How to Fall Asleep Without Alcohol

I was terrified to quit drinking. Alcohol offered a protective layer of bubble wrap around my nerves. This could be found in any bottle that offered a red blend of sorts at the local CVS on the corner, by the case at Trader Joe’s, or casually thrown into any shopping cart.

I desperately wanted to drink less; of course I did, but I knew if I quit drinking I’d have to face myself, and that wasn’t something I was prepared to do. Especially at the end of the day. One major challenge I had was putting myself to sleep. The easiest way to put a baby to bed is with a bottle. I was the same. On most days I honestly wanted to be knocked out, blacked out, or passed out by the time bedtime came so I could skip the part where I lay awake with my own thoughts. 

For as long as I can remember, I was this way, afraid of bedtime. I don't know exactly why this is, but I do know that I was left crying in my crib as a baby two mornings in a row when my mom was at work and my dad was too hungover to get up with me. My little baby body might remember the terror of being left alone with my tears and no comfort despite my cries for help. I didn’t always have alcohol to cure it.

I was the kind of kid who could never fall asleep at sleepovers. I was the one waking up the host mom in the middle of the night and calling my parents to come and get me. I’d say I was sick. And I was. Homesick. Laying awake in a roomful of sleeping elementary school girls and hearing the strange noises of someone else’s house while staring at the ceiling for hours was as lonely as crying in a crib with no response.

I was an only child for much of my life, and I never wanted to be alone. My mom and I shared a bed for a short time in a one-bedroom apartment. I hated when she turned her back on me to go to sleep. I didn’t want bedtime. I wanted more attention even after she gave me her all. I still wanted more.

Even worse was when I went to summer camp. I never slept in those bunks piled up in the mosquito-filled log cabins. I was homesick the entire week. I cried every single night. I just waited for morning to come and waited for it all to be over so I could go home to my mom. 

My first night at college I got drunk as a skunk and woke up to a soggy thumb. Once I got over the shock I realized that I had reverted to sucking my thumb in my ultimate forever homesick state, out on my own for good. 

For the rest of my college career, I don’t want the party to end. I wanted the afterparty. I wanted to keep it going. I wanted anything except for it all to be over. I didn't want to go to bed. Honestly, I wanted a warm body next to me for nothing other than companionship.

In my adulthood, this translated to weekends away. I didn’t want to pack up and go home. I just wanted to keep the party going. I wanted the drinks to keep flowing and the company to keep chattering. I didn’t want to get in the car and be alone with my thoughts for the long drive home. I didn't want to be home in time for the Sunday Scaries to set in. I dreaded the end of the good timing and the push back into a life I was trying to avoid for reason's I don't know because everything was fine, except me. 

The monsters weren’t under my bed, they were in my own mind. They would haunt me. I didn’t want to stop and reflect on the day. I wanted to keep moving. I wanted to keep drinking. I wanted to keep it all going with a little less consequence. Alcohol seemed to be what was keeping me alive, but each glass was a tighter turn of the rope around my neck, killing me subtly and slowly. I was starting to suffocate, but I couldn’t see that. I wasn’t listening for my breath. My mind was filled with noise.

After decades of drinking, imagine the fear of putting myself to bed with no soothing elixir, no nightcap, and no bedtime balm to soothe my nervous energy and calm my anxious mind. This is what terrified me. How do people go to sleep without alcohol? I had no idea but I was about to find out for myself, because alcohol was starting to really get in the way of everything. I recognized I had to try to do something and it was going to start with sleep training. 

The first thing I did was download a meditation app. I started to listen to a bedtime meditation in my boozed-up state when I tucked myself in each night. I credit this as the sharpest tool in my early sobriety toolkit. I was both drinking and meditating, but eventually the meditating stayed and the drinking was left behind. It’s ok to start imperfectly. 

As a sober coach for women, many of my clients love to report a 5-step skin care routine as a positive addition to their sober bedtime routine when they ditch the drink. I was never one of those people who didn’t wash their face or brush their teeth before bed. I always did at least the bare minimum taking a wipe to my face and brushing my teeth before I stumbled to bed. I was drunk and messy on the inside, but still marching to a strict set of rules to keep it clean on the outside.

I did, however, start a new bedtime routine of my own. I had a roller ball of lavender, which I turned into a calming ceremony of self-love. I lathered myself in the essential oil as a lullaby. It started to become a Pavlovian response to bedtime. The scent lulled me into a sweet slumber. At some point, I stopped being afraid of bedtime, and I started looking forward to the time and space to rest.

Next came my feet, which are the most hated part of my body. I don’t know why; they’ve carried me well. I was a dancer and runner, buit they don’t look perfect in sandals, so I've hated them. I’ve stuffed them into pointe shoes and too small high heels for decades, and now I wonder why they look this way. I took those ugly feet and started massaging them. I started thanking them for carrying me through the day. I used a special peppermint lotion, and I rubbed each little toe with gratitude. This was my way of telling myself that I love myself. All of me. Even the ugliest parts. This was setting the stage for my ultimate long-term sobriety. 

This ritual soothed me and prepared me for rest. Next, I tucked in and I read my quit lit until my eyelids got heavy and I was ready to turn off the light. I reminded myself that I love myself and that I am done hurting myself. I continued to learn about my general dis-ease by researching alcohol and women. I became my own expert on what I needed and how to heal myself from the inside out. I realized that alcohol doesn’t solve anything, and slowly but surely I started to feel better without it. When my head hit the pillow at night, I started to feel proud instead of ashamed because I was keeping my no-drinking promises to myself out of love, not punishment.

I reminded myself that I can do this. I am doing this. With one hand on my heart and one on my belly, I felt myself breathe. I didn't try to change it. I just let it be. I learned to sit with myself one breath at a time. I put my ear buds in like a pacifier, and I started the evening meditation. I recognized that I don’t have to latch on to or believe every single thought I have. I let some of them go like clouds passing in the sky. This started to change me.

Night after night, I fell asleep. I stopped tossing and turning. My thoughts didn’t kill me. I learned how to control my thoughts, to choose them, to change them. I changed my loud inner critic to a voice of self-compassion. I learned how to tune into my breath and how to channel it for my own good.

I start doing this during the day when I feel my intense emotions start to bubble up inside of me. The feelings I have dumped alcohol on for years are stuffed down, but they are still there, about to spill over clumsily when anyone does anything that puts my defenses up, which is basically anything. I was always ready to pounce, always feeling attacked. I started going for a walk instead. I listened to my breath as it huffed and puffed while stomping around the block. I made it home after releasing some of that pressure from the valve. I felt a little lighter. I allowed myself to be mad. Sad. Disappointed. Rejected. Lonely.

Over time, I stopped letting the pressure build. I noticed it sooner. I put preventative measures in place to take care of myself. Time at the gym. Time alone. Time with the trees in the woods. Time with my words and my keyboard and my private document full of swear words. My anger, my grief, my pain. Communicating. Boundary setting. Recovery from people pleasing. I learn to sit with it. It doesn’t kill me. My breath is not a noose like alcohol. I am not suffocating anymore. I am learning to exhale. I am learning to settle in. I am learning to let myself be who I am. I am learning to rest.

Now, 2,502 days into sobriety, I welcome bedtime each night. My thoughts are not too dark for me. I am capable of being alive, which means I feel them all. I take pride in the full spectrum of emotions because, because of this, my capacity for feeling has expanded along with my breath. More depth of sadness has allowed fuller joy and meaning as well. I enjoy the reflection on the day. I desire the restorative value of rest. My days are full. I give my all to everything. There is nothing left on the table each day. The nervous energy and fear have subsided. 

Living an alcohol-free lifestyle has fewer regrets and fewer wasted moments by being wasted. I open my heart fully to live. I stay fully present and clear. When nightfall comes, I am ready to recharge. I am ready to unplug from the world and plug into myself and my internal world. I am ready to ease myself into sleep. 

It is much better this way. I have trained myself to live without alcohol, and I have trained myself to go to sleep too. For more tips, download my Free Sober Secrets or check out my digital course Jumpstart.