Twelve Years Sober: Freya’s Story of Alcohol Recovery

Written By Kaysha Thomas

Content note: This blog discusses alcohol addiction, medical detox, grief, suicidal ideation, and pregnancy loss. Please read with care.

Freya is not her real name. This story is shared with permission, with identifying details changed.

Editor’s Note

This is a story about addiction, recovery, grief, and what it really takes to rebuild a life.

I’m sharing Freya’s story because it reflects a reality that often gets missed. Recovery is rarely neat or linear. It doesn’t always come through private therapy or expensive support. For many people, it happens through the NHS, community services, peer support, and sheer persistence.

Freya grew up in London, comes from a working-class background, and spent years navigating addiction alongside loss, responsibility, and survival. Her story is shared with her full consent. Her name has been changed, and identifying details have been edited to protect her privacy.

My hope in publishing this is simple. That someone reading feels less alone. That someone recognises themselves in her words. And that it offers a reminder that recovery is possible, even when the road there is messy, exhausting, and full of setbacks.

Who Is freya Today?

I would describe myself as pretty chilled and calm (when not dealing with menopause!). I love reading, funny books though, nothing too deep or heavy.

I’m back working with children, SEN, with a particular interest in autism. That fascination probably comes from personal experience. There’s a high incidence of autism in my family, including my own child, who was newly diagnosed. I love learning about neurodivergence and hearing how the autistic brain works. I get a lot of insight from my sibling and my son, who are both quite articulate.

My family and friends keep me grounded. Although I can be quite solitary at times, I do really enjoy spending time with them and actually being there for them and listening. That probably sounds strange, but during my years of drinking I can’t say I was fully present for my loved ones.

Early Life and the Weight of Responsibility

I was raised by a single parent, my mum. This might sound contradictory, but it was stable. My mum was always there, although she went on to have more babies over the years and remained single.

During my treatment for alcoholism, I learned about something called enmeshment in relationships, and if I’m honest, it applied to me and my mum. I was the “other parent”. I took care of my siblings a lot.

When I was 12, my mum suffered a miscarriage in her second trimester. Mentally, she was quite absent after that. I was often described as “an angel” because I wasn’t a typical teenager. But the truth is, from 12 to 18 I was also caring for my nan, who had suffered a massive stroke when I was six. I went to her every weekend to care for her, very personal care, as she couldn’t bathe herself.

My nan died when I was 18, and I threw myself into college work. I worked relentlessly. Growing up, there was often an unspoken message from others: “You’ll fail young, get pregnant.” My mum had me the month before her 18th birthday.

I remember feeling like a failure at just 10 years old. I felt low, and it was all linked to school tests. My mum tried to reassure me, but I think she assumed it was puberty. Looking back, I believe I was struggling with depression.

When I was 12, my mum was diagnosed with cervical cancer or pre-cancerous cells. She tried to hide it, but I found hospital letters and her diary. I remember reading what she wrote about her children. I couldn’t wait to see what she wrote about me:

“Freya… my angel. Never says how she feels though.”

That’s something that came up repeatedly years later in rehab: “Freya says she’s fine, but doesn’t say how she’s feeling.”

When Alcohol Entered My Life

People often ask me, “When did you become an alcoholic?” It’s a hard question because I had my first vodka at 22, and I loved it.

It was July 1999, on a girls’ holiday in Corfu. That vodka gave me confidence, happiness, and I thought I was incredibly funny. From then on, I’d say it was instant, a problem.

I came back to London with the holiday blues and no permanent job, still doing agency childcare. I bought a half bottle of vodka “to soften the blow”. I felt much better. That bottle lasted three days, but it wasn’t healthy. I was drinking alone and trying to fix how I felt, even though I couldn’t tell you what I was feeling.

Illness, Fear, and Escalation

At 26, I became very unwell and was hospitalised. Doctors suspected gynaecological issues or appendicitis. After two weeks and surgery, everything was a mess internally. My appendix had burst and spilled into my womb, fallopian tubes, and bowel.

I asked if I’d be able to have children. I was told I might struggle.

Three weeks later, I was called back to hospital. A consultant and a woman I later learned was a Macmillan nurse told me they’d found a lump on my appendix. It was an indicator of a rare cancer called pseudomyxoma peritonei.

They told me not to Google it. I did anyway.

I was referred to the Marsden and told most people live 6–10 years with it. The doctors nodded. I was later told I’d be monitored for five years.

I hadn’t drunk for three months at that point, but on the way home that day, I bought a bottle of vodka. I didn’t want to face the diagnosis. My drinking escalated after that, even though later scans were clear.

I was still functioning. Still working. Still going out. But alcohol had its claws in.

Losing Everything

After my mum died in 2008, I lost everything. My job, and custody of my little sister, who I was legal guardian for.

At my lowest point, I drank from the moment I woke up until I went to bed. Alcohol became my entire routine.

I had no money. Everything I owned went into Cash Converters. I worried constantly about how I’d get alcohol the next day.

Emotionally, I was all over the place. I never shared this in rehab, but for years I struggled with suicidal ideation. I attempted to take my own life several times, not for attention, but because I genuinely believed everyone’s life would be easier without me. I was exhausted and hopeless.

Physically, I looked awful. My face was bloated, my thick hair went thin and straight, and my periods were affected.

I never sought help for alcoholism directly. I went into A&E for heart palpitations. My liver blood results were shocking. Gamma GT should be 0–30. Mine was 3900. I was mortified when an alcohol liaison nurse came to see me.

Detox, Rehab, and Trying Again

I didn’t volunteer myself for help. I was picked up by doctors in A&E at the end of 2009 and went into detox in 2010, kicking and screaming, for the wrong reasons.

I had many attempts at recovery. Initially, it wasn’t about living a fulfilled life. It was about regaining custody of my sister and going back to work. I hadn’t dealt with my depression or grief. I carried huge guilt and shame.

After six months sober, I relapsed. I admitted to a psychiatrist that I was still deeply suicidal. I was prescribed antidepressants at a higher dose, and for the first time, things lifted. The hopelessness eased.

My first detox was inpatient because my liver was struggling. I was told under no circumstances to stop drinking alone. Alcohol withdrawal can cause seizures or death. Medication made it safer and more manageable.

I went to residential rehabs and community programmes. I was resistant. I hated talking about feelings. I didn’t want people dissecting my life.

But in 2012, during a community programme, a keyworker asked me in a group meeting:

“Freya, how far have you walked away from your mum’s shadow?”

I sobbed. For the first time in four years, I properly grieved my mum. The guilt and shame finally shifted.

Relapse happened many times. Each time it got harder. I learned that after sobriety, I could become physically dependent again in as little as a week.

The Turning Point

My turning point wasn’t falling off a roof in 2013 while intoxicated, although that nearly cost me my leg.

It came later, when doctors found a large ovarian cyst that could indicate cancer. I promised myself I wouldn’t drink through it.

My last drink was 7 November 2013.

The cyst vanished.

I didn’t plan long-term sobriety at first. But at seven months sober, during family turmoil, I heard the thought “I need a drink” and said out loud:

“I can’t go back there.”

I was sick and tired of alcohol. I wanted to live. I deserved to live.

Rebuilding and Living

Recovery meant change. People, places, patterns. I moved house. I stepped away from relationships that pulled me back.

I learned a technique called “fast forward”, mentally playing out exactly what one drink would lead to. There was nothing romantic about it.

Sobriety gave me my life back. It gave me peace of mind. I became the sister my siblings deserved, the auntie my nephew deserved, and later, a mum, something I never thought possible.

Recovery isn’t rainbows. You get your feelings back, all of them. I’ve faced heartbreak, pregnancy loss, and grief, sober.

But I’ve also found joy, steadiness, and purpose.

What I Want Others to Know

Addiction isn’t a choice. No one wakes up and decides to become an alcoholic.

Help is available through GPs, NHS drug and alcohol services, and peer support like AA. You don’t have to do this alone.

Recovery is possible. And it’s worth it.

What I Hope You Take Away

Hope.

As long as you don’t pick up that first drink or drug, you don’t have to live with compulsion and obsession.

Recovery is hard, but it’s wonderful.

Support & Resources (UK)

If you or someone you love is struggling with alcohol or substance use, help is available. You don’t have to do this alone.

NHS & Local Services

These services are free and confidential.

Peer Support (Free & Confidential)

Peer support isn’t for everyone, but for many people it provides connection, understanding, and hope.

Mental Health & Crisis Support

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, unsafe, or struggling with thoughts of harming yourself:

  • Samaritans
    Call free on 116 123 (UK & ROI)
    https://www.samaritans.org

  • NHS 111
    Call 111 for urgent mental health support.

  • Emergency services
    If you’re in immediate danger, call 999.

Disclaimer

This blog post is shared for storytelling and educational purposes only. It reflects one person’s lived experience and is not intended to provide medical, clinical, or therapeutic advice.

If you are concerned about your health, alcohol use, or mental wellbeing, please seek support from a qualified healthcare professional, your GP, or local NHS services.

Everyone’s experience of addiction and recovery is different, and the support that works for one person may not be right for another.

Kaysha Thomas
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