One Day at a Time

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."

Prior sponsors didn’t really help with my accountability. 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. The back door I kept cracked open just in case life got too hard.

For a while, I clung to that thought without even realizing it. It gave me a false sense of control — as if I could bargain with sobriety on my own terms. But recovery doesn’t work that way. Life will happen. Loss will happen. Pain will come, whether we’re ready or not. The difference now is that I no longer look for an escape route when it does.

Over time, that thought lost its grip. I stopped feeding it, stopped giving it power. Because every time I faced something I once thought I couldn’t handle sober — and stayed sober anyway — I rewired that belief a little more.

And the mantra that stuck with me through it all? “Acceptance is key.”
Not the kind of acceptance that means giving up, but the kind that means surrendering — to reality, to growth, to the idea that peace doesn’t come from control, but from trust.

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 a prior sponsor had 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."

Spirituality & 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 in Catholic school, so I had a very specific image of God — a distant, authoritative figure 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 began to notice what I can only describe as spiritual nudges — tiny moments that felt like more than coincidence. Certain dates, repeated numbers, chance encounters, conversations that seemed to show up exactly when I needed them. It didn’t feel like “God” in the traditional sense I grew up with. It felt broader, more connected — like the universe itself was speaking to me in ways I could finally hear.

I fought the idea of God for a long time — questioned, doubted, wrestled. And maybe that’s what faith really is: not certainty, but the willingness to stay open. To keep asking, listening, and trusting that something greater is guiding you — whether you call it God, the universe, or simply love itself.

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.