There’s a kind of crying that feels endless, until suddenly it isn’t—because there are no tears left.

Lately, I feel like I’ve cried myself dry. Tight chest, the burning eyes, the heaviness that settles in and refuses to move. It’s grief without release. Mourning on mute.

In sobriety, everything feels louder. The memories don’t stay buried. They come back in waves—dreams of heartbreak, of moments I wish I could rewrite, of mistakes I swear I’ve already learned from and yet somehow relive again, and again.

That’s one of the hardest parts of becoming sober: realizing how often I’ve circled the same wounds. Thinking I was moving forward only to discover I’d been walking the same familiar path, just wearing new shoes. It hurts to see it clearly. It hurts to know better now.

Sometimes my mind drifts to better times—moments that felt safe, warm, full of laughter or belonging. And then the realization hits: those versions of life don’t exist anymore. Those people, those dynamics, that sense of adventure and a life that I love —is gone. OH, what I would do to have it back.

There are days when all I want to do is curl up in bed and cry until the world goes quiet. To opt out. To let the weight press me into the mattress and stay there. I want to be held. I want comfort. I want nurturing. I want someone to say, “You don’t have to be strong right now.” I want my dad’s big arms around me. I want a loving mother.

Sobriety has a way of stripping life down to what’s actually there, not what I wish was there. And sometimes what’s there is just me, sitting with my pain, learning how to stay and not end it all.

I’m learning that becoming sober isn’t just about quitting something—it’s about learning how to comfort myself when no one else can. How to be gentle with the parts of me that are exhausted from surviving. How to let grief exist without numbing it away. One day, maybe I will learn how to do that. But today, today I cry, again.