Sobriety in Movement Spaces

Kelsey Rhodes (she/her) is the Interim Director of Voice and Communications at Physicians for Reproductive Health. She’s on Twitter, Instagram, Substack, and enjoys doing freelance writing about queerness, chronic illness, and abortion.

In June of 2023, if all goes to plan, I’ll hit seven years working in the reproductive health, rights, and justice space and one year of being sober. After stress, addiction-prone genetics, the pandemic, a divorce, and coming out as queer all increased my comfort with binge drinking, I harmed one too many people I loved and realized it was time to call it quits with my toxic relationship to alcohol. I’m lucky that I was able to navigate the journey of new sobriety while working remotely. After Zoom calls ended for the day, I was able to log off and turn to the coping mechanisms I built for myself: the comfort of Topo Chico, going for a walk with my pitbull and hanging out with my abortion provider friends in Kansas City, some of whom are also sober.

But that comfort bubble burst when I attended my first in-person post-pandemic conference in the repro space. In December, I was overjoyed to see my colleagues and community for the first time at the Society for Family Planning conference. I have a unique set of support circumstances going into the space, so I assumed I’d be okay; I had my support person who is my partner and who also works in the repro space, I was out as sober to my colleagues, I had my coping mechanisms. What could possibly go wrong?

What I wasn’t prepared for was how absolutely central alcohol and getting drunk was to the social spaces at the conference. Friday night was the social hour in the exhibit hall and while I was masked, I was chronically paralyzed by the smell of champagne, red wine, and gin from martinis that were free flowing at the open bars in both corners of the space. Alcohol softened people's smiles but it made me harden. I started second guessing my ability to be in social spaces at all. 

My insecurity got louder. Oh my god I can’t do this. I don’t know how to talk to people. I’m not fun anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing. It was relieving when I finally left that small alcohol-filled box, but I soon realized the place we were filtering to was just another bar. 

I took a shot of espresso and realized I had reached my limit. I spent the rest of the night trying to find comfort on the floor of the hotel room, stretching like a starfish and sobbing into my chest. The next morning, I was thankful to not be navigating the conference as hungover as I’d been at every conference in the past. I wrote texts to all of my colleagues and friends at the conference that I’d need to bow out from evening plans for the remainder of the conference. I didn’t have the coping mechanisms needed to be in a community that was so centered on getting drunk. 

As a result, I missed out on a staff dinner, didn’t get to see local friends who were coming to the ANSIRH party, and felt like I’d put myself in a situation that not only compromised my sobriety, but also my professional relationships. If I couldn’t hang, what opportunity to rebuild relationships with people I hadn't seen in years was I missing out on? I wondered what drunken ideating or collaboration invitation was going unmet?

Coming home and reflecting on this really painful experience gave me space to see the many moving—and challenging—parts to this story and to shift away from self-blame and towards compassion.

First things first: we, as a collective and community, have had a really fucking hard go of it. Since our movement’s beginnings, we’ve been on the defense and in a reactive state of fight or flight. We are tired. There are moments when we feel alone and scared. We crave togetherness. We need stress relievers and our society has forever normalized alcohol and drinking as a tool we use to let off some steam and to let loose. It makes sense that alcohol becomes a tool of community, connection, collective relaxation, and play. 

But, for those of us who aren’t able to have a healthy relationship with alcohol, we’re getting left behind. One of my first attempts to find support when going through it at the conference was to text a sober abortion provider friend and just be honest about how hard it was for me. His response made me catch a bit in my throat: “Conferences are like worse than bars. It’s wild. Especially this first year back since COVID. So much pent up energy.”

Conferences are worse than bars. 

I had never considered it, but it was true. Because I was someone with a shit relationship with alcohol, there were fewer safe spaces for me to participate in. In a space that I was going to for connection, solidarity, community, and care, I couldn't participate in it. The weekend was meant to be a homecoming, but just didn’t hit like home.

In other ways I felt at home. There was space for my identity as a queer person. There were accommodations for my chronic illnesses and being immunocompromised. But suddenly there was less room, or none at all, for me to participate in this abortion space through sobriety. 

I’ve spent the last month and a half since building up my coping tools in therapy (blessings to my repro job provided health insurance for covering therapy with a $25 dollar copay). Specifically, I am working up to feel ready for an upcoming staff retreat where the first night has a scheduled happy hour as the team bonding. I will keep operating transparently with my colleagues, I will keep doing my best, and I will keep trying to find alternatives and supportive community. 

Being here for sober people in movement spaces might look a little different than words of affirmation. It might look like ensuring there are non-alcoholic options—and not just water. It might look like having there be dedicated alcohol-free spaces built into social gatherings at conferences and team retreats. It might look like us thinking about our language and the way we make jokes about depending on alcohol to bond or cope. It might look like suggesting places other than the hotel bar to gather together. It might look like focusing more on offering wellness resources like aromatherapy, herbs, and massages and less on making sure the banquet event order includes an open bar. Or, even more to the point, it might look like lowering the registration fee to the event so that more people can attend and less resources are spent ensuring there’s an open bar.

And then there are the really easy to see benefits of this time in my life. I am no longer in uncomfortable or compromising positions with drunk colleagues at the end of the night. I am no longer slumped over in those weird banquet chairs willing myself through a 9AM session without wanting to vomit and smelling like tequila. I am no longer wondering if alcohol gave me fake courage to say something I didn’t mean to a friend, boss, or potential future employer.

All of those small wins are a gift. Every day I find community with other sober folks in the abortion community is a gift. But I wish we talked about it more. I wish it was easier to find each other. We can build the future we all dream of together. We can have fun and play while we do it, together. That always meant all of us, and I hope us sober people can find ways to safely and more comfortably be along on that ride, too.