One Day at a Time: The Tools and Truths That Still Keep Me Going

By: Tasha Truchel

Tools, truths, and the not-so-glamorous things that actually kept me going

There were days in sobriety where I felt like I was hanging on by a string—and not even a strong one. More like a frayed shoelace someone found under a couch. One of the hardest days I can remember was during a conflict with an ex-boyfriend when I was about three years sober. I truly thought about giving up and saying, "F*** it, I don’t care." For several minutes, I considered throwing it all away. I was completely overcome with emotion, overstimulated, and unable to regulate my thoughts or feelings.

In early sobriety, I did have those "what's the point?" thoughts. It was never so much "I can't do this" as it was "Can I really do this forever?" That idea felt massive. That's why "one day at a time" is so important. It's so much easier to digest. Breaking it into pieces instead of trying to swallow it whole.

That day, I sat with myself and my emotions. Then I called my mom and explained how I was feeling. We talked, and I drove to see her so I could process everything out loud. It grounded me. I wasn’t going to let someone else take away everything I had worked so hard for.

Showing Up Anyway

Every time I didn’t want to go to a meeting or therapy, it probably meant I really needed to go. I’ve never once left a meeting thinking, "Wow, I feel worse." It’s the avoidance that deteriorates you. I didn’t always have some grand internal pep talk—sometimes it was just a quiet "you probably need this, even if you don't feel like it."

Sponsors helped with accountability, sure. But at the end of the day, you have to hold yourself accountable. People can support and walk with you, but they can’t drag you through it. My sponsor would often ask me, "Did you give it up to God?". I didn’t fully understand what she meant at first, but over time I realized she was asking if I was willing to release the illusion of control. Letting go didn’t mean giving up—it meant trusting something beyond my fear.

Journaling + Honest Check-Ins

In early sobriety, I journaled daily. I wrote about my feelings, my surroundings, my inner conflicts. It was a way to check in with myself. Even when life got easier, journaling remained important—because even in peace, there’s value in reflection. It became a safe space where I could process, heal, and later look back on how far I’d come.

Reframing Thoughts

One of the biggest lies I told myself early on was: "I’ll stay sober unless something really bad happens. Like the death of a loved one." That was my reservation. My mental scapegoat. Over time, that thought faded. It didn’t have the same grip on me. I stopped giving it power.

And the mantra that stuck with me? "Acceptance is key."

Support System

In early sobriety, my biggest supporters were my family—my parents, my siblings. I had a few sober friends and a small community I was starting to build, but social anxiety made that tough at first. The people close to me checking in on me mattered.

One thing my sponsor said to me that stuck was:
"What qualities would you want in a higher power? Be those qualities."
Another one:
"Everything you have ever dreamed of is on the other side of your fear, anxiety, and hesitation."

Faith

In early recovery, my relationship with a higher power was almost nonexistent. I struggled hard with the idea of surrender — not just in action, but in spirit. In treatment, they told us our higher power could even be a doorknob — and I wish I were joking. It felt like a cop-out. Like, really? A doorknob? That’s supposed to save me?

I grew up going to Catholic school, so I had a very specific image of God: this distant, authoritative man in the sky keeping score. It felt impersonal, and honestly, a little intimidating. Still, despite my doubts, I found myself praying almost daily. I'd quietly ask God to remove me from myself — from my obsession, my pain, my spiraling thoughts.

Over time, I started noticing what I can only describe as spiritual nudges — tiny moments that felt like more than coincidence. Certain dates, repeated numbers, random but meaningful conversations. It didn’t feel like “God” in the traditional sense at first. I felt more connected to the universe than anything. There was something out there, and it was speaking to me in ways I could finally hear.

I even started going to meditation classes, something I never imagined I'd be open to. I fought the idea of God for a long time — questioned, doubted, wrestled. But I never stopped seeking. And maybe that’s what faith really is: not always knowing, but continuing to ask, listen, and stay open anyway.

The Weird Little Things

Some of the things that helped me feel okay in early sobriety were super simple. Unsweetened iced tea (don’t ask me why, it just worked). True crime shows (still a comfort). Walking. Moving my body. Even small things like making my bed or sitting in the sun helped.

When I feel overwhelmed now, I pause. Sometimes I shut down. It feels like I have 20 tabs open in my brain and none of them are loading. I remind myself to focus on what I can control. I try to detach from outcomes. Remain calm. I give myself grace. I’m my own biggest critic—but I’m learning to be gentler.

If You’re Struggling Right Now

If someone told me they wanted to give up on sobriety, I’d say: don’t. Getting sober doesn’t fix everything, but it makes life more manageable. You become more equipped to handle what comes your way. Lean into something greater than you—whatever that means to you. Reach out. Be vulnerable. Ask for help.

When sobriety feels heavy or uncertain, I always come back to how far I’ve come. My life isn’t perfect, but it’s so much more beautiful now. I try not to let fear run the show. I believe what’s meant for me will find me.

And one last thing I wish everyone knew about staying sober? Mental clarity.
Not just the relief of no hangovers, but the freedom from mental obsession. Your life will get better.

Keep going.
You’re not alone.