All I could do was stare at my inbox as the 23rd parent-teacher-organization-related email of the day popped up on my screen. I had grown so bitter and overwhelmed that I’d started counting them, one by one, every single day. This one was from her again—the new-to-town PTO mom who seemed fueled by endless you-can-do-it-better-if-only suggestions and I–am–so–disappointed–in–the–PTO complaints. As PTO president, it was my responsibility to respond politely, smooth things over, and perform damage control. It was already 8 p.m., and my three kids still needed dinner, showers, and help with homework. I could put off responding, but then the email would loom over me all night. I wanted to throw my computer against the wall and scream, “Eff the PTO!” and “Eff this crazy mom from California!” I was done. I had nothing left to give.
The next day, I stood frozen in aisle 10 of the grocery store. My hands shook, my nerves buzzed, and guilt washed over me as I stared at the rows of beer, wine coolers, and flavored alcoholic drinks. I recognized the sensation immediately. It had been years, but it was unmistakable—a craving. A deep, dangerous craving for alcohol. My mind began to wander: the first drink, the familiar taste, the burn, the instant release of tension. I also imagined where it would lead—the 15th drink, the loss of control, the blur, the escape. I wanted it all, but more than anything, I wanted to feel numb. A small, dark part of me even wanted to be the victim again. I wanted people to say, “Poor Suzanne. She was doing too much. We should’ve helped her.” I wanted someone else to clean up my mess. After four years of sobriety, that realization terrified me.
I could no longer deny that I was slipping. The emails never stopped. I fired off rushed replies from my desk at work, hoping my boss wouldn’t notice. My once-sacred bedtime routine disappeared, replaced by midnight sessions of frantic list-checking. AA meetings quietly fell off my schedule—until I wasn’t going at all. My kids became accustomed to being shushed, snapped at, or locked out of my bedroom while I typed newsletters and built spreadsheets for the after-school karate program.
When I had signed up for the role, my intentions were pure. I genuinely loved the elementary school that had educated my three children, and I wanted to give something back. I believed—unrealistically—that I could be that mom: the one who had everything together, not just her life but everyone else’s, too. I wanted to be present, capable, admired. I wanted people to say, “Oh, Suzanne? She’s great.” I wanted my kids to see me that way because, deep down, I knew I hadn’t always been a good mom. Taking on the PTO presidency felt like a way to make amends.
To my children, I had always been a drunk. I drank for 20 years. I missed birthdays, sporting events, and parent-teacher conferences. I was unreliable, unemployable, and untrustworthy. I wasn’t present—and when I was physically there, I wasn’t there emotionally. My kids learned that when Mom said she’d show up, she probably wouldn’t. And when she did, they never knew which version they’d get: calm and sober, fun-drunk, or angry-drunk.
Sobriety changed everything—and in some ways, it changed too much. I started saying yes to everything. Coach my daughter’s softball team? Absolutely. Take the kids on my ex-husband’s nights? Of course. Manage the soccer team? Me, me, me—I’ll do it! Even when I knew I was drowning in responsibility, each yes felt like a way to erase another bad memory from my drinking years. But the guilt and shame I carried didn’t disappear.
Instead, as the responsibilities piled higher, resentment crept in.
I desperately wanted to quit. Deep down, I knew I was playing with fire by neglecting my sobriety and mental health. Still, I felt trapped. I worried my kids wouldn’t love me if I didn’t finish the year as PTO president. I feared what the other moms would think if I quit. I was unraveling. Every morning, I woke with a headache, a heavy heart, and a crushing weight on my shoulders that slowed my body, my spirit, and my mind.
Standing in that grocery store aisle, staring at the alcohol, I knew I had reached a breaking point—but I didn’t buy a drink. Instead, I sat in my car in the driveway for what felt like hours. I forced myself to remember how far I’d come over the past four years. I called my sponsor. I prayed, asking God for the strength and courage to do the right thing. I cried.
When I finally went inside, I walked straight to my computer. I wrote brief, firm resignation emails—first to the PTO, then to soccer and softball. No explanations. No negotiations. When I hit “Send,” I felt my body release a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I felt lighter. I knew it was over.
Today, I work hard to shift my focus from the mom I’ll never be to the mom I am. I keep a gratitude list to remind myself of the beauty—both big and small—around me. AA meetings are non-negotiable. I choose balance over impressing others. Most importantly, I stop trying to make up for past parenting failures by doing more and giving more. Instead, I focus on being fully present with my children—and that is enough.
