Eight years ago, my dad put down his last drink. I didn’t realize at the time how much that decision would ripple through every corner of our family. Back then, I thought it was his thing — his journey, his challenge, his big change. I had no idea it would end up changing me too.
When people talk about sobriety, they usually focus on the person quitting. But being the daughter of someone who gets sober is its own kind of transformation. It’s like watching a sunrise in slow motion — little by little, things get brighter, softer, more real.
The first year was awkward. I didn’t know what to say or how to act. Should we celebrate milestones? Should I avoid mentioning wine at dinner? (Spoiler: I didn’t.) But over time, I realized that my dad didn’t need us to tiptoe around him — he just needed us to see him. To notice how hard he was working. To treat him like the same dad, just with a clearer head and steadier heart.
Now, eight years later, he’s the grandpa who shows up early to every school performance, who actually listens when Nico explains his LEGO spaceship designs, and who never leaves before Anthony’s bedtime stories are done. He used to fade out of conversations; now he’s right there in the middle of them, laughing, teasing, telling the same dad jokes that make us all groan.
I’ve noticed something else too — his sobriety made our relationship simpler. There’s no hidden tension, no guessing what kind of mood he’ll be in. He’s present. It sounds small, but in a world that’s always buzzing and distracted, being present feels like the biggest gift.
Sometimes, when I pour myself a glass of wine on a Friday night, I think about him. I think about how he found his peace in a completely different way. He never made anyone else’s choices wrong — he just made his own, and stuck with it. There’s a quiet strength in that.
Living in Miami, life can feel like one long celebration — birthdays, beach days, Sunday barbecues that somehow go past sunset. But my dad showed me that you don’t have to be the loudest person at the party to be part of the joy. You can sit back, sip your seltzer, and still laugh just as hard.
The boys adore him. To them, he’s just “Grandpa,” the guy who builds sandcastles like a pro and sneaks them ice cream when I’m not looking. They don’t know the old version of him, the one I sometimes still remember. And honestly, I’m glad. They get this version — the one who’s grounded and kind and full of life.
Eight years ago, my dad made a choice that saved him. But it gave us something too — a better dad, a better grandpa, a steadier anchor in the sometimes-chaotic swirl of family life.
So when I think about those eight years, I don’t picture a calendar or a countdown. I picture Sunday mornings — him at the table, coffee in hand, laughing at something ridiculous one of the boys said. I picture how peace looks on him now.
And I think: this is what eight years sober can look like. Quiet, steady, beautiful.