The ‘Why’ Behind My Insistence on Sober Yoga

The night he froze to death, Jon sang his heart out.

After months of sobriety, serving as a designated driver for his comrades on the base, picking them up after nights of debauchery and fun, Jon lost his resolve and decided to have a few drinks.

Quite a few, really.

Nine were still circulating in his blood at the time he died, if you trust the coroner’s opinion on the matter.

It was a karaoke bar, and alcohol was the norm. The social lubricant necessary to slide your name into the hat, climb on stage and belt to the heavens. At the end of January, it had already been a long, dark winter. He had made it past his birthday and Christmas, New Years, and the Epiphany. His loneliness pulled him in the direction of community, and his choices in a small town north of nearly everything were slim, and all were soaked.

Hard choices in the endurance of the darkness: lonely home alone, or in toxic community?

I hate this.

The people who were with him the night he died wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary. He was happy-go-lucky when he drank. Silly. Jovial. No one suspected that later that night he would freeze where he was, clean shaven, perfectly dressed. Totally fine.

Each time January 29th appears on my calendar, I hold my breath.

But it is more than that, if I’m honest.

The alcoholism that saturates my circles and bloodline is deep. There are so many stories I cannot share publicly — personal and proximal that would make your skin crawl — so instead of sharing the bouquet of horrors I carry, I lean into Jon’s story.

Because his…