I took a 48-hour trip to Vancouver with my baby.

It was a hurried visit prompted by the passing of my Nonna. In traditional Italian fashion, the arrangements were made quickly. I had the honor of doing a reading at the mass.

My little one hasn’t been sleeping well—for weeks now. My nervous system is suffering. A 48-hour trip is stressful under normal conditions.

But this isn’t to complain.

The trip was heavy. Between the mass, the burial, and the gathering at the funeral home, many tears were shed. The weight of loss hung thick in the air.

Vancouver, if you’re unfamiliar, is a busy city—made even busier by rapid growth and an influx of high-rises. What should have been a 20-minute drive took over an hour. And the baby screamed the entire time.

All this to say—it was a jarring experience.

But here’s the beautiful realization I had after the trip:

Not once did I feel the need to numb myself with alcohol or substances.

Not once did I feel like I needed to escape or hide from my emotions.

I allowed myself to cry. I allowed myself to feel frustrated. I allowed myself to laugh at happy memories and to find humor in the chaos of the car rides.

But not once did I even think about having a drink.

Eighteen months ago, I would have been begging to stop for one. Or for a cigarette.

As I sat with my husband, reflecting on the trip, it hit me—just how much I have grown.

And I am so, so proud of that.