'I saved my life by getting sober 5 years ago. On my birthday, I learned what I'd also lost.'

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It's 8pm on a Saturday night, and I'm snot-crying into a bowl of vanilla ice-cream. I'm sitting on the couch with my dog Frank, hair and makeup still intact, freshly dropped home after a long day celebrating my birthday with my oldest friends.

These women have stood by me for 25 years. The day had been beautiful, starting with pre-drinks at my apartment, followed by lunch at my favourite restaurant. There was laughter, stories, and that kind of easy connection that feels like home.

After lunch, we headed to a bar in South Yarra, something I'd done hundreds of times before. Only this time, I was two years sober. I wasn't worried about relapse and I desperately wanted to feel "normal," so I didn't think twice. But as I sat there, surrounded by cocktails and conversations loosening with alcohol, I realised I had changed. And despite being in a crowded room, I felt completely alone.

Watch: On True Crime Conversations, Heather Jason Porter shares how staying sober helped her to keep track of lies. Article continues after video.

In that moment, it hit me: I was still trying to fit my old life into my new one. And the truth is, it doesn't fit.

None of my friends would've known how sad I truly felt, because I kept it hidden behind my smile. But there sitting on the couch that Saturday evening, tears streaming down my face, I knew I was grieving my old life.

Nobody warns you that choosing sobriety — choosing to save yourself — can mean growing apart from the people you thought would always be by your side. It's not their fault, or mine. But learning acceptance has been one of the hardest lessons of recovery. And if I'm honest, it's still a work in progress.

The strangeness of not drinking with my girlfriends still lingers, especially on big occasions like birthdays. I was always "the party girl," the one you called when you wanted a big night. From my first drink at 12, I fell in love with alcohol — the warm rush, the silence it brought to my relentless inner critic. For years, I was the fun one, the last one standing. But in my early 20s, things shifted. Drinking no longer added to my life, it stripped pieces away. I hurt people I loved, lost my values, and still couldn't stop.

Ashleigh's old circle of friends. Image: Supplied.

And yet, my girlfriends stayed. Through every blackout, every disaster. Even when, as a bridesmaid, I woke the bride at 2am because I'd locked myself out of our hotel. Even when I vanished on a friend who had flown interstate to see me. Despite my chaotic behaviour, alcohol has always been a constant in our friendships. Even as we swapped heels for prams, wine was still present on every occasion.

In 2018, after losing a close friend to suicide, my drinking escalated from weekend binges to a daily need. I was stuck in a brutal cycle, waking up hungover, swearing off drinking forever, pouring vodka the minute I got home. I couldn't imagine life without alcohol. How would I survive a girls' lunch? A wedding? The AFL Grand Final? I didn't want to stop, but I couldn't go on. I was exhausted, empty, hopeless.

Then came rock bottom. One night turned into a bender, and I stumbled home at 8am after promising myself "just one drink". I knew I was done. Sobriety terrified me, but staying stuck terrified me more. I called a rehab in Sydney and within a week, I was admitted for a 21-day program. It was February 24, 2020. I haven't had a drink since.

One of Ashleigh's friendships that lasted. Image: Supplied.

At first, I only told my best friend where I was. Shame kept me quiet, and honestly, I wasn't sure sobriety would stick. Then, while I was in treatment, COVID-19 shut the world down. My first catch-up with my friends was a Zoom call, where I finally told them the truth. None of them were surprised, they had seen it all, but had never known how to say something. There was no judgement, just love. And not once have they pressured me to drink again. I think they know this is life or death for me.

In some ways, COVID was a blessing. For my first year of sobriety, social temptations disappeared. I didn't attend my first wedding sober until I'd hit the one-year mark, and even then it was confronting.

Learning to live sober has been awkward, like a baby giraffe on unsteady legs. Some friendships fell away, especially the ones built entirely on nights out. Others shifted. I've been left out of group chats, uninvited from parties where drugs would be around. Those rejections hurt, even when I knew those environments weren't right for me anymore.

Sobriety doesn't just change your relationship with alcohol, it changes your relationship with yourself, which naturally changes how you relate to everyone else. Over time, I've found peace in swapping bars for beach walks, or coffee after yoga, or simply sitting with a friend in the park without needing anything to let down our guard.

Now, at five and a half years sober, my friendships look different. Some are deeper, richer, built on real connection rather than blurred conversations over wine. Alcohol doesn't lubricate friendships, it blocks them. It dulls your heart, your presence, your truth. The intimacy I share with my husband, who also doesn't drink, is deeper than anything I've ever known.

Ashleigh's newfound friends. Image: Supplied.

Sobriety has also brought me new friends, people who understand recovery. The belly laughs, the raw honesty, the mutual respect, it's unmatched. There's something powerful about being surrounded by people who have faced their own darkness and chosen to rise anyway.

Most importantly, I know myself now. I show up as me — no masks, no hangovers, no people-pleasing. And with that honesty, the friendships that are meant for me have only grown stronger.

Letting go of friendships still hurts. Losing friends as an adult is gut-wrenching. And in many ways, sobriety has felt like grieving my old life, the version of me who thought alcohol was the glue holding everything together. But grief and growth often walk hand in hand. Every time I've let go of what no longer serves me, I've created space for something better, something more aligned.

Grief is real. But so is growth. And the life I've built on the other side of that grief is deeper, richer, and far more connected than anything I ever found at the bottom of a glass.

Feature image: Supplied.