17/01/2025

Hangxiety, Hope and Hyperactivity: A personal experiment

The Decision to Stop Drinking in 2022

In 2022, I made the decision to stop drinking alcohol. 

Stick with me here, it’s not some woe-is-me, hey my life’s now amazing and you should do the same tale of renewal.  It’s more a short account of an experiment on myself, and the resulting surprises..

It wasn’t a decision born out of a single dramatic moment or a rock-bottom epiphany, (although giving it up would definitely precipitate some seismic stuff) but rather a need for some sort of difference so that I had a chance of trying to understand what sort life I wanted for myself, let alone attaining it.

I’d spent years navigating its presence in my life—the social rituals, the fleeting sense of relaxation, and the nagging discomfort it regularly left in its wake – hangxiety it’s now known as. Something about it felt increasingly incongruent with who I was becoming.

At first, the idea of stopping felt daunting. Drinking had been woven into so many aspects of my life: celebrations, evenings out, quiet nights in. After work, Friday treat, Sunday with the football, after sailing, during sailing, playing in a band. 

OK, OK, so it was everywhere.  It was a habit that didn’t just provide an escape but also served as a kind of shorthand for connection. How would I navigate friendships, stressful moments, or even boredom without it?

To say the early weeks were an adjustment would be to massively understate the situation. I had to confront the automatic habits, the muscle memory of reaching for a pint of crisp, golden Wye Valley’s Hereford Pale Ale at the end of the day.

Over time, I would learn to sit with discomfort and (try to) process emotions rather than numb them or bury them. It wasn’t easy, but neither was it revelatory. Slowly, I started to notice the changes. 

Having been a life-long drinker, the changes were always going to be pretty big, but rather than a gradual metamorphosis into a sober butterfly, changes tended to come in waves.  One day I’d be thinking ‘well this is dull, and the next, I’d catch sight of my skin glowing a bit more, or I’d suddenly notice my hair felt different (that’s actually a thing, you know!) 

Beyond the physical benefits, I found an unexpected sense of freedom. Without alcohol, I was more present in conversations and more intentional in my choices. Social gatherings, once centred around the next drink, became opportunities to engage meaningfully—or, in some cases, to reconsider whether they were worth attending at all. 

The latter does become an issue for many people who choose to stop drinking.  They start attending events as normal but then after a handful, realise they’re just not here for spending hours in a rising tide of misunderstanding, repetition and ultimately amnesia, and so they go to fewer and fewer.

As the months went by, life didn’t necessarily become easier, but it became more honest, a lot more raw. I was able to confront challenges head-on, without the blurred lens of alcohol distorting my perspective. By the end of those 18 months, I felt like a better version of myself: more aligned with my values, more connected to the world around me, and, perhaps most importantly, more at peace with who I was.

So why, in January 2023 did I decide to go to the pub and sink 4 pints of Guinness?

Returning to Alcohol in 2024

So, January 2024. The pub. Four pints of Guinness. A choice that, on the surface, might seem at odds with everything I had learned and gained over the previous 18 months. But life, unlike Guinness, is rarely black and white.

The decision to start drinking again wasn’t planned or even particularly well thought out. It wasn’t a moment of rebellion or a conscious attempt to undo my progress. It was more like an experiment within the experiment—an urge to revisit something familiar, to see if I could approach it differently this time.

I wondered if, having been sober for so long, I could somehow renegotiate my relationship with alcohol.

At first, it felt…well, fine.

Drinking again didn’t feel like a dramatic fall from grace. The Guinness tasted rich and comforting, and there was a warmth to the ritual of raising a glass with friends. But as the weeks rolled into months, the edges started to blur.

The occasional drink became more frequent. A “just this once” became a familiar refrain. And gradually, some of the old patterns crept back in—like a houseguest you didn’t really want but weren’t assertive enough to send packing.

I found myself leaning on alcohol again in ways that felt uncomfortably familiar: to take the edge off a long day, to make a social situation easier, to dull the sharper corners of life.

It didn’t take long for the contrast between my two lives—sober and drinking—to become starkly apparent. While drinking again, I felt less connected to myself and the world around me. The clarity I had worked so hard to cultivate dulled, replaced by a kind of background noise that made everything just a little bit harder.

Sleep, once restful and restorative, became fitful. Mornings, once a time of possibility, felt heavy. And then there was the hangxiety—the gnawing self-doubt that crept in after one drink too many, as if my mind was punishing me for forgetting what I had learned.

This year of drinking wasn’t all bad, of course. There were moments of fun, laughter, and connection. But they often felt hollow in hindsight—like trying to recreate a memory instead of living a new one.

By the end of 2024, it was clear: drinking wasn’t working for me. Not anymore.

 

The Power of Comparison

By the time I reached the end of 2024, I had the rare opportunity to reflect on two starkly different years. One year sober, one year drinking. Placed side by side, they painted a vivid picture of how alcohol shaped—and often distorted—my experience of life.

It doesn’t work the other way around.  Even though I had a whole adult life of drinking as a comparison, it’s only when you’re consciously choosing non-sobriety that you’re able to make them. 

The most stark realisation is the speed at which it’s possible to just get straight back into the rhythm of a drinking life. 

The sober year was marked by clarity. There was a steady rhythm to my days, an unshakable sense of progress, and an ability to face challenges head-on. I found pride in knowing I could tackle life without reaching for a drink, even when things felt tough. My relationships deepened as I became more present, and the little moments—like a morning cup of coffee or a walk in the fresh air—gained an almost meditative quality.

Contrast that with the drinking year, where moments of joy often felt fleeting and manufactured. Fun nights out were tempered by heavy mornings. Decisions felt muddied, both big and small. My energy dipped, and so did my motivation to pursue things that mattered to me. It wasn’t that life completely fell apart—it’s that it never quite came together the way it did when I was sober.

This comparison brought the impact of alcohol into sharp focus. It wasn’t just about the physical toll, though that was undeniable. It was about how alcohol subtly influenced my thoughts, actions, and relationships. It dulled my edges when I needed sharpness, smoothed over feelings I should have confronted, and created a cycle of short-term relief followed by longer-term regret.

What stood out most, though, was the difference in how I felt about myself. Sober, I liked who I was. Drinking, I often found myself battling a version of me that felt less authentic, less in control. It was as though alcohol had the power to shrink me, to make me smaller in my own eyes.

This power of comparison wasn’t easy to face, but it was the catalyst I needed. The experiment was over, and the results were in. Sobriety gave me a richer, fuller life, and I wasn’t willing to trade that for the fleeting comforts of a pint.

 

I thought the noise was meant to die down?

One unexpected result of my sobriety was how profoundly clear my mind became. It was as though a heavy fog that I hadn’t even realised was there had lifted, revealing sharp edges and vivid details I hadn’t noticed in years. But with this clarity came noise. My brain, it seemed, had woken up from a long slumber and wasn’t about to go quietly.

The noise wasn’t just a distraction; it was relentless. Thoughts racing, ideas clashing, emotions amplified. It felt as though every part of me that had been subdued by alcohol was suddenly demanding attention, all at once. At first, I tried to ignore it, hoping it was just part of the adjustment period. But the more I leaned into sobriety, the louder my mind became.

Eventually, I realised I couldn’t handle this without some sort of outside input. This wasn’t just overthinking or the typical stress of modern life—it was something deeper. Seeking help felt like a natural extension of the honesty I’d been cultivating in my sober life. So, I found myself sitting across from a psychiatrist, explaining the relentless cacophony in my mind.

The diagnosis that followed was both a surprise and a relief: combined type ADHD. For years, I had chalked up my difficulties to personality quirks or the pressures of adulthood. But this diagnosis reframed so much of my life—my struggles with focus, the impulsivity, the need to quiet my mind through external means like alcohol. It was as though someone had handed me the missing piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.

The diagnosis didn’t just help me understand myself better—it also shed light on my relationship with alcohol. I hadn’t just been using it to unwind or connect socially; I’d been using it to manage something I hadn’t even known was there. Sobriety had uncovered the truth, and while it was a lot to process, it also felt like a step toward a healthier, more authentic way of living.

 

Living with the Diagnosis 

Receiving the ADHD diagnosis brought clarity, but it didn’t bring immediate change. I couldn’t just wake up one morning and suddenly be a different person. The patterns and tendencies that had defined so much of my life didn’t vanish overnight. In fact, in some ways, the diagnosis added a new layer of complexity to my self-reflection.

One of the hardest parts was the constant loop of “what if?” that began to play in my head. What if I’d known this sooner? Would I have handled school differently? Relationships? My career? The temptation to look back and imagine a life where I had the tools to manage my ADHD from an earlier age was almost irresistible. But living in the past proved to be as unproductive as drowning it out with alcohol.

Understanding the diagnosis didn’t mean fixing everything, but it did mean learning to approach my struggles with more kindness. Instead of seeing my challenges as failures, I try now to see them as part of a broader picture—a picture I was only just starting to fully understand. This didn’t make things easier, but it gave me a sense of purpose in moving forward, and that, I realised, was enough.

 

Lessons Learned 

The journey from sobriety to drinking again and back to understanding my ADHD has been anything but straightforward. It’s been messy, challenging, and full of surprises. But along the way, I’ve learned a few things that I’ll carry with me.

Sobriety Reveals Truths
Sobriety isn’t just about removing alcohol; it’s about seeing what remains when the distractions are gone. For me, that meant confronting both the good and the bad—recognising my resilience, but also facing vulnerabilities I’d long avoided. The clarity sobriety brought wasn’t always comfortable, but it was invaluable.

Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism
I now understand how much I leaned on alcohol to quiet the chaos of undiagnosed ADHD. It was never just about unwinding or having fun; it was a way to manage feelings and thoughts I didn’t yet have the tools to handle. Recognising this has helped me approach both sobriety and self-care with greater compassion.

Letting Go of ‘What If’
The temptation to dwell on the past—to imagine how things might have been different if I’d known about my ADHD sooner—was one of the hardest challenges to overcome. But I’ve learned that looking back doesn’t change anything. What matters is what I do now, with the knowledge and understanding I have.

Resilience Through Change
Change isn’t linear, and progress doesn’t always feel like progress. There were times when it felt like I was going in circles, but looking back, I see how each step, each decision, moved me forward in its own way. Resilience isn’t about never struggling—it’s about continuing to show up.

Advice for Others
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that self-awareness is a powerful tool. Whether you’re grappling with sobriety, a diagnosis, or just the complexities of life, take the time to listen to yourself. Seek help when you need it, and don’t be afraid to embrace the messy, imperfect journey of self-discovery. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

 

Moving Towards Something Different

As I look ahead, I feel a sense of cautious optimism. This journey has taught me that progress isn’t about reaching some perfect destination—it’s about continuing to walk the path, no matter how winding it may be.

I’ve learned to accept that I’ll always be a work in progress. There will be days when I feel on top of the world, and others when it feels like I’m barely holding it together. But both of those days, and all the ones in between, are part of the same story. A story of growth, resilience, and self-discovery.

Managing my ADHD is now a part of my daily life. It’s not about trying to “fix” myself, but about understanding myself better and finding ways to work with, rather than against, my mind. Sobriety is no longer a rigid rule—it’s a choice I make because I know it brings me closer to the life I want to live.

To anyone reading this who might see echoes of their own story in mine, I hope you take one thing away: it’s never too late to change, to learn, or to start again. Life is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes overwhelming—but it’s also full of potential. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just take the next step, whatever that looks like for you.

For me, the next step is clear: to keep moving forward, one day at a time, with a little more understanding, a little more patience, and a lot more hope.

 

A Footnote to Anyone Who Feels they May have ADHD…

 

Living with ADHD: A Constant Cacophony

 

The Dopamine Chase
For me, a good day starts with exercise. It’s not just a preference; it’s a lifeline. ADHD craves dopamine, and exercise is the best—and healthiest—way to feed that need. Ideally, it’s something energizing in the morning that sets the tone for the day ahead. Without it, the internal restlessness can be overwhelming, pushing me to seek that dopamine hit elsewhere in less productive ways.

My brain thrives on the new, the exciting, and the challenging—situations where I can ideate, create, and connect the dots in ways others might not see. I’m brilliant in a crisis, full of energy and ideas, but when it comes to the mundane day-to-day tasks—the life admin, the steady grind—that’s where the wheels fall off. Procrastination and poor follow-through can turn a mountain into a molehill in reverse.

A Led Zeppelin Mind
I’ve often likened my brain to the album cover of Led Zeppelin III: a swirling cacophony of images, thoughts, and ideas in a bizarre montage.  Not only that, when you open the record sleeve, there’s an even crazier one on the inside, even more chaotic, even more full of images.  Well that’s me.  It’s always on, always buzzing, and always bringing new things to the table. While this constant activity can be a gift, enabling me to generate creative solutions and make connections others might not see, it’s also exhausting.

It’s like having a high-speed internet connection with no “off” button. When it’s channeled correctly, I can drive big projects forward with remarkable energy. But when faced with repetitive, steady tasks—the kryptonite of ADHD—it’s like my brain simply refuses to engage.

Emotion, Unfiltered
If there’s one word to describe how I experience emotions with ADHD, it’s raw. Everything feels directly wired into my limbic system, bypassing any filters most people might have. It’s as though my emotions are in technicolour while others live in greyscale.

This sensitivity can be a strength, deepening my empathy and emotional connections, but it can also make regulation incredibly difficult. Even small disruptions—like a steady pile of monotonous work—can feel disproportionately overwhelming, leaving me drained and stuck.

The RSD Struggle
Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) is perhaps the most frustrating aspect of my ADHD. Rationally, I know when someone’s comment or action isn’t personal or critical, but my internal reaction doesn’t seem to get the memo. It feels like a gut punch every time, even when my logical brain knows better. It’s a constant tug-of-war between emotion and reason, one I’ve learned to manage but never truly master.

Strength in Support
What makes it all bearable—and sometimes even wonderful—is having the right people and environment around me. My partner is incredible: patient, understanding, and able to see past the quirks to the strengths beneath. Similarly, having a job that lets me play to those strengths—ideation, problem-solving, and crisis management—rather than trying to force me into a mould I’ll never fit has been transformative.

And, of course, there’s exercise. It might sound simple, but it’s my secret weapon. It’s the one thing that quiets the noise, grounds me in the present, and helps me reset.

The Misunderstanding of ADHD
With ADHD gaining more recognition, it’s frustrating to hear everyone say, “I think I have ADHD!” It’s not just misplacing your keys or the occasional inability to focus. For me, ADHD is deeply internal. It’s a constant mental hum, not an outward hyperactivity or restlessness. The new understanding is a double-edged sword: while it’s great that awareness is growing, the flippant comparisons can feel dismissive of the lived reality.

To Those Who Struggle
If there’s one thing I want anyone living with ADHD—or suspecting they might have it—to know, it’s this: You are not alone. ADHD can feel isolating, overwhelming, and misunderstood, but there is strength in self-awareness and community. Whether it’s finding strategies that work for you, seeking support, or just taking things one day at a time, there is a path forward.

Support used by the author:

The ADHD Centre:  https://www.adhdcentre.co.uk/

One Year No Beer:  https://www.oneyearnobeer.com/

 

Tom is the Head of Creative & Experience at Lead Happy.