This truth hits deep for me, not as a concept, but as lived experience. Alcohol has left fingerprints all over my early years, shaping memories that settled into my body long before I understood what fear was.

One memory stands out with painful clarity. I was around four years old, hiding in a cupboard while my mum and dad were drunk, arguing, and crockery was flying. I remember the tightness in my chest, the stillness of holding my breath, the instinct to disappear in order to stay safe. A child should never learn safety through hiding.

Later, home felt more like a place we passed through than a place we belonged. Mum worked constantly at the Holiday Inn, trying to hold things together. Dad spent his nights at the pub after work. Absence became normal. Loneliness learned its place early.

My stepdad was also a drunk. Each month he would buy his alcohol supply first, then give Mum whatever money remained for groceries. Even food learned it came second.

As a teenager, another line was crossed. My baby sister’s godfather molested me while visiting with Mum and Hubert. They were all drunk. Alcohol did not create the evil of that moment, but it stripped away restraint and numbed the conscience of those who should have protected me.

For a long time, before healing, I hated people who drank and especially those who got drunk. That hatred made sense. It was the language of pain that had never been safely spoken.

Now, with distance, truth, and God’s gentle restoration, I can see more clearly. Alcohol addiction is so often rooted in unresolved trauma. It promises escape, relief, and forgetting. What it delivers instead is destruction, broken relationships, stolen safety, and repeated harm.

That understanding does not excuse what was done. It does not minimise responsibility. It does, however, name the deeper wound beneath the behaviour.

Alcohol numbs pain temporarily. Jesus heals it permanently. Alcohol dissolves reality. Jesus restores it. One steals life quietly, the other gives it back gently and completely.

What feels sacred to me now is this: I did not become what wounded me. I chose healing instead of hiding. I chose truth instead of numbness. I chose to see the root rather than repeat the cycle.

Trauma may explain behaviour, but healing transforms legacy. By God’s grace, that transformation is part of my story.

💡 Reflection:

• What memories from my past still live in my body rather than my words 🤔

• Where has God helped me move from anger into understanding without denying the harm 🤔

• What cycles did I consciously choose not to repeat 🤔

🎺 Affirmation: 

I am not defined by what wounded me. In Christ, I am healed, protected, and free to live differently. My story does not end in harm, it continues in restoration.

🙌 Prayer: 

Lord Jesus, You see every hidden cupboard, every frightened child, and every wound that alcohol and brokenness left behind. Thank You for meeting me where pain once lived and replacing fear with truth. Heal what still aches, strengthen what once hid, and guard my heart with Your peace. Help me to walk forward without carrying what was never mine to bear.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.