Walking through the deserted streets of Skagway, the memories hit me like a rogue wave. The kind that knocks you from your little boat and drags you under, tumbling you through gritty water and jagged rocks until you finally break the surface – gasping, disoriented. My destination was to my left, but straight ahead stood the Red Onion Saloon, where two of our friends had worked during our 2019 visit. We were almost happy that day, propped up by distractions and other people to help mask the disconnect. Almost.

By July, I was in what I now call Phase Two: on an Alaskan cruise with my husband, convinced I could right the ship. Fix the marriage. Prove to everyone – and myself – that I could drink like a gentleman. Spoiler: I could not. That cruise was a shit show. Did you know the “unlimited” drink package on a cruise caps at fifteen drinks per day? Limitless for most. Not for an alcoholic. I was lonely, scared, angry, and trying desperately to act like I was fine. It was a dumpster fire. And I was utterly miserable. *

Fast forward to 2024: four years sober, genuinely joyful, serene, and content. I had just wrapped a Greek Island cruise with a sober travel group called Fellow-Ship. It wasn’t my first trip in sobriety, but it was the first where sobriety was the foundation, not a footnote.  It was a whole new thing for me, being both independent and connected.  So when I learned their next sobercation would retrace my 2019 cruise, I knew I had to go. I was meant to go. The universe** had spoken: it was time to face my past head-on – but this time, wrapped in the cozy bubble wrap of a supportive community.

THE UNIVERSE ALIGNS TO SHOVE ME INTO THE FELLOWSHIP

In the Spring of 2023, I was generally doodling about.  I was loosely experimenting – with a foraging job, with my new life in St. Paul, with what my life could be with all this freedom.  One evening, I was scrolling through the social medias with half a mind when I saw a post: a sober group cruise through the Greek islands. “Ooooh!” I thought. Followed immediately by, “Ew.” A Greek cruise? Yes please. Group travel with strangers? Hard pass. Probably. I didn’t know what to think, but it stuck in my mind.

So, a few days later, when my friend L sent me that same post and asked if I was interested, my gut screamed that we should just go for it.  The Universe was telling me to.  It was still a year away; no excuse not to. We signed up for Fellow-Ship and set everything in motion.

A few days before we left, it occurred to me that L and I might be in the minority on this trip. When we arrived at the Athens hotel, my hunch was confirmed: most of the 375 passengers were gay men. Even without that demographic gap, I felt like an outsider in a group of this size, but the initial awkwardness quickly faded. Richard and Michael, our Captains, welcomed us with open arms. Everyone we met seemed to have the same attitude: if you’re sober, you belong. Period.

THE FELLOWSHIP ALLIGNS TO SHOVE ME INTO THE CONNECTIONS

I arrived in Seattle alone, a little nervous, and was greeted by a much smaller group of travelers than I’d encountered on past trips. In Greece, there had been so many of us that it was hard to form meaningful bonds. Cliques based on hometowns made it feel impenetrable.  But this time, with only about 80 of us on board, the energy was immediately more intimate, more human scale.

Still, I was anxious as I walked into the conference room at the host hotel. I didn’t know what to expect. Would I recognize anyone? Would anyone talk to me? Would they think I was weird? What if they were mean? I felt just like I had on my first day of high school, walking into a big, preppy institution after years at a small Montessori school – unguarded, uncertain, exposed.

That moment – walking into a room full of strangers not knowing how I’ll be received – remains one of the hardest things in my life. It still triggers an outsized, irrational anxiety that I’ve learned to manage, but never fully shake. Even beyond the initial breach, I often find myself hesitating to connect. Vulnerability opens the door not just to belonging, but to rejection, and humiliation.

Unlike the slow-burning awkwardness of high school (which dragged on for months and haunted me for years), I was put at ease almost immediately. Waiting in that conference room were Michael and Keith, the Welcoming Committee. They both remembered me!  Each in their own ways, they soothed every fear I’d brought with me:  Keith quietly and tenderly, Michael loudly and joyfully.  They introduced me to others as they arrived, helping me feel welcomed, seen, and included – despite all the obvious surface differences.  There was a spirit of genuine curiosity to the group of people.  Some were old friends from home. Some were returning Fellow-Shippers. Some were brand-new faces. But all seemed genuinely eager to connect in a real way.  And that was just the beginning.

THE CONNECTIONS ALIGN TO SHOVE ME INTO GROWTH

I stepped off the ship with excitement, ready to board the White Pass Railroad and follow the old gold rush trail into the Yukon.  I had no inkling of the feelings the town would bring up in me.  I was excited about the day.  love trains with the earnest fervor of a five-year-old boy.  I was looking forward to the time alone to reflect on the journey thus far and let the solitude seep into my bones.

I was the first person down the gangway, anxious as I was to get to the station on time, and I set off hot footedly to make my train.  The pier was familiar but slightly changed—you now had to shuttle past a stretch of rockfall. Walking into town all alone, surrounded by the stillness of morning, I was lost in the peace and beauty of my surroundings.  I was serenity embodied.  Until I wasn’t.

I turned a corner, and there it was: the Red Onion Saloon. It hit me like a Looney Tunes gag—like when Wile E. Coyote smacks into a wall disguised as a tunnel.  One moment I was sprinting through space obliviously, the next I had smashed full force into memory, a solid wall that left me flattened.  And this time, it wasn’t amusing and delightful.  My stomach dropped. My face flushed. Shame crept up my neck and sat hot in my cheeks.

I didn’t have time to deal with it. I took a quick photo and pushed forward, hoping I could outrun this disgusting tangle of feelings.  Stupid, confusing, unpleasantly prickly feelings!  And I did forget them for a while.  But even though I managed to enjoy the train ride, a melancholy haze colored every memory from that day. And when I returned to town later, the ghosts were waiting to smack me hard across the face. I wandered the streets, bought snacks, sent postcards, but everywhere I turned was a scene from my past. My ex and I outside that bar. Buying hats in that shop. Eating oysters at that restaurant. Everywhere I turned, the memories seemed to be waiting, ready to sprinkle more raw, itchy feelings down my neck.

But instead, I did something wild.  I went to our group meeting. I surrounded myself with sympathetic souls. And when someone asked how I was doing…  I told them the truth.  

I said I was stuck in my head. That Skagway had brought up all kinds of painful memories. And then, at dinner, when someone else asked about my day, I told them too. I was melancholy. Unsettled. Swimming in the past. And I was honest about it.  I didn’t fake fine. I didn’t deflect. I let people see me, support me, and eventually pull me back into the present. And by the end of the night, I felt peaceful. Connected. Whole.

Even now, weeks later, I’m amazed at the growth I experienced that day.  This was not how I ever handled squiggly feelings before recovery.  My life in active addiction was isolation.  I believed I had to fix everything alone.  Hide any negative feelings that might disappoint others and make them not love me.  But here, on this giant boat drifting through the icy waters of Alaska’s tail, I found proof that my desperate loneliness was unnecessary.  I had forged connections with disparate strangers, felt and shared my unpleasant feelings, and had found empathy and love rather than rejection.  I found that I don’t have to go it alone, I can be honest, uncomfortable, human – and still loved.  Fucking bonkers!

STUPID FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE GROWTH

Setting out for my return to my past this spring, I was overly confident that I had processed and moved past the painful memories and into a place of pleasant nostalgia.  I wasn’t worried about that.  I was nervous about the people.  I love my own company, and people can be a real bag of dicks sometimes, and rejection and abandonment are one hundred percent the root cause of my deepest fears in life. 

What I didn’t expect – what shook me – was how deeply accepted I would feel, how authentically I would connect.  How thoroughly these strangers would challenge my old beliefs about who I am and what I deserve.

This was not confirming my core beliefs about myself and the world at all!  In the secret recesses of my soul, I believe that I am unlovable.  The voice is small, but persistent, and it is always with me, like the rough calloses on the bottoms of my feet.  With care, it stays manageable, but it’s always ready to toughen back up at the first sign of neglect.  And this experience, these people, were proving that that little voice was full of shit!  Like those magical foot peel, it took time.  But it let me shed years of built-up fallacies.

This, my friends, was real, meaningful growth.  And let me tell you, growth is the worst!  It’s so itchy and hot and unnervingly awkward.  Like my feet when they’re in the skin shedding process.  Layers come away, years of delusions about my core being, and what is left is delicate and tender and not quite ready for the harsh realities of walking around bare footed through the world.  The new skin, the new philosophies, must be protected and nourished or they will be torn to shreds and replaced by the old, thick, calloused shell in no time.  Yes, at the end of the day I am left with a happier, healthier, more beautiful soul, but the process is stupid, and I hate it!

And that’s the point, I think.  Stupid fucking uncomfortable growth, coming in the least expected form and from the most surprising places, isn’t what I plan for when I travel.  But if I stay open – honest – willing to embrace the sunlight of connection, something shifts. My old ideas break. I bloom.

One friend summed it up perfectly: this wasn’t just a cruise. It was a spiritual self-care retreat – with glaciers and whales and a few thrill rides tossed in.  And the discomfort didn’t break me.  It built me.  I emerged radiant, softer, stronger, and more beautifully unstoppable than I ever knew I could be.