Coming Out As Queer And Sober Felt Like A Rebirth—But Not In The Way I Expected
My hand shook with a tremor, not unlike one of those cartoons hyper-fixating on the physical symptoms of alcohol withdrawals. Did I have a drinking problem? Yes. But that wasn’t why I was so jittery. My hand was shaking because I was three sugar-free Red Bulls deep at the gay club, trying to prove to myself—for the third time that month—that I was still fun enough to go out dancing. Still hot enough to get a quick appreciative glance from a nearby trans cutie. Still queer enough to spin in circles to “Pink Pony Club” in my glitter fringe dress. I was queer. I was sober. And damn, were those simple truths tragically colliding in a crash of over-caffeination.
How did I get to this state of heart palpitations pounding in double-time with an exaggerated effort to keep up with everyone around me? By coming out as queer and then coming out as sober, all in just over two years’ time.
There are a lot of similarities between these two experiences—and a lot of unique challenges for people going through them both at once, says Sand Chang, PhD, a nonbinary clinical psychologist who specializes in queerness and addiction recovery. One common experience among folks navigating both of these journeys is a potential sense of isolation, they explain. “Navigating sobriety can be difficult for a lot of people, but for queer people, being in bars and other places that center alcohol or other substances is a really common way for queer people to find each other,” says Chang.
And I am one of those queer people. In the first months after I stopped drinking, I tried to keep my life as “normal” as possible: I went out dancing. I made the rounds at gay bars. I attended queer community events with quirky, kinky custom cocktail names. But as I no longer participated in the drinking that seemed to be assumed in queer spaces, I found myself dissociating regularly, mentally floating to the ceiling of the venue and watching myself feel so, so alone.
As it turns out, I’m far from the only person who’s had this experience. “It’s more common than you would think to struggle with substances or other mental health concerns if you have any marginalized identities,” says Chang. In fact, LGBTQ+ people were found to have significantly higher experiences of substance use disorder than their straight, cisgender counterparts in a 2022 SAHMSA National Survey on Drug Use and Health study.
But embracing your queerness and your sobriety can also bring you a deep, dedicated community of people with shared values, radical empathy, and a sense of self-understanding. When you embark on the act of stripping away outer layers of defensiveness, fear, and projections, you get to the joy that is your true inner self—the version of you you’ve been trying to get to know all along.
I came out to the world as queer in an Instagram post on a clear, sunny day in March of 2021. For the last several months, I’d been reveling in a blossoming relationship with a queer person, and given the complicated cycles of life (I was in the midst of a divorce), I had up until this point felt hesitant to do our most public form of show-and-tell. I was almost afraid that if I revealed this new treasure of an intimate, queer relationship, it would poof and disappear. But my experiences with queerness thus far, both in this partnership and in the community I was starting to build, were inspiration enough to get over this fear of loss. Coming out felt like a release, like I was unclenching the tight fists around the glowing core of my true self.
I came out to the world as sober on a cold, brisk morning in February of 2023. At that point in time, I was 226 days sober: In June 2022, I made a choice to prioritize the health of my relationship with myself, my partner, and my community by no longer drinking. I delayed sharing any information more publicly (beyond some screenshots of my sobriety counter app on big milestones on my Instagram stories) because this change had been fraught. I was not only changing my relationship with myself, but I was repairing the relationships that alcohol had impacted, too.
When I got drunk, the parts of me that believed I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t loving enough, and wasn’t worthy of care were personified. I incorrectly read into moments with friends and my partner; I acted out at events that were not at all about myself; and I projected my inner feelings of insecurity onto the people I loved most. I caused harm by enabling my inner shadows to come out and take control of how I interacted with friends, how I communicated with my partner, and how I treated myself. Now, this coming out felt like strengthening the muscles of my soul—a bulking up to show up for myself and those I care about.
These were both rebirths—just not as peaceful or affirming as I imagined a rebirth would, or should, be. Coming out as queer and coming out as sober each offered a direct line back to my authentic self, but they also sparked more questions, confusion, and general insertion of other people in my business than I could have ever imagined.
Coming out as queer and being publicly sober were entirely different decisions led by entirely different internal and external factors of analysis and care, but they had one similarity I noticed immediately: They both created quite the audience of people who thought they knew better than I did how to live my life.
When I came out as queer, it was also a public notice that I was getting divorced from my ex-husband. He and I had as compassionate a divorce as possible through that kind of pain, and I was proud of the way we navigated our ending. Unfortunately, due to the remaining stigma around divorce in our society, my coming out didn’t exactly yield the response I’d hoped for. Everyone from our families to my followers on social media felt it was their duty to grieve something that wasn’t happening to them.
This pressure—of suddenly not being responsible for only my own feelings around divorce, but also for those of people who, from what I could remember, I was not married to—was heavy. There were only so many glances of disappointment, pointed DMs, and backhanded comments on my coming out post I could take. I knew I was making a decision that was leading me closer to my authentic self, but so many people didn’t see that. They only chose to see that I was causing a rupture. Leaving a life, instead of starting a new one.
When I came out as sober, the questioning was a little less blatant and a little more socialized. People wanted to know if it was a decision I made for my health, given all my chronic illnesses (I live with Type 1 Diabetes, Celiac disease, Grave’s disease, and Hashimoto’s, with a mystery rheumatological diagnosis still in the works). They wanted to know if I had also given up every other recreational substance. If I was “legit” and following a 12-step program. All questions to try and give people an assessment of how bad my problem was, and how seriously I was taking it. They chose to blanket societal norms around drinking over me instead of celebrating the unique circumstances of my life, my habits, and the new path I was carving as a result.
Getting sober for me required leaning into a community that could support this new self-discipline I was practicing. Once a queer person decides to shift their relationship with a particular substance, it’s important to seek out support. Programs like Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous can be a great place for some people to get this support, but it depends on the specific group and where you live. “If people are trying to find safe and inclusive spaces to get support for sobriety, a lot of meetings, while very welcoming to most people, may not always be reflective of a queer or trans experience,” says Chang. “There are so many places in the world and the country where sober spaces are still predominantly heterosexual and cisgender. But there are specific 12-step meetings that are queer, and being able to access online meetings helps a great deal, too.”
After I stopped drinking in 2022, I spent the first few months really coming home to myself. What was I using alcohol to try and hide or fix? What did it feel like to sit with myself, my actions, and my emotions without turning to alcohol as a fuel, a propellant, a shield?
But soon thereafter, I realized it was time to try to lean back into my community, and that required sitting with deeper questions about the F-word. No, not that one. Fun. What did it mean to have fun without drinking? How did I feel like I was offering fun experiences and moments to my friends who did still drink? And how could I support myself as I redefined and rediscovered what it meant to have fun?
These are particularly tricky questions to ask yourself as a queer person navigating predominantly queer spaces. In most parts of the country, drag shows, queer trivia, LGBTQ-friendly hoedowns, Pride events, and any other way to be in celebratory community with fellow queers are hosted at bars, clubs, and other Homes Of The Alcohol. While I certainly sought out bars that had a good selection of non-alcoholic beers and/or a mocktail menu that didn’t all taste like a juice buffet, I realized that many of these queer spaces—in my city, anyway—were not that great at non-alcoholic offerings. And when I found myself in that shaky-energy-drink-fury (trying to remind myself I had made my heart race when I decided to open that third can), it was time for me to admit to myself that this was not the fun I had in mind.
I was on a path to finding a safe middle ground—one where my fun wasn’t forced by the hand of synthetic chemicals for caffeination or the blur of inebriation. And that required getting comfortable with a question I had not yet sat down and taken the time to answer: Without alcohol, where did I find joy, laughter, pleasure in my body? The big question mark at the end of that sentence, the blurry void, made me a whole new kind of anxious. This is a common concern, says Chang. “A lot of people have a belief that substances are the only thing that make them fun, interesting, or able to be social,” they say. “It’s going to be a transition to find how you naturally want to interact with people and have fun.”
But beyond your own self-questioning, you might also wonder whether those in your community still find you fun, too. “I know when I was still drinking, I thought anyone who didn't drink must be boring as hell,” says Lael Atkinson, a professional recovery coach. Like me, Atkinson came out as queer and sober in quick succession: They came out as queer “later in life,” and soon thereafter, found their way to ending their relationship with alcohol.
Unfortunately, not everyone is going to be supportive. By living as my whole self, it meant recognizing the people in my life who were in it for reasons other than who I am at my core, or for reasons rooted in substance-driven culture. My relationships with these people just looked different after getting sober.
“People are going to have all sorts of feelings and opinions, and a big part of navigating sobriety is learning to be okay with that and remember that those are always about what your not drinking is bringing up for them,” says Atkinson. “It's acting as a mirror, and not necessarily showing them a reflection they are happy with.” While there are many people who are able to maintain healthy, joyful, supportive relationships with substances, for those who have questioned their own reliance on a substance, it may evoke discomfort to see someone choose to act on that question and find a new way forward.
The best way to center our own knowing over other peoples’ opinions, according to Chang, is to think expansively about what recovery really means. “It’s not just ‘recovering from something,’ like recovering from addiction,” they say. “It’s recovering a sense of connection to yourself. If queerness is about honoring who we are, then recovery can also be about honoring who we are at the deepest level.”
And thankfully, revealing this ultimately true version of who you are can attract new friendships, relationships, and a community who sees you for exactly who you are and not what you do, use, take, or who you love. Because what far outweighed the judgment I received during this time of personal transformation was the support from like-minded people—relieved to hear that someone was going through self-reflection and change to the same degree they were. The messages of solidarity, tips on places to meet people, new conversations about creating safer spaces for sober folks in my work environment as an advocate for reproductive health care access, and invitations to share my valued perspective on holding these identities were all enormously motivating. I learned that discovering your most authentic self can bring you your most authentically loving relationships in all areas of life.
This process, of course, is “a lifelong navigation,” says Chang. “But ideally, with all these things, I think of the work is, ‘How do I work towards a world where no one has to come out—because there’s no need to go in?’”
Due to higher rates of substance use in the queer community, I was surprised to find just how many queer sober people were ready to receive me. I relied on the gracious acceptance, radical empathy, and patient guidance of people who understood the frustrations, the joys, and the relief. Through fellow vulnerable sober folks replying to my Instagram stories and lots of time having direct conversations with the people in my community, I found queer sober friends who wanted to join me in my expedition to lean into fun, non-drinking activities, like going to the zoo, doing crafts, trying new restaurants, falling back in love with board games, and enjoying the outdoors.
Exploring these new ways of relating to fun could be a process. “A lot of substances are mood-altering, and they may take some time to exit the system, so for someone to experience depression or anxiety initially is not uncommon,” says Chang. “[Newly sober people] may not feel like a lot of fun at first, but over time, they’ll be able to develop new norms for having fun.”
And once you’re ready to have fun with someone else and navigate queer dating in the sober world? Be brave and be honest. Chang recommends just telling it like it is. “If you feel comfortable, be really upfront about not using substances because that will probably help to filter out the people who want to center all of their time and interaction around substances,” they say. “You don’t necessarily have to tell people that you have struggled with addiction or that you’re sober or in recovery. If you’re on a dating app, indicate ‘I don’t drink,’ because the people who are okay with that are the people you want to build connections with.”
If you’re not quite ready to dive into the dating world but are looking to re-engage with platonic community or build new norms with existing friendships and relationships, there are lots of great places to start. “Seek out online spaces if you can’t find in-person spaces to get support with recovery,” says Chang. “If the norm is to always meet at the bar, actually become the person who starts to plan activities that don’t involve substances. It might be getting out in nature. It might be a game night. It might be places where it’s not necessarily the norm for people to drink or use substances a lot.”
Sobriety requires a repaving of socializing—celebrating milestones, winding down, and even professional networking. Queerness requires a recreation and rewriting of intimacy, community, family, and pleasure. All for the better. And all require innovative labor.
“Without the alcohol as this buffer, you have these questions of ‘What are these capital-F Feelings?’ which means you have access to so much bigger joy, so much bigger fun, so much access to all the bigger feelings including the ones that don’t feel good to us,” says Atkinson. “You can’t selectively numb emotions. If you’re numbing some, you’re numbing all.”
And it was there that I took a big sigh of relief. Some confirmation for what I’ve found to be the loudest companion of my journey getting queer and getting sober: feelings. The highs and the lows are bigger than ever before. And if that’s not the sign of a life fully-lived, then I don’t know what is.
Queer people. Sober people. Queer sober people. You’re not alone. There are so many of us, together, wading through these uncharted waters, paving our own path, finding our own fun, forging our own deepest feelings, bridging connections to those around us, and most importantly, to ourselves.
SOURCE: https://www.womenshealthmag.com/life/a62555114/coming-out-as-queer-and-sober/
Women’sHealth by Kelsey Rhodes
