By 2006, it was time for me to re-enlist. My flight chief and the commander informed me that if I did I would have to go back to the flight line. For me this was not an option, so in 2007, I left active duty.

The next nine years were consumed by spiraling depression, increased alcohol consumption and a suicide attempt. To outsiders, my life seemed chaotic and out of control. I disagreed: I had a full-time job, a house and a graduate degree — markers of a successful adult. I even got married and had a daughter. While I was pregnant, my doctor told me I could have a glass of red wine nightly; it was good for my daughter’s heart and my circulation. I did, twice, but the cravings and the guilt were overwhelming. I stayed sober during the rest of my pregnancy and for the 11 months that I breastfed her. But eventually I returned to the bottle.

To Taj, my drinking was normal. To me, he seemed like a well-adjusted child despite the chaos. I showed up to sports events and helped with homework. Our home was a safe haven for his friends. We always took in the ones who were having trouble at home. I was the cool mom who always had a drink in her hand; the cool mom who never said no. I thought this was what motherhood should look like.

Most of the time, I wore my ability to outdrink everyone as a badge of honor. Alcohol became my solution to everything. I justified it by saying, “If you lived my life, you would drink, too.” I convinced myself I could stop. After all, quitting was simply a matter of will. The Air Force had taught me resiliency and strength. What other tools did I need? But alcohol had me beat; I just didn’t know it.

Eventually my alcoholism destroyed my marriage. What was once a fun and safe home for my children became a booze-fueled war zone. My daughter and son saw me angry all the time; hangovers made me short-tempered. Some nights I didn’t come home at all, leaving my son to care for his sister. I continually placed them in danger but was so self-absorbed that I never thought about the example I was setting for them. At times, I looked in the mirror, disgusted at myself as a mother, and swore I would quit. No matter how many times I tried, though, I just could not put it down, until I almost died in that drunken car crash in 2016.

After my mother bailed me out of jail, I reached out to some people I knew who had sober lives. I asked them how they did it. Some went to treatment, some took medicine to help with cravings, others simply were dry. One friend recommended that I attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I had been to meetings before, but my motivation was to learn how to drink like a “normal person,” the way other people did without losing control. Now, beaten down and utterly defeated, I went back, hoping I would learn to stop drinking for good. Everyone was happy, kind and welcoming. They asked me if I had a desire to stop drinking, and for the first time in nearly 20 years, I did. They told me that if I didn’t drink and went to meetings, they would show me a new way of life, and I would never have to take a drink again if I didn’t want to. I believed them.

I’ve been sober now for two years and 10 months. The decision to get sober and stay sober, by no means easy, was the single most important decision I have made in my life. Sobriety has allowed me to become a better parent. My life as a sober mother has cured the awful ache deep inside my core. It has given me a life I always wanted but never thought I deserved. It has taught me what is most important in motherhood: showing up for your children and being fully present for them.

Taj just finished his first year of college, and he and I are closer than we have ever been. Instead of running to his friends for advice when he has trouble with a girlfriend or is stressed out about college life, he comes to me. My daughter, now 10, is thriving. There is no more fighting in the house. We laugh, we read together and I’ve driven her all over Tennessee for dance competitions — sober. While she remembers only bits and pieces of life with me as an alcoholic, she knows the struggle I fought here. When days seem difficult, she reminds me, “I like my sober mommy so much more,” and this is all I ever need to feel whole.