Is this working now?

'What do you mean it's always been working?'

Have you ever looked at a younger version of yourself and wondered how different that version of you is from the one you are now? Different enough that they almost feel like a stranger.

No? Just me?

It’s a curious phenomenon, this retrospective reflection. We’re on the outside looking in, understanding things that version of ourselves never could. We know what they were going through, what they needed, what they should have done differently or, sometimes, what they actually got right. We finally understand.

I recently sat with that understanding, and it took me down a rabbit hole.

When I was that earlier version of myself, I could never grasp the understanding I have today. I initially chalked it up to the usual suspects. Growth. Experience. Age. That’s why hindsight exists, right?

But something about that answer didn’t sit right with me. My mind had accepted it. My body hadn’t. So, I stayed with the discomfort a little longer. Eventually I realised the insight wasn’t that I had changed. It was that I finally understood what my behaviour had been trying to do for me all along.

Ok, pause for a second. Some context is needed because this is my story.

I’ve spent the better part of my adult life pushing my body and mind’s limits with alcohol. That relationship had roots much earlier than I realised. Looking back now, I can trace it back to childhood, to years of being bullied for being different. Somewhere along the way I learnt that being myself came at a cost. I didn’t know it then, but that belief quietly followed me into adulthood.

Alcohol brought out many versions of me. Some weren’t particularly nice. Some were troublesome. But they were all parts of me nonetheless. Then there was one version in particular we’ll call Drunk Adil.

Man, Drunk Adil was a vibe.

A big dandelion in the wind. Carefree. Weird. Funny. The kind of person who wanted everyone around him to have a good time. He could drink an unhealthy amount, remain surprisingly functional, and wake up almost proud of how much he’d managed to consume.

For years, I thought that pride was machoism. It wasn’t. That was simply the story I was telling myself because the real one was harder to admit. In retrospect, I realised Drunk Adil wasn’t using alcohol because he needed alcohol. He was using it because he believed alcohol gave everyone else permission to accept him.

If I was loud, it was because I was drunk. If I was weird, it was because I was drunk. If I was carefree, funny or uninhibited, well.. alcohol.

I wasn’t using alcohol as liquid courage. I was using it as social permission. Or at least, that’s what I believed.

That relationship came with its price. The anxiety the next morning. Trying to piece together the previous night. Calling that one friend to ask, “Everything was okay.. right?” I knew the cost. I was simply willing to pay it.

Because underneath all of it wasn’t alcohol. It was fear. Fear of rejection. Fear that people wouldn’t accept the real me. Fear that the weird, carefree version of myself needed an excuse before society would welcome him, I already knew alcohol was unhealthy. You could have told me that a hundred times and I would’ve agreed with you. But your conclusion would’ve been based on what you were seeing. Mine was based on what I was feeling. Those are two completely different conversations.

Nobody could have talked me into quitting because nobody could have named the need I hadn’t admitted to myself yet. That understanding only came years later through therapy, reflection, uncomfortable conversations, learning more about my neurodivergence and, above all, giving myself enough kindness to stay with difficult questions instead of running from them.

Oddly enough, once I understood what alcohol had been doing for me, my relationship with it changed almost overnight. I no longer needed it to become someone else because I no longer believed I had to become someone else in the first place. These days I still drink occasionally if I feel like it. The difference is that alcohol is no longer carrying the weight it once did. It isn’t permission anymore.

It’s just a drink.

Please don’t misunderstand me here. Addiction is very real, and this isn’t me suggesting it’s that simple. This was simply my experience.. The permission I thought alcohol gave me was permission I could finally give myself.

I could just.. be weird.

The funny thing is, when I stopped drinking, nobody cared. Nobody said I was less fun. Nobody wished Drunk Adil would come back. Nobody stopped inviting me. Nobody loved me any less. Because they had never fallen in love with Drunk Adil in the first place. They’d loved me all along. The only person convinced that alcohol was necessary for people to accept me was me.

When I look back at that younger version of myself now, I don’t feel embarrassed. I don’t feel proud either. Mostly, I feel compassion. He was trying to solve a very real problem with the only tools he believed he had. The solution wasn’t a particularly good one, but the need underneath it was real.

I don’t excuse the mistakes I made while drinking. I’ve hurt people. I’ve made poor decisions. I’ve paid for those mistakes through anxiety, damaged goodwill and difficult conversations. Reflection isn’t justification. Accountability still matters.

But so does kindness. Because hindsight isn’t valuable because it gives us permission to judge who we used to be. It’s valuable because, if we’re willing to sit with the discomfort long enough, it finally gives us permission to understand them.

Addu.