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I think another thing that helps in how you spend your time. You'll hardly meet a partner if you hardly interact with people out there. Go for outdoor activities: excursions, go out for a drink with friends, church etc. It is in such occasions that you meet and make new friends and possibly a partner.

Sometimes it still feels unreal. I’ve been sober for over a year now, taking it one day at a time. Before, I couldn’t stay for a few hours without drinking. Everything changed in January 2025, when I collapsed on my living room floor, weak and bleeding from a gastric ulcer, unable to stand. That moment didn’t just scare me—it stopped me. It was the end of my drinking and the beginning of my healing.
I grew up as the last-born in a small village in Nyanza. Our life revolved around a nearby river—swimming, fishing, laughing, just being kids. From the outside, it was a good childhood. But inside, I often felt out of place, especially around my older brothers. I was always trying to catch up, to belong. When I was about ten, some older boys offered me a cigarette. I coughed and nearly choked, but for the first time, I felt included. Looking back, that was the seed—substances gave me a sense of belonging I didn’t know how to find anywhere else.
My first real drink came in Form One. I had joined friends from Nairobi—city boys who sneaked out of school to drink in nearby villages. I wanted badly to fit in, especially since they were also my basketball teammates. The alcohol tasted awful and didn’t sit well, but emotionally, it worked. I finally felt accepted. As a village boy among city kids, that feeling meant everything to me. Drinking and later marijuana quickly became part of my routine. Even then, I had blackouts—waking up in dorm rooms with no idea how I got there. Still, I did well in school. I barely studied, relied on my memory, and consistently topped my class. My Economics teacher saw something in me and encouraged me to pursue a course in Accounting or Economics.
At university, I learned how to balance two lives. One was disciplined and high-performing; the other revolved around alcohol and drugs. I graduated with a first class and was even employed by the university. Everywhere I went, I somehow found people who drank the way I did. Around that time, I started a long-distance relationship with a girl from my village. On the surface, I was a promising young professional and committed partner. In reality, I was drinking heavily, using marijuana, cheating, and lying without much thought. Deception became normal. It didn’t even feel wrong anymore—it felt necessary.
We got married soon after. Over time, my wife began to see my drinking as normal, sometimes even joining me. But emotionally, we were never close. I had never been good at expressing feelings—not as a child, not as an adult. When we argued, we didn’t talk things through. We simply went quiet. Alcohol helped me stay numb. It dulled emotions I didn’t understand and didn’t know how to handle.
Two years into the marriage, I landed another job—well-paying but extremely strict about substance use. Out of fear, I quit marijuana immediately. Alcohol stepped in and took over without resistance. Drinking was part of the culture, sometimes even encouraged. I told myself I was fine as long as I drank after work. That was my line. As long as I didn’t cross it, I believed I was in control. My career took off. I became CFO. But socially, I withdrew. I drank alone more and more, waking up to empty cans with no memory of opening them.
Neither marriage nor children brought the closeness I had imagined. Eventually, I became CEO. Professionally, I was thriving. Personally, I was unraveling. Beer was no longer enough; I turned to hard liquor. After a miscarriage and growing disagreements about family size, my marriage grew colder. I returned to the university to pursue an MBA, performed exceptionally well, and graduated with distinction. On paper, I was winning. At home, I was absent. I drank daily, alone, hiding bottles in the house and in my car. I told myself I couldn’t be an alcoholic—I never missed work, and I my academic excellence gave me a sort of pride that made me feel invincible.
During that time, I had a short affair and formed friendships that crossed emotional boundaries. Eventually, the Board Chair called me in and asked directly about my drinking. I denied having a problem. I truly believed I still had control. I didn’t.
Over the next year, I tried again and again to cut back or stop. I failed every time. My body began to depend on alcohol just to function. Without it, I shook, sweated, felt my heart race. I woke up at night needing a drink just to calm down. My health deteriorated fast. I lost weight, couldn’t eat properly, and couldn’t sleep unless I passed out. Then came the vomiting. Then the blood. For the first time in my life, I called in sick.
One morning, in the beginning of last year, I found myself lying on the floor, too weak to stand. Everything became clear. Three thoughts came to me with absolute certainty: this had to stop, I had to tell the truth, and I had to ask for help. At the hospital, I still downplayed my drinking. Old habits die hard. But after being discharged, I managed to stay sober for a few days. When my chairman called again and offered support, something in me finally broke open. I said yes.
I was referred to Nairobi Hospital and an addiction psychiatrist. I opened up to a few close friends. For the first time, I committed fully to honesty. I told my wife everything—about the drinking, the lies, the betrayals. It was painful and destructive, but it was necessary. I knew I couldn’t recover while still hiding.
After several weeks sober, I entered an inpatient treatment program designed for senior executives. At first, I was angry and resistant. I thought I had already proved I could stop. The shift came when I read Acceptance Was the Answer, a book my best friend had given me. That’s when it clicked. I finally accepted that I was an alcoholic—and that recovery wasn’t about fixing my circumstances, but about changing myself.
From there, everything changed. I became open. Willing. Honest. During treatment, I faced parts of myself I had avoided for years. I learned new principles to live by. After three months, I was discharged and returned to work under a monitoring agreement. I stayed consistent with therapy and began making amends, including forgiving myself.
Going back to work terrified me. I expected judgment. Instead, I found support. Slowly, I rebuilt trust and confidence. I became not just a better leader, but a better human being—more present, more compassionate.
Today, I am a grateful recovering alcoholic. My life feels richer, steadier, and more real than it ever did before. I don’t resent my alcoholism anymore. It led me to a way of living that allows me to face life honestly, grow through challenges, and stay grounded—one day at a time.