As my journey toward a 100% alcohol-free lifestyle continues, all I can do is hope I make it through the first 365 days—and maybe even beyond. So far, so sober. Let me share how I’ve been working to keep this up… and how running (yes, running) has been my unlikely savior.
It all started in January 2024 when I was diagnosed with fatty liver, acute gastritis, and a urinary tract infection—basically the holy trinity of bad lifestyle choices. I was also showing signs of gallstones, probably because I was on a steady diet of pares and mami (I mean, how do you say no to that after a night of drinking, right?).
Despite my medical report looking like a walking PSA for “Don’t Be Like This Guy,” I still kept drinking. Not even a doctor's stern face could scare me straight. But then, my mental health started spiraling down so fast, I felt like I was trying to drink my way out of a black hole—with gasoline. It wasn’t until I hit that dark place where life itself felt optional that I realized: I need to get out… or I won’t make it out.
It took me two months of failing, crying, and trying again before something finally clicked.
If you want to kick something, you use your foot, right? Lightbulb moment. So I decided to literally kick the habit—by running.
That first run? Absolute hell. Like, more painful than a breakup where you still owe the girl money. But then something crazy happened… the endorphins. The adrenaline. That weird euphoric joy that comes with not dying in the middle of a jog. I thought, “Wait, am I actually into this?”
So what did I do next? I ran again the following day. Another painful run. My legs were screaming, my lungs were filing complaints, and I was 99% sure my bones were about to snap like expired chopsticks. I genuinely started wishing my skeleton was made of adamantium.
By Day 2, I was toast. Done. Dried squid. I sat myself down and said, “I earned this rest.” And maybe I did. But maybe… I also earned an excuse.
On Day 3, I didn’t run. I parked my butt in the same chair where I used to drink alone. Big mistake. The craving slithered right back in. I was staring at the table, and suddenly, in my mind, there it was again—ice-cold, sparkling golden beer… looking sexier than it ever had. I swear I even heard Egyptian music playing in the background, like the ancestors were tempting me with ancient alcohol magic.
Panic mode.
"This can’t be happening," I told myself. I jumped out of that chair like it was cursed. Grabbed my shoes. My feet were still sore, but I didn’t care. I ran. Under the blistering heat of the Philippine summer sun, I ran like my life depended on it—because honestly, it kinda did.
With the heat index soaring and the sun basically auditioning for the role of Satan’s spotlight, there I was—dragging my sweaty, slightly crispy body across the concrete road that now felt more like a flat-top grill. Every few meters I had to stop, not to rest, but to check if anyone was watching me like, "Who’s this lunatic slow-roasting himself at high noon?"
It only took me 1.5 km to say, “Okay, this is insane. I’m not David Goggins. I have the right to procrastinate in this kind of weather.” I found shade under an acacia tree and decided to scroll a bit—classic move. That’s when I stumbled upon a video of actual David Goggins. At first, I didn’t care. Just some buff dude yelling online. Until he started cursing like he was personally offended by my weakness.
“You stop when you’re DONE! Not when you’re TIRED!”
Boom. That hit me like a slap from the heavens (or maybe just heatstroke hallucinations). But whatever it was, it worked. My feet started moving again. Every time he yelled, I pushed harder. Under the scorching Philippine sun, drenched in sweat and borderline regret—I ran 4 kilometers. That was the exact moment I unlocked something in me: the beginning of my weird but wonderful running addiction.
Now, every time the urge to drink creeps in—I run. I don’t care what time it is. Rain? Sun? Heatwave? LPA? Doesn’t matter. I run.
Barangay officials even flagged me once for suspicious activity. Apparently, running at 1 a.m. in a hoodie makes you look like a burglar. Fair. But after a few weeks, they got used to me. Even the neighborhood dogs stopped barking. Instead of chasing me, they now just judge me silently like, "Oh great, it’s that emotionally unstable jogger again."
Three months in, I noticed the changes. My body leaned out, my mind started clearing, and I felt… sharper. More alive. Even some of my neighbors noticed. A few of them started running too. One guy even asked me to share my story on his YouTube channel. I told him, “Pre, I’m still a work in progress. Hindi pa ako pang-vlog.” He understood, but kept the offer open in case I ever feel ready to inspire people.
Inspire people? Ako? Talaga ba?
Maybe one day. But for now, I’m just focused on winning my own battles.
Today, I run regularly. I’m faster, stronger, and no longer making excuses. Here’s what I learned: you don’t need a gym membership, fancy shoes, or a structured plan to start. You don’t even need motivation most days. You just need to do it. Doesn’t matter if it’s a walk, a light jog, or a 1 a.m. emotional sprint—just get moving.
And hey, I get it—this isn’t about you, it’s about me. But if you’re still reading this, maybe you’re also going through something. Maybe you’re also finding your own way out of the dark. And wouldn’t it be sweet if one day, our paths crossed and we shared stories about how we turned pain into progress?
What’s even sweeter is realizing that this wasn’t just a phase or a resolution. This is a lifestyle. And in order for real, lasting change to happen—like in my case, kicking alcoholism—you don’t just quit something.
You build a life where that thing no longer belongs.
Temptation will always knock. But self-respect answers the door now. And it tells temptation to f*ck off.
Have a good day. Lace up. Let’s run.
