I Am Not Committed To Forever

But I am committed to right now.

These words have been resonating in me lately as if they hold the secret to consistency. As Eckhart Tolle writes in The Power of Now, all we truly have is this moment. Our future is built upon many successive nows.

Recently, I decided to stop drinking.

There is no dramatic story behind my choice. No rock bottom. No intervention. No moment that forced me to quit.

Just a profound desire to experience life alcohol-free.

I don't think I was ever an alcoholic. Or maybe I was during two specific periods of my life. The first was when I developed my eating disorder at twenty-five—a behavioral addiction that took me fifteen years to face. The second was during COVID.

But alcohol never seemed to destroy anything in my life. It never caused me to lose relationships, jobs, or opportunities. It probably put me in danger a few times when I drove after drinking a little more than I should have, but beyond that, it appeared harmless.

Maybe I got lucky.

Maybe I was always conscious of my choices and knew my limits.

Maybe the rest of my life was structured enough to keep things under control.

Besides, I always associated alcohol with celebration, relaxation, and pleasure.

Other than those two periods, I was what most people would call a moderate drinker. I had rules.

I didn't drink during the week.

Monday through Thursday: no alcohol.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday: drinking days.

No more. No less.

Vacations were the exception. When I spent summers in France, I happily returned to a daily glass of wine. I mean, who doesn't love a crisp glass of rosé on a warm evening?

It's romantic.

It's sexy.

And that was probably part of the problem.

For me, drinking was sexy.

It was social.

It was fun.

Everything around me constantly reinforced that belief.

The question was never, "Why do I drink?"

The question was always, "Why wouldn't I?"

I didn't want to be the outsider. Drinking socially had become part of my identity.

But as I continue this journey of intentional living—of facing my lies, including my eating disorder—I have begun to see alcohol differently.

I realized that drinking wasn't simply a weekend habit.

It was also helping my behavioral addiction survive.

Alcohol was the reward for deprivation.

The cleaner I ate—and by clean, I really meant eating as little as possible—the more I felt I had earned my wine and ice cream on weekend nights.

My mind had linked alcohol to being a good girl.

I never stopped to ask whether I actually wanted a glass of wine.

I simply assumed I did.

And my body craved it because a depleted body will take whatever relief it can find.

Looking back, my weekend wine ritual wasn't indulgence.

It was survival.

Now, I never drank huge amounts. I was never drunk. Often tipsy. I was fun when I was tipsy.

But I also couldn't stop at one glass.

I'd have one, then another small one, and maybe another.

One bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc—sometimes a little more—would last me the weekend.

My husband doesn't drink and never has, so I was the only one working my way through that bottle.

And I would tell myself:

"Come on, C.J. That's the only thing you do that's a little extra. Don't take that away from yourself."

Meanwhile, my body was desperately happy to receive all those calories after a week of restriction.

I lived this way for a very long time.

And to be honest, alcohol never seemed to affect me that much.

It didn't destroy my sleep.

Sure, I'd wake up a little puffy, but never enough to stop me from exercising.

I convinced myself that a little wine wasn't standing between me and my fitness goals.

So I kept going.

Even though there was always a small voice whispering:

"I wonder if I could break the weekend pattern."

And I always answered:

"Of course I could. I'll do it next weekend."

But next weekend never came.

And eventually, that voice became impossible to ignore.

Still, I wasn't ready.

My body wasn't clear enough.

It wasn't strong enough to choose something different.

Then the shift happened surprisingly fast.

One morning, I looked at myself and didn't like what I saw.

I had felt bloated for weeks despite not changing the way I ate. My skin looked dull. I felt older somehow.

Out of curiosity, I asked ChatGPT how old I looked.

It told me I looked exactly my age.

Forty.

I was shocked.

Not because there is anything wrong with being forty.

But because I realized I wasn't treating and nourishing my body like someone I wanted to carry into the next forty years.

So I started paying attention.

I looked at women my age who seemed vibrant, energetic, and deeply comfortable in their skin.

What struck me wasn't how they looked.

It was how intentional they were.

The way they nourished themselves.

The way they moved.

The way they cared for their bodies.

There was love in their choices.

There was respect.

There was consistency.

And something clicked.

First, I had to admit the truth about my eating disorder.

No more hiding.

No more pretending.

I finally understood that if I wanted a strong, lean, toned body, I needed to actually feed it.

So I made a promise to myself.

Not forever.

Just for one week.

"No matter what, I am trusting the process. I will commit to this new way of nourishing myself for one week."

And I did.

I started slowly.

Protein, fiber, carbohydrates, and healthy fats at every meal.

At the time, I still kept my weekend wine and ice cream.

I even called them my cheat nights.

And honestly, that worked for me in the beginning. It gave me something to look forward to.

One week became two.

Two became three.

And slowly, something started changing.

I felt expansive.

I felt energized.

I woke up flat-bellied and excited about my day.

I wanted to move.

To write.

To create.

To explore.

The bloating disappeared.

My body began recovering from years of undernourishment.

And what amazed me most was how quickly it responded.

The human body is astonishingly resilient.

Then one Friday morning, I woke up and something was different. I don’t remember the exact date, but I will always remember the feeling. I locked it in my mind for the days, I feel less strong.

The excitement for my wine night was gone.

There was no anticipation.

No craving.

No countdown to wine o'clock.

That evening, I made myself a mocktail.

I made a chocolate protein dessert instead of reaching for ice cream.

And that was it.

The bottle of wine I had planned to drink was still sitting in the fridge.

I simply wasn't interested.

For the first time in a very long time, my body wasn't asking for alcohol.

It wasn't asking for sugar.

It was asking for something else.

Clarity.

Energy.

Alignment.

My desire to look vibrant and the pleasure I felt when I moved and eat with the intention to nourish myself had surpassed the pleasure I would feel by drinking wine and eating ice-cream.

And that felt better than any glass of wine or scoop of ice cream ever had.

Will I never drink again?

Honestly, I don't know.

Forever is a very long time.

What I do know is that I don't want a drink right now.

And right now is the only moment that has ever mattered.

A week ago, I didn't drink.

Yesterday, I didn’t drink.

Today, I don't drink.

Tomorrow, I'll make that decision again.

That's all forever really is: a collection of ordinary moments where we choose who we want to be.

I am not committed to forever.

I am committed to right now.