Strawberry Morning
MAY 20, 2023
I’m not one to remember dates. I couldn’t even tell you my own wedding anniversary. But I do know that exactly ten years ago, I woke up to a pang of nausea so severe that it sent me running to the toilet in my tiny Bronx apartment. I barely made it. I fell to my knees and hurled violently. Puking made me cry. How pathetic. I rinsed my mouth out, careful not to make eye contact with the mirror. I crawled back into bed, still nauseous, still crying. Then shame settled in, as usual. I looked at my phone. Only 6am. It would be a whole day of this.
I resented the daylight that forced itself through the cracks in my blinds, refusing to let me sleep. Smashed sideways into my pillow, one open eye looked at the black and white photo of my grandparents on my nightstand. Such noble people. Such a contrast. I looked at the braid of sweetgrass lying next to it, unburned. I felt further away than ever from the tough little girl who prided herself on never, ever leaving a sweat lodge early. I closed my eyes tight, trying to connect to the healing darkness of that inipi. I was too far away. I needed home. I needed help.
A thought popped into my head. “You’re going to be a mother one day.” I tried to push the thought away, but I couldn’t. So I considered it, this strange concept that I had never dreamt of before. Another thought followed. “How will you be?”
In my Lakota culture, it is often advised that people commit to something for a while before officially beginning. For example, if you are to start sun dancing, you commit to four years. Motherhood is a huge undertaking. I suddenly realized that it didn’t matter how far away it seemed. I needed to prepare. The message was so firm and clear that it urged me to take action right away. So I made some phone calls.
Lying in that very bed, I turned on my iPhone and called my mom, my dad, my sister, and my cousin, all far away in North Dakota. I felt nervous, but certain. I said the same thing each time. “Hi… I’m just calling to tell you that I decided to quit drinking… and I might need your support.” They were each surprised, but kind. “Oh… okay! That’s great, Chels. I am definitely here for you.” With each short phone call, my decision felt more real. Accountability is powerful, and to this day, I am glad that I sought it immediately.
Then I started googling things. How do you quit drinking? One piece of advice stood out. When offered a drink in a social setting, be straightforward. Instead of “I’m not drinking tonight,” say, “I don’t drink.” Boldly embrace your new identity. Get comfortable with it.
This tip would prove useful. I was in the midst of a season of parties and celebrations as my classmates and I were finishing up our master’s degrees. In the coming weeks, I would find myself around various Manhattan bars and apartments answering questions from friends who had always known me as a drinker. This proved awkward, but manageable. I got lots of side-eyes. But I kept practicing this decisive language. “I don’t drink.” “Why not?” “Health reasons,” or, “It’s a cultural thing.” Both were true, if not the complete story.
Sometimes I faced judgment and disappointment. “Oh come on… not even one?” Other times, I’d be heartened by a person’s interest. “Really? Oh wow… I’ve actually thought about quitting, myself. What’s it like?” I noticed that by stating my sobriety, I became an instant confidant for those who questioned their own relationship to alcohol. This felt like an important responsibility. As the weeks and months went on, I became a pro at these conversations, and soon felt solid in my new identity. I. Do not. Drink. Simple.
Privately, though, it was more complex, and I thought deeper about my answer. Why did I quit? Was I an alcoholic? Alcoholism is defined as, “a chronic disease in which a person craves drinks that contain alcohol and is unable to control his or her drinking.” I definitely craved it, always looking very forward to nights out or drinking wine as I cooked dinner. But I had control over how frequently I drank – typically 2 to 4 nights a week. On the other hand, when I did go out, this control waned. I almost always drank enough to get drunk, and I often got drunk enough to impair my memory. I noticed my tolerance decreasing as I got older, my body further rejecting the stuff with each passing year. Hangovers became brutal, no matter how much or little I had. Along with nausea, digestive issues, and lethargy, the mental health symptoms of anxiety and depression became unbearable. I would spend every “next day” completely deprived of any feelings of self-worth. This was no way to be.
If I wasn’t an alcoholic, I could easily have been on my way. If I wasn’t an alcoholic, I would spend way too much time – hours and hours each week – going out, then being hung over. If I wasn’t an alcoholic, I was allowing alcohol to impact my life, career and relationships in a negative way. If I wasn’t an alcoholic, I was something.
While the inability to latch to a definition or diagnosis felt confusing, and at times frustrating, I have come to realize that I do not live alone in this grey area. The truth is that substance abuse can never be clearly defined. When mind and mood-altering substances are involved, there’s always the question of whether that substance is being used as a crutch or an escape, and whether or not that escape is healthy. The only thing I know for sure is that a person does not have to be a clinically defined alcoholic in order to consider not drinking. It’s a choice you can make regardless of diagnosis.
Recently, the stigma around sobriety is finally being lifted. Some recent headlines in the New York Times include, “How Much Alcohol is Safe To Drink? None, Say These Researchers,” and “Even a Little Alcohol Can Harm Your Health.” Ten years ago, saying I didn’t drink was almost always met with at least a bit of skepticism or judgment, with an undertone of “what’s wrong with her?” Now, saying I don’t drink is typically met with little to no reaction. It’s accepted, and widely understood as something that makes sense for good health. And for me, at least, it feels not only normal, but very much in line with my work as a wellness advocate. It seems that mainstream society is finally recognizing what we have always known in Native communities – alcohol is a bad spirit. No matter how you slice it, it really doesn’t do us any good.
That being said, I want to be very clear. I don’t judge people who drink. I don’t go around telling my friends to quit drinking. I really only talk about it when asked. I don’t think that everyone who drinks socially is in crisis mode. I can always imagine a relationship to alcohol different from my own. Not everyone grew up with an alcoholic father, like I did. Not everyone lost their closest auntie to liver disease, like I did. Not everyone was sexually assaulted while drinking, like I was. Not everyone has to completely reject alcohol in order to feel safe in this world, like I do.
But I do. And so do many others. My goal in sharing my story is to point out that mainstream society’s normalization of alcohol is something to examine. I hope to continue to help destigmatize sobriety. There’s a common expression that goes, “I don’t trust anybody who doesn’t drink.” While I was in the early stages of sobriety, phrases like that would make me feel extremely self-conscious, like I really was weak or bad for not being a social drinker. Now, though, I am comfortable with the boundary I have drawn. And I want to help others feel comfortable, too.
I also want to help people understand that a sober life is a fun life. Good things started happening to me pretty quickly after I quit. I became a morning person, an on-time person, a reliable person, and an outdoorsy person: all confidence-boosting characteristics that filled me with pride. I found myself with so much time on my hands and so many more hours in my day, so I dedicated more energy to my already-existing fitness regimen, and couldn’t believe how I soared in physical strength. I cried a lot less and slept a lot better. I just felt even-keeled. I was a rockstar at work. My relationship with myself became solid and loving. I stayed single and learned to adore my alone time. I quickly began to see which of my friendships were superficial, requiring the lubricant of alcohol to invoke fun and laughter, and which were real, unneeding of any artificial boost. And those real friendships became even better. I traveled. I adventured. I got my own beautiful apartment. I rekindled relationships with family members who I had grown apart from, and I respectfully cut ties with a few others. Stability, clarity, and drive came to the forefront. I tackled creative projects. I founded a business with the person who would become my life partner. I could go on. It was a fast-paced era of things falling into place.
Of course, not everything was perfect, nor is it now. Life, even without alcohol, will still be life. And life is hard enough all on its own. Without alcohol, I find myself capable of maintaining stability, even on the hardest of days. I find myself standing on a solid surface, able to walk through.
Today at 6am, exactly ten years after my last and final hangover, I woke up to one word: Strawberries. Westyn, who pops up quickly like a prairie dog, sat on my belly and didn’t let me doze off. “Strawberries mama. I want strawberries.” My sweet two-year-old, with her raspy voice. When she says it, it sounds like, “daw-bewwy.” I was tired, but I got up, welcoming the aid of the morning light through our window. I never take for granted the feeling of waking fresh. I crawled out of bed, put her on my hip, walked to the kitchen, sat her on the counter, and fulfilled her wish. Strawberries, her favorite. She babbled to me while smacking her lips, delighted by the juicy red treat. Moments like these are incomparable. I wonder if this is what I sought all along while I was escaping to substances.
Strawberries. I suppose because she put them in my mind right away, I kept thinking about them. They have always been a sacred medicine for my people, particularly on my Anishinaabe side. Ode’imin, they are called in our language. Heart berry.
Heart berry, because of their striking resemblance and parallel functionality to this central organ which connects our physical, spiritual, and emotional selves. As time passes in my substance-free existence, I become more deeply connected all the time with every aspect of my health and vitality. Good things are worth waiting for.
Heart berry, with its seeds visible on the outside, carries teachings about vulnerability. A part of me has been reluctant to write this and afraid to share it. But Westyn and her strawberries reminded me that I should. Because, while vulnerability may be the core of shame, it is also the birthplace of connection, creativity, and bravery. We must allow ourselves to be vulnerable. It makes for a strong life.
Strawberries, with their complex network of vines and roots, teach us about our roles in community. In Anishinaabe culture, there is a coming-of-age ceremony where women do a year-long berry fast. We are to spend our first year of womanhood with our mothers, aunties and grandmothers, learning about what it means to carry life, to provide and to lead. An intentional year of intergenerational knowledge transference. As a legacy of the boarding school system on my mother’s side, I didn’t have the opportunity to partake in this ceremony as an adolescent. Colonialism has often severed our access to these critical rites of passage. No wonder we get lost, and many of us turn to substances. As I feed these strawberries to Westyn this morning, I make a promise to my family. I will give my daughters this ceremony. My arrival to this commitment, and to many other conclusions like it, is one of the many, many gifts that sobriety has given me. I remember that I quit drinking in order to prepare for motherhood. It has taken years for the gratification of this choice to set in, but here it is. I am not always a good mother. Parenting in today’s world is so hard, so frustrating, sometimes impossible. But at the end of the day, I can confidently say that I am showing up, fully present, fully whole.
Strawberries, which are said to be found on the path to the spirit world after we pass on. Today, while celebrating my sobriety, the ever-present, unavoidable balance of life is real. The truth is, I am sad. I have been for some time. We are grieving the loss of my loving Grandpa Ed, who died less than two weeks ago. It was the honor of my life to spend time by his bedside in his final days. We visited a bit. He couldn’t say much, but he could hear. I got to tell him how much I loved him, and how proud I was to be his granddaughter. I got to hold his hand and comb his hair. I examined the shape of his nose and the angle of his brow. I am glad that I can sit for a long time, quietly, without escaping. In that room, I was privileged to witness the enduring love between my grandparents; how he’d ask for her my grandma the moment he opened his eyes. They were married for 65 years. What could be more valuable? I am reminded that I have a path to follow. And as I picture the strawberries on his path to the spirit world, I am able to accept his journey.
Strawberries, which emerge in the early summer, are sweet delicacies that signify renewal and joy. Strawberry harvests are a time when the community comes together to eat and dance and celebrate the change in seasons, to embrace one another in all of our humanity, and to let go of any judgment or self-righteousness. My tenth year of sobriety has arrived at the time of the strawberry feasts. I dream of continued renewal.
