I remember a point in my sobriety when I realized that all those people that I used to count on, the ones I spent my free time with, the ones I shared the important moments with in my life, the ones I called my friends or circle…well, they weren’t around anymore. Either I had burned that bridge in my addiction or through my journey to sobriety, our paths split.
Not everyone will experience this, some are able to maintain a very similar life in recovery. Same people, places, and things…you may have heard those words before. For me, it was different. Aside from my mom, dad, brother, and sister, my world looked very different.
You might have family still in your life. Maybe old friends still text from time to time. But the conversations feel... distant. Safe. Surface-level. You catch yourself nodding along, laughing in the right places, but something’s missing.
That sense of connection you used to find in a drink or a shared high, it’s gone. And in its place, for a while at least, there’s a gap. An ache, maybe. A feeling of loneliness that follows you.
This is where the need for a sober support network becomes more than just a recovery cliché. It becomes essential. Not because you’re weak without it. But because, in sobriety, connection shifts from something optional to something life-sustaining. And listen, humans are beings built on connection. We literally require a connection to operate.
At the risk of stating the obvious, it’s a group of people who support your sobriety. But that definition feels too thin, doesn’t it? It is so much more. For some, their “sober support network” and “social network” are two separate things, and for others, it is one and the same.
A real sober support network isn’t just people who cheer you on from the sidelines. It’s made up of those who show up when things are messy. When you’re spiraling a bit and can’t quite explain why. When you don’t have the words but still need someone to sit with you, even in silence.
These people might include:
There’s no checklist. No official application process. Just mutual trust and the unspoken agreement that you’re in this together, even if you don’t talk every day.
Sobriety isn’t a straight line. Most people who’ve lived it know that already. You don’t just decide to stop drinking or using and magically become someone new. It’s slower than that. Uneven. And it can be kind of lonely at first.
The early days, especially, can feel fragile. You’re peeling back layers, trying to remember who you are without the numbing, without the chaos. It’s not always fun.
A support network helps anchor you through all that. It gives you somewhere to turn when your own brain isn’t being particularly helpful. When the voice that says “maybe just one” gets a little louder than usual.
And sure, sometimes that call or message won’t fix anything. But even then, it interrupts the spiral. That’s often enough.
Also, it’s not just about crisis moments. The good days matter too. When you hit a milestone or laugh at something you once would’ve drowned in whiskey, you need people who understand why that’s a big deal. Who feel the win with you.
This part is tricky. Especially if, like a lot of us, you burned some bridges along the way. Or if the idea of asking for help still makes your skin crawl.
If you’re in a program, treatment, an outpatient program, therapy, or a support group, that’s a natural starting point. Say hi to someone. Stay after the meeting. Exchange numbers, even if it feels awkward (it did for me). Most people are more open to connection than they let on. Especially in these spaces.
I remember people telling me to get numbers, stay after and talk, reach out to someone. None of those things were in my wheelhouse, and none of those felt comfortable. It wasn’t till I was faced with the ultimate loss after a relapse that I finally stayed after, asked for a number, and made the call. That person became my first sponsor and someone I stay connected with today, from afar, but I still consider them as one I could call.
Not oversharing. That’s not what I mean. But letting people see even a little of what’s under the surface helps. “I’ve been having a rough time,” or “I’m not sleeping much lately,” can open the door to connection far more than small talk ever will.
And the strange thing? People often respond with their own honesty. You’d be surprised how many people are waiting for someone else to go first.
Recovery isn’t limited to the rooms. You can meet sober people at yoga studios, art classes, volunteer gigs, or through apps and forums. Some of them might not even talk about sobriety that much—and that’s okay. Sometimes just being around people who live honestly is enough.
Social Media does have its positives. And please hear me, Social media is not always the best place for someone new to recovery. However, there are so many sober social groups out there. They can be a place of support and encouragement. Seeing people post their milestones and success stories can show you that recovery is possible. It's also a place for you to go to if you are struggling, find someone to connect with or receive encouragement.
Recovery Communities is Colorado:
Advocates for Recovery Colorado
CAIR (Colorado Artist In Recovery)
TSRA (Twelve Step Recreation Association)
Some connections won’t click. Some people won’t text back. That doesn’t mean you’re failing, it just means you’re trying.
Building a network isn’t fast. It takes patience. You’ll second-guess yourself. You’ll feel a little exposed. But over time, something starts to shift. One or two people become regulars in your life. You develop a rhythm. You start reaching out before the crisis hits instead of after.
And eventually, maybe, someone starts reaching out to you, too. When that happened for me, it was this feeling of “I’ve made it”. I’ve done the work, I’ve put in the effort, and now I get to give back what was freely given to me.
It’s not about surrounding yourself with perfect people. It’s not about finding the most “recovered” or “inspiring” voices to follow. Honestly, it’s not even about being around people who always say the right thing.
Some of the best support I’ve ever gotten came from someone who barely said anything. Just sat with me while I fell apart a little. No pep talk. No lecture. Just presence.
It’s also not about fixing each other. You can’t carry someone else’s recovery. You can only walk alongside them.
And, maybe this is important to say, it’s not always about sobriety, either. Some days, you just want to talk sports. Or the weird dream you had. Or the show you’re watching. That’s part of it too. Normalcy. Shared life.
This part hurts. But it’s real. Not everyone has a support network right away. Sometimes the people you love don’t understand recovery. Sometimes they actively undermine it. That’s heartbreaking, and unfair, but not uncommon.
If that’s you, if you’re reading this and thinking, I don’t have anyone, I want to say this clearly: you’re not alone, even if it feels like it. There are people out there who will get it. It might take time to find them. Longer than you’d like. But they exist. Remember, what we struggle with is so normal that no matter where or when, you can find a room of others who are ready to listen.
Start small. One meeting. One message in an online forum. One honest conversation.
That’s all it takes to begin.
This part’s easy to overlook. You build a few connections, things feel stable, and you assume that’s it.
But networks change. People grow apart. Life happens. You might move. They might relapse. Or you might just... drift. It’s not failure. It’s not betrayal. It’s life.
Allow room for that. Stay open to new connections even as you value the old ones.
Also, and this feels important to say: you don’t have to be close with everyone. Depth matters more than breadth. Two or three people who know you deeply are more valuable than twenty you only talk to when you’re smiling.
This isn’t just advice. It’s not a listicle or a how-to.
It’s a reminder.
That connection, real connection, is both terrifying and life-saving. That you’re not weak for needing people. That recovery, as hard as it is, was never meant to be done alone.
My network is small, a few people. But they know me, they’ve sat with me in my darkest moments in sobriety and relapses. They answer when I call and they hold me accountable, they won't co-sign my junk but they will tell me what I need to hear.
So, if your network is small, even if it’s just one other person right now, that’s a start and maybe even enough. That’s more than a start.
It’s hope, made real.
