Grieving Without Numbing: Sobriety and Healing

Grief is one of the hardest human experiences to bear. When terrible news comes, it’s natural for many of us to reach for something — anything — that dulls the edges of the pain. Usually in Ireland, that’s a drink. It’s the easy, almost expected response; a knee-jerk reaction woven into our culture and our coping. And in that moment, it does seem to help — it softens the blow, takes the sting out of reality, and wraps us in a false kind of comfort.

But what if that age-old tradition — raising a glass to the departed, drowning our sorrow, drinking through the wake — isn’t truly helping us at all? What if, instead of bringing comfort, it quietly delays healing and leaves us fighting for balance long after the funeral is over?

In 2021, I experienced grief in two very different ways — both painful, but worlds apart in how they felt.

The first loss was my granny (Nana), who I was very close to. Normally, I would have joined in the usual Irish funeral tradition — raising a glass, drinking for the day after the service, moving through the day in a fog of alcohol. But as it happened, I had to be in family court the next morning, and I wanted to show up as my best self. So, I reluctantly chose not to drink.

At first, it felt as though I was being cheated out of something — a ritual I believed I was entitled to. But as the day unfolded, I realised that without the drink, everything was more meaningful. Yes, it was a sad day, but it was honest and memorable. I sat with my family, we shared memories, tears, laughter and music. When the night was over, I went home, climbed into bed, and really felt that loss. And isn’t that how it’s meant to be? Painful, yes — but real.

Only a few weeks later, tragedy struck again when we lost my uncle. This time, with no responsibilities the next day, I slipped back into the old familiar pattern. I drank, as everyone around me did. And although it felt like the “normal” thing to do, something about it didn’t sit right. The next few days were heavy — not just with grief, but with regret, fatigue, and that hollow, anxious feeling that follows a night of drinking. I didn’t feel connected or comforted by alcohol. It didn't help.

That experience stayed with me. It made me start questioning whether the comfort we think alcohol offers in those moments is really comfort at all — or just a way to postpone the pain that eventually demands to be felt.

The Science of Pain and Why It’s Meant to Be Felt

Grief isn’t just emotional — it’s biological. When we lose someone, our brain and body respond as if we’ve been physically wounded. The areas of the brain that process physical pain are the same ones that process emotional pain, which is why losing someone literally hurts. Feeling that pain is part of how our body and mind begin to heal.

When we drink to dull those feelings, we interrupt that process. Alcohol numbs the nervous system, blunting not only the sadness but also our brain’s ability to process and integrate emotion. It’s like pressing pause on healing. The pain doesn’t disappear — it just waits for us, often coming back stronger or more complicated later.

Alcohol is also a depressant. It slows brain function, disrupts the balance of neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine, and leaves the body more anxious and depleted once the effects wear off. During a time of grief — when our emotional stability is already fragile — that chemical rollercoaster can intensify the sadness, making it harder to find equilibrium.

So while it may seem like alcohol softens the blow, in truth, it only deepens the wound.

It’s been almost four years now since I last drank, and in that time, I thankfully haven't lost another person immediately close to me . But I’ve witnessed friends and family go through that kind of pain — deep, raw grief — and I’ve watched them reach for alcohol in the same way I once did. I can see it clearly now, how it only hurts them further, how it adds confusion and exhaustion at an already challenging time. But in those moments, it’s not my place to lecture or offer advice. Grief isn’t the time for lessons — it’s the time for gentleness, and presence. What I do know, though, is that when sadness does eventually find me again — as it inevitably will — I’ll meet it with a clear mind. I’ll cry real tears, feel real feelings, and let them move through me, knowing I’ll come out the other side more easily. Alcohol, I’ve learned, is an uncomfortable shoulder to cry on. True comfort comes from facing what’s real — even when it hurts.

Life will always be a mix — the good and the bad, the laughter and the tears. It’s okay to feel it all. It’s okay to feel sad; it means you’re human, you’re healing, you’re alive. What we resist will always persist — but what we allow, will eventually pass.