
We are not all that different
Alcohol was in my house before I knew what to call it. I grew up in Puerto Rico with two parents who drank, and drank heavily, and neither one of them ever thought the word alcoholic had anything to do with them. That is where this starts. Not in 2017.
I moved to Miami at 19 and did the eighties and nineties there the way plenty of people did. I tried pot, I tried cocaine, and I put both of them down without much trouble. Drinking was the one that stayed, and that is still the part I find strange: the illegal things turned out to be the easy ones to walk away from. Alcohol was legal, it was on every table I sat at, and nobody ever takes you aside about a glass of wine.
So I quit and started again, over and over, for most of my adult life. It cost me legal trouble. It cost me customers. It cost me friends who were finished watching. In between all of it I moved to Houston, then Orlando, built a consulting career from nothing, and raised my son while I did it. On paper I had everything a person is supposed to want.
Then, in January 2017, the house I was living in caught fire. It burned my lungs, and it burned that version of my life down with it. The fire did not start my drinking. It found me already fighting it, and it took away the last of the room I had been using to keep that fight quiet.
There was no single rock-bottom moment, just pain and a choice to reach for wine instead of painkillers. I told myself wine was the smarter one: natural, not addictive. A glass to take the edge off, then a glass because the day was long. I was a professional, a mother, someone who had it together, and that belief is exactly what let it get loud again, until the drinking caught up with the rest of my life and I was arrested.
I spent 13 months in jail. The women in there called it camp, and once I understood why, so did I. They were carrying far more than I was, and they are the ones who taught me the thing none of the expensive programs ever had: sweet works better than salty, candy works better than chocolate. Something small, something immediate. It got me through one night, and then the next. My son is the one who said I should build something out of it, so this isn't only my idea. It's his too.




