe I'd changed.

More importantly, I wanted them to believe it immediately.

Of course, that's not how trust works.

You can't spend years behaving irresponsibly and expect a couple of heartfelt conversations to repair everything.

But I desperately wanted that part of recovery to be easier.

I hated the withdrawal symptoms, yet there was a strange part of me that felt I deserved them. If I could have chosen between enduring more physical discomfort and dealing with the consequences of my behavior toward my family, I probably would have chosen the physical discomfort.

At least withdrawal felt like something I could get through.

Rebuilding trust was much less predictable.

I'm now almost four and a half years into recovery, and I would say that my relationship with my family has only felt fully repaired over the past six months.

There were certainly improvements during the first three and a half years, but something still felt unresolved.

I've spent a lot of time wondering why.

I think part of the answer is that, although I had stopped drinking and was making better decisions, I hadn't yet developed a clear idea of what I wanted my future to look like.

I was sober, employed, and doing considerably better than I had been.

But I didn't really have a long-term plan.

Working Hard Without Getting Anywhere

For more than two and a half years, I worked as a phlebotomist in a hospital.

It was the longest I'd ever held a job, which probably isn't particularly surprising given my age and previous drinking habits.

I was good at my job. I received positive feedback from coworkers and supervisors, became comfortable working in a demanding medical environment, and developed skills that I still value.

But there was one major problem.

The pay was terrible.

And even writing that sentence makes me angry.

I was working in healthcare, performing a skilled procedure that involved needles, blood, exposure risks, and direct patient care. I was doing work that required training, attention to detail, and a considerable amount of responsibility.

So why the hell couldn't I earn a decent living?

It's frustrating that so many people are expected to obtain a college degree simply to have a reasonable chance of earning a living wage.

And obtaining that degree often means taking on substantial debt.

We're told to pursue higher education to improve our financial circumstances, but doing so can require sacrificing years of income while accumulating expenses that may take decades to repay.

I had already developed a terrible relationship with the education system because of my experiences growing up with severe dyslexia.

Returning to school was one of the last things I wanted to do.

But eventually, I realized that remaining frustrated with my wages wasn't going to change them.

I needed a plan.

And for the first time in years, I was in a position where returning to college was actually possible.

I didn't know how long that opportunity would last, so I decided to take it.

Returning to College at 23

My first semester back in school was difficult.

I was 23, approaching 24, and sitting in classrooms surrounded by students who had only recently graduated from high school.

I also had to confront something uncomfortable about myself.

For most of my life, I'd never really put much effort into school.

Some of that was connected to my dyslexia and the lack of support I received growing up. But I also had to acknowledge that I'd developed a habit of avoiding academic challenges rather than confronting them.

Suddenly, I was expected to study consistently, manage deadlines, and take my education seriously.

It was an adjustment.

But there was one significant difference between me and many of the younger students around me.

I knew exactly why I was there.

I wasn't attending college because it seemed like the obvious next step after high school.

I was there because I'd spent years working in healthcare, realized I wanted to become a nurse, and understood what continuing without a degree would likely mean for my future.

My grades were good during my first two semesters.

And while academic success certainly wasn't going to fix every problem in my life, I think it helped repair something that had been missing in my relationship with my family.

For the first time, I wasn't simply promising that I would do better.

I was demonstrating it.

I had developed a realistic, long-term goal and was consistently working toward it.

I think that made a difference, both in how my family viewed me and how I viewed myself.

The Shame of Still Depending on My Family

Despite everything I've accomplished, there's something I continue to struggle with.

I'm 24 years old, and I'm still financially dependent on my family.

I know that being a college student at my age isn't particularly unusual. I also know that plenty of people rely on family support well into adulthood.

But knowing those things doesn't automatically make me feel better.

I want to be independent.

I want to have my own place, pay my own bills, and stop feeling like I'm asking my family to support a life I should already be capable of maintaining.

And the frustrating part is that I know I'm doing something about it.

I'm in nursing school. I'm getting good grades. I have years of healthcare experience, and I'm working toward a career that should eventually provide financial stability.

But I'm not there yet.

I still have roughly another two and a half years before I expect to finish school.

Sometimes that feels like an eternity.

Being a broke college student is stressful enough without constantly comparing your circumstances to where you think you should be in life.

And I can already imagine some older reader coming across this article and thinking something along the lines of:

"Look at kids these days. Twenty-four years old and still relying on his parents. He needs to grow up."

As if I don't know that.

As if I'm not actively trying to change my circumstances.

As if anyone genuinely enjoys feeling financially dependent on other people longer than necessary.

I don't need someone to explain that independence is important.

I think about it constantly.

Recovery Doesn't Automatically Eliminate Shame

One of the more complicated parts of my recovery has been learning that shame doesn't necessarily disappear when you stop drinking.

I'm not ashamed of having struggled with addiction or depression.

Those experiences are part of my life, and I've become increasingly comfortable discussing them openly.

But I do feel ashamed of my current circumstances sometimes.

Meeting new people can be difficult because I know the conversation will eventually turn toward what I do, where I live, or what my plans are.

And while there's nothing inherently embarrassing about being a nursing student, I sometimes feel compelled to explain why I'm still in school at 24.

I want people to understand that I didn't simply spend the last several years doing nothing.

I was getting sober, working, rebuilding relationships, and trying to figure out what kind of future I wanted.

But I also recognize that I shouldn't need to provide a detailed explanation of my life every time I meet someone.

The problem isn't necessarily that other people are judging me.

It's that I'm often judging myself before they've even had the opportunity.

I think that's something I still need to work on.

Learning to Accept Where I Am

Lately, I've found myself returning to the Serenity Prayer, something I first encountered through Alcoholics Anonymous.

The central message is relatively simple: accept the things you cannot change, find the courage to change the things you can, and develop the wisdom to recognize the difference.

I've always appreciated that message, but I think I'm beginning to understand its relevance to my life in a different way.

I can't change the fact that I struggled with addiction.

I can't change how poorly I performed in school when I was younger, or the years I spent avoiding decisions about my future.

And I certainly can't go back in time and start nursing school at 18.

But I can decide how seriously I take my education today.

I can continue building a better relationship with my family, make responsible financial decisions, and work toward becoming the kind of nurse I want to be.

Those are things I have some control over.

I also think there's an important distinction between using frustration as motivation and allowing it to consume you.

My frustration with my circumstances has pushed me to make meaningful changes.

It helped motivate me to return to school, take my education seriously, and develop goals that extend beyond simply getting through another week.

But constantly reminding myself of how far behind I feel isn't particularly productive.

At some point, I need to recognize that progress is still progress, even when it happens later than I would have preferred.

I'm Not Where I Want to Be, but I'm Getting There

Writing about these experiences is both relieving and uncomfortable.

It's easy enough to talk about getting sober when I can point to more than four years of recovery.

It's harder to acknowledge the parts of my life that still feel unfinished.

I don't particularly enjoy admitting that I struggle with financial independence or that I sometimes feel embarrassed about being a college student at 24.

But those feelings are real, and pretending otherwise wouldn't accomplish much.

I also don't want to overlook what I've already achieved.

There was a time when I couldn't reliably make it through a day without drinking.

Now I'm working toward a nursing degree, maintaining meaningful relationships, and making plans for a future that I genuinely want to experience.

That's a pretty significant change.

I still wish I'd gotten started earlier.

I still get frustrated when I think about how much longer it'll take before I can support myself comfortably.

And I still have moments when I feel like I'm trying to catch up with everyone around me.

But I'm beginning to realize that I don't have to be satisfied with my current circumstances to accept them.

I can want more for myself without treating everything I've accomplished so far as inadequate.

I can't change when I started rebuilding my life. I can only decide what I do with the opportunity I have now.

And for the moment, that's what I'm trying to focus on.