“Tired” isn’t even the word.

I’m sitting here trying to make sense of what’s been stirring in me lately. There’s a tension under my skin… one I’ve been ignoring for too long. It finally spilled over this weekend, after another long night where I thought I was just “celebrating,” but really, I was trying to survive. And now I’m facing the truth I’ve been avoiding: I have a codependent relationship with alcohol.

For years, I’ve told myself it wasn’t “that bad.” I don’t drink every day. I don’t wake up needing it. I don’t hide bottles in cabinets or sneak sips in the bathroom. But somewhere along the line, I started measuring my relationship to alcohol against extremes instead of honesty. And if I’m being honest now, it’s been bad for a while. Not because of how often, but because of why.

I drink when I’m anxious.

I drink when I’m sad.

I drink when I’m around people who don’t really know me.

I drink when I need to shrink myself, loosen myself, disappear a little.

And the worst part is, I’ve disguised it all as celebration.

I’ve been using liquor as a life raft in moments when I feel like I’m drowning. At my graduation last weekend, when I was supposed to be proud and happy, I drank not to toast the moment, but to get through it. Because the pressure of all eyes on me, the stress of managing everyone else’s energy, and the weight of my own grief were too loud. The stress came out in anger and silence.

Then this weekend, it happened again. I walked into a room filled with people I’ve had complicated histories with, and then into another room of people I’ve never met at all and immediately, I found myself ordering drinks and reaching for that vice. When the free shots started coming, I didn’t hesitate. I leaned in. Not because I wanted to celebrate life, but because I didn’t know how else to BE in that room.

And now I’m here, trying to piece together the end of the night like a jigsaw puzzle with missing edges. Asking people to recall for me what I can’t remember. Me. MEEEEE!!!?? I’m someone who lives for memories. Who collects moments like love notes. Someone who holds onto videos, pictures, voicemails and old playlists and tiny, quiet details that make life feel magical.

And liquor is robbing me of that.

I used to be so proud of the version of myself I was becoming. That girl who could go out and be completely present, stone cold sober, and still laugh from her belly. That girl who was showing up to the gym every day, pushing herself, staying focused. Last year, I was in alignment. I was moving with purpose. And then life shifted. New people. New routines. And somewhere in the mix, I started slipping back into the very habits I fought hard to crawl out of.

I want my life to be full of intention, not reaction. I want to be grounded in discipline, in clarity, in health and not crutches. And the hardest part is: I KNOW better. I know how strong I am. I’ve felt it in my body, in the boxing ring, in the quiet moments when I chose myself over the noise. I’ve been her.

And yet… here I am again.

And I think what makes this sting even more is the way I’ve been questioning who I am without alcohol. Am I still fun? Am I still magnetic? Am I too much? Am I not enough? I hate that I’ve allowed a substance to mess with my identity like that. That I’ve measured my worth through the lens of something I know doesn’t serve me.

And now, with this exhibition fight on the horizon at the end of the year, I’m realizing I’ve got about six months to get it all back. Not just physically. But mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Boxing is a discipline sport. You can’t fake focus. You can’t rely on a vice to carry you through the ring. And yet, I’m standing outside that discipline, exhausted. Out of breath. Off balance.

And I’m tired.

Tired of feeling dependent.

Tired of feeling like I’m disappointing myself.

Tired of the anxiety.

Tired of not knowing where to place all these emotions.

Tired of not being able to show up for people the way I want to, especially when I’m still figuring out how to show up for me.

And what’s wild is, I want the good life. I know perfection is a myth, but I want something close to it. Not in a curated, Instagram aesthetic kind of way. I mean alignment. Peace. Joy that doesn’t come with a hangover. Laughter that I remember. Moments that stay in my body, not blur out in the haze of the night.

I don’t want to be ashamed of where I’ve been, but I refuse to stay here. I’m claiming the version of me I’ve been building brick by brick, workout by workout, breath by breath. The woman who fights for herself. Who knows that celebration doesn’t have to taste like tequila. Who knows that clarity is the most beautiful high there is.

This isn’t a rock bottom moment.

This is a wake up moment.

And I’m wide awake now.

Tomorrow I’ll pick up my gloves.

Tomorrow I’ll sweat it out, not drink it down.

And tomorrow, I’ll start again.

Because I still believe in the woman I’m becoming. Even if I lost sight of her for a little while.

There’s still Hope in HannaHope.