The Last Pour
The One When You're DONE
I had poured out alcohol a thousand times before.
A thousand false starts.
A thousand “never agains.”
A thousand shaky declarations made through teeth clenched with shame.
Sometimes I dumped bottles with anger — slamming them upside down like I was punishing the liquid itself.
Sometimes I poured while crying, apologizing to no one and everyone at once.
Sometimes I emptied them in quiet, numb defeat, staring at the sink like it was the only witness capable of keeping my secrets.
But none of those were the time. None of those lasted more than 72 hours.
None of those were the moment that mattered. The five o’clock drive to the liquor store erased them.
Those were just rehearsals.
But then…
Then came the last time.
The moment that split my life into before and after.
The moment the world tilted and something ancient inside me stood up.
It was my pre-chosen Day One — a day I had circled on the calendar of my soul long before I admitted it out loud.
And that morning, I didn’t just dump the bottle.
I poured with fury.
I poured with joy.
I poured with the kind of defiance that tastes like freedom.
It was a triumphant act — violent, sacred, final.
The difference?
I was done.
Not pretend done.
Not “give me one more chance” done.
Not “maybe I can moderate” done.
Not “I’ll figure this out tomorrow” done.
I was DONE.
Done with the negotiations.
Done with the bargains.
Done with promising myself I’d only drink on weekends, or after 5pm, or not alone, or not too much, or not the cheap stuff, or not the expensive stuff, or not tonight, or not ever again — until ever again always arrived.
Done with waking up scared.
Done with apologizing.
Done with trying to outrun a shadow that followed me everywhere.
Done with breaking my own heart.
How Did I Get There?
People ask this all the time — quietly, carefully, like they’re holding a fragile question between trembling hands.
“How do you know you’re done?”
“How did you know?”
And I always want to give them something concrete — a step-by-step guide, a checklist, a recipe, a map with an X and a dotted path leading straight to freedom.
But the truth is both softer and sharper:
I don’t know.
But you know.
You know the moment the excuses stop working.
You know the moment the story collapses.
You know the moment the mirror stops accepting your lies.
You know the moment the version of you that still believes in goodness taps you on the shoulder and says,
“Hey… we’re not doing this anymore.”
A lifetime of pain and shame leads you to it, yes.
A lifetime of near-misses and regrets.
A lifetime of trying to stitch together the torn parts of yourself with a substance that only ripped it wider.
But the moment itself?
The exact spark?
That’s between you and God.
Between you and your soul.
Between you and the part of you that refuses to die.
It’s not a thought.
It’s not an idea.
It’s not even determination.
It’s recognition.
A reckoning.
An awakening.
A remembering of who you were before you handed yourself over to the bottle.
It’s when the cries-in-the-morning-shower-and-begs-you-to-quit version of you finally beats the sh*t out of the laughs-at-the-shower-you-and-drives-to-the-liquor-store-at-5pm version. It’s when the tiny voice you’ve been ignoring stands up and kicks somebody. It’s when your own BS has officially overstayed its welcome, and even you can’t justify it anymore. It’s when you’re sick. and. tired.
And DONE.
The Final Pour Isn’t About Alcohol
That last pour wasn’t about the drink.
It wasn’t about sobriety yet, either.
It wasn’t about health, or discipline, or willpower.
It was about returning.
Returning to strength I forgot I had.
Returning to dignity I thought I’d forfeited.
Returning to a truth I’d buried under years of numbing.
Returning to the God who never stopped waiting for me.
Pouring out that bottle wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t metaphor or poetry.
It was a burial.
A funeral for the life I was done living.
And like any good funeral, I cried.
And like any good resurrection, I stood up differently afterward.
It was also about freedom — not just from drinking, but from everything drinking had calcified in me.
Freedom from shame.
Freedom from disappointment.
Freedom from killing my body.
Freedom from lies.
Freedom from walking on the same Zombieland hamster wheel I’d been on for decades.
Freedom of choice.
Freedom of agency.
Freedom of Shane.
You Don’t Think Your Way to DONE. You Feel Your Way There.
You get there through every hangover that felt like punishment.
Through every morning you woke up terrified of your phone, your texts, your memory.
Through every disappointed look on the faces of people you love.
Through every night you lied to yourself, swore you’d stop, swore tomorrow would be different.
Through every apology you didn’t mean and every promise you couldn’t keep.
You get there because you’re tired.
Not sleepy tired — soul tired. Had it tired. Dog tired. DONE tired.
Sick of the loop.
Sick of the spiral.
Sick of the version of yourself that keeps hijacking your life.
And finally — one day — you look that version of you dead in the eyes and say:
“You’ve done enough damage.
You fought hard.
You tried your best.
But I’m taking it from here.”
And that’s when you pour it out.
The Beautiful, Terrifying, Holy Thing About Being DONE
Being “done” doesn’t mean you’re suddenly confident.
Or suddenly healthy.
Or suddenly happy.
Or suddenly wise.
Being done means you’re finished lying to yourself.
Finished bargaining with the monster you created.
Finished treating poison like a solution.
Being done is the moment your survival instinct shakes off the dust, stands up, cracks its knuckles, and says:
“We’re going home.”
And you listen.
If You’re Reading This and You’re Not DONE Yet
That’s okay.
You’re not failing.
You’re not behind.
You’re not hopeless.
Your moment is coming.
Every painful morning is pushing you closer.
Every broken promise is sharpening your clarity.
Every craving is giving you data about who you are and what you want.
Every relapse is teaching you something your shame refuses to admit:
Every relapse is teaching you something your shame refuses to admit:
you are stronger than you think, brothers and sisters — every one of you.
You are closer than you know.
And one day — I promise — you will pour out your last drink too.
Not with fear.
Not with shame.
But with fury and joy interwoven, like two hands clasped over the same victory.
And you will know — with absolute, marrow-deep certainty:
This is it.
I’m done.
I’m finally free.
.
This gave me chills Shane. I feel it so deeply. Thank you for sharing 🙏 💕
Thanks for cataloging those moments of surrender. They are vary familiar! I knew I was powerless over alcohol the last twenty years of my drinking, but it was those final moments of surrender that saved me and changed my life. I picked up my one and only white chip nine years ago, and today I devote my message to those that have found Sobriety, that it is only the first step and embracing a Spiritual lifestyle of virtue and morality will continue your rescue forever. It's the door prize!