I’ve been two years boy sober. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to three. I’m not counting. I’m just living.
It didn’t start as a big declaration. It started because I was done. Done with toxic relationships. Done with pretending to be the “happy girl” for men who couldn’t handle the real me. The last time I was with someone, I felt a profound emptiness. Not happy, not loved, not seen. Just empty. And I knew: this isn’t it. This isn’t me.
The Call That Wasn’t About Him
Before I even started writing this, I made a call. Not a call to my mum or my best friend. I called the last boy I was with.
I didn’t have a script. I didn’t even have a reason. I just… called. And when he picked up, my heart was beating like I’d been caught stealing something. I had nothing logical to say. No unfinished business. No secret questions burning inside me. Just a stupid little impulse that said, call him.
And here’s the kicker: for two years, I’ve been boy sober. And because he was the last one I was with, there’s always been this haunting thought in the back of my head: Is this whole thing tied to him?
Because that’s how people think, right? That your decisions orbit around a man. That your silence, your celibacy, your self-protection, must somehow be connected to him.
So I called. Not because I wanted him back. Not because I missed him. I didn’t. Honestly, he wasn’t even that great a person. I called because I wanted to know if I was still carrying the ghost of him around like an old wound.
What happened? Nothing dramatic. He picked up, said hello, and sounded the same. He asked to call back, and when he did, we spoke, and I realised I was smiling. I felt neutral. No fear. No love. No nostalgia. Just unbothered.
The Backstory: Toxicity, Rebounds, and Emptiness
I was in a three‑year relationship that was toxic. I don’t need to open that whole can of worms here; that story alone could fill a book. Just know: it was the kind of bad that chips away at you until you’re still standing but barely know who you are.
When that ended, I thought I was “moving on.” I fell into something with somebody from my past. Was it a rebound? Maybe. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t healing. It was familiar, a distraction, something to fill the space. And like most rebounds, it fizzled because I wasn’t ready, and honestly, I didn’t even want to be.
Then came the guy I thought might be it. You know that feeling when you convince yourself, “Okay, maybe this is the person I’ve been waiting for. Maybe this is where it finally all makes sense.”
Except it didn’t make sense. At all.
Because the last time I saw him, the last time we were physical, it wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t intimacy. It wasn’t love. It was fucking nothing.
I don’t even want to use the word “used,” because it wasn’t that. It was worse. It was emptiness. Like an abyss opened inside me. I felt repulsed. I felt sick. I remember literally feeling nauseous afterwards, like my body was screaming at me: this is wrong, this isn’t safe, this isn’t love.
And that’s when I knew. Not in some dramatic movie moment, not with tears running down my face. I just knew.
I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want to be kissed. I didn’t want anyone near me unless it was the man I was going to marry. Period.
I went from craving love to craving distance. From craving closeness to craving clarity. Because what the fuck was I doing giving my body to people who weren’t giving me joy?
That was my first step into boy sobriety. Not some shiny empowerment campaign. Not a spiritual revelation. Just a quiet, tired decision: I’m done. Until I meet someone who feels right, I’m not doing this anymore.
Why I Chose Boy Sobriety: Protection, Not Punishment
People hear “two years boy sober” and assume it’s a punishment. Like I’m depriving myself, sitting in a corner clutching a rosary, waiting for the heavens to reward me with a husband. It wasn’t about proving a moral high ground. It was about protecting myself from a cycle I kept repeating.
Because here’s the truth: I was performing. Always performing. I was the happy girl. The “cool girl.” You know that infamous Gone Girl monologue? ‘ Cool girls are hot. Cool girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want
Yeah. That was me.
I mirrored what men wanted to see, instead of being myself. If he needed sunshine, I gave him sunshine. If he couldn’t handle melancholy, I shoved it down. If he wanted easy, I became easy. And the cost of that performance? Me.
It’s easy to say “they were toxic,” and yes, some of them were genuinely awful. But sobriety forced me to look in the mirror and admit: I wasn’t being honest either. My dishonesty wasn’t cheating or lying. It was performing. People-pleasing. Shrinking.
I’d walk into relationships saying, “I’m strong, I’m independent, I’m a boss bitch.” But inside them? I was bending over backwards to fit into someone else’s world. I was dimming myself, silencing myself, playing house in someone else’s script. Every time it ended, I felt emptier, because I wasn’t just losing them; I was losing the fake version of me I’d built for them, until I didn’t even know the real me.
Two Years In: The Lessons
Two years boy sober doesn’t look like one thing. Some days it feels powerful. Some days it feels lonely. But here’s what I know: I am not the same girl I was when I started.
Here’s what I learned along the way:
A. On Loneliness vs Liberation
Yes, it gets lonely. Watching friends go on dates, get picked up, and get spoiled sometimes it stings. I won’t lie. But then there are moments that slap you with perspective. Like the time I was on a date with my girlfriends, and we played a “never have I ever” game on the phone. The phone popped up: “Never have I ever had relationship drama in the past two weeks.”
Every single one of my friends took a shot. Every. Single. One.
Me? I didn’t drink. Because I had zero drama. Zero. And in that moment, the loneliness didn’t matter. The peace was louder.
B. On Clarity & Red Flags
Two years boy sober gave me a radar. Like, a literal sixth sense for bullshit.
One guy told me he loved me, and two weeks later, he was in a relationship with someone else. Old me would’ve been crushed. New me? I laughed. I was actually grateful. Because I saw it for what it was: love bombing, not love.
I’m not easily impressed anymore. That’s one of the most significant shifts. Sweet words don’t move me. Performances don’t move me. I read between the lines now.
C. On Helping My Friends
The clarity even spills over. When my girlfriends vent about their men, I can hear the tactics so clearly. I catch the gaslighting. I hear the manipulation. I can name it for them because I’m not in the fog myself.
It’s like I gained X-ray vision. And once you see, you can’t unsee.
D. Care became Mine
Sobriety wasn’t just about men; it turned me inward. I started waxing. Took skincare seriously. Invested in scent. Dressed up — not for “my man,” but for me.
I still believe in dressing up for your partner. But now I catch myself in the mirror and smile because I look good for me. That feels better than any compliment a man ever gave me.
Read Also: My First Solo Date: Just Me, Myself, and Awkward Silence
E. Facing My Own Reflection
I used to think the men were the problem. Many were. But two years in my own space forced me to face my part.
I was a performer. A mirrorball. I reflected back what I thought they wanted to see. And it wasn’t just performance. I could detach too quickly. Flip a switch and emotionally check out of a relationship. That made me feel powerful at the time, but looking back, it was another way of avoiding vulnerability. Another way of not showing up fully.
It stung to admit that. But I had to.
That’s why Taylor Swift’s lyric in “Fresh Out the Slammer” hits: “Now that I know better, I’ll never lose my baby again.” Now I do know better. I know which parts of me to protect, and which parts I will not sacrifice.
And the growth is real. My communication now? Different. I can tell my friends: “I don’t like that. That’s mean. I don’t want to do this,” without apologising. I can be transparent about things I never would’ve shared before — sex, experiences, what I actually want. Two years ago, I didn’t have the words. Now it just comes out.
F. Learning My Standards
Two years boy sobriety taught me something simple but brutal: I had no standards before. Not really. I had expectations and hopes, but I didn’t have rules I actually lived by.
Now? I do. And they’re not “high maintenance.” They’re basic.
For one, if I’m with someone, I want to talk every day. Not full-day conversations, not clingy nonsense. I’m busy, I have a whole fucking life. But don’t disappear on me for two days and think it’s fine. Don’t use silence as punishment. Don’t think sulking or ghosting mid-argument is okay. No. Communicate like a grown-up.
I’m done with love that needs me smaller. A friend once said she hoped I’d find a man who loves me enough to “compromise” on my quirks — like the fact that I have cats. I stopped her. I don’t want a man who tolerates my cats because he loves me. I want a man who loves me with my cats. Who loves me because of the things you might call flaws.
I want a man who sees me being “too much” and says, this is exactly what I prayed for. Not “I’ll manage her; she’s worth the trade‑off.” I want to be wanted in full.
That’s the shift: I’m no longer bending my life to fit into someone else’s world. If I ever love again, it will have to be parallel growth. Me whole, him whole, side by side. Not me shrinking. Not me folding. Not me being chosen only because I made myself smaller.
Boy sobriety drew those lines. Once you draw them, you don’t go back.
Where I Am Now
I grew up thinking I’d be married young. I thought by 25 I’d be done — husband, kids, maybe even halfway to building the perfect little family. That was the dream. That was the pressure.
Now I’m 25. No husband. No kids. No prospects. And for the first time in my life, I feel… free.
Society whispers about eggs “expiring.” Aunties look at you like you’re running out of time. Everyone acts like being single at 25 is tragic. Here’s what I realised: I am young.
The chariot is waiting. Why am I sprinting to it?
I haven’t even started living yet. I haven’t travelled the world. I haven’t skydived. I haven’t done half the things my younger self dreamed of. Why should I race to marriage like it’s a deadline?
Boy sobriety cracked that pressure open for me. It made me see how much of my timeline was never really mine. It was borrowed from culture, from family, from fear. And I don’t want that anymore.
So now, when people joke that I’m going to be a spinster, I laugh. Fine. I’ll be rich auntie as rich auntie vibes are a flex.
Because what’s scarier than not being married by 25? Rushing into the wrong marriage just to tick a box.
Am I ready to start dating?
Two years boy sober, and I’m not counting. I might hit three, five, or ten years. I don’t know. I don’t care. There’s no fucking calendar on my wall with red marks crossing off days.
Some days, my attraction to people disappears completely. I see someone I think I like, then two seconds later I’m like, nah. Perhaps it’s just my brain filtering out things before they get messy.
Today, I’m in a different place. I used to be single and completely uninterested. Don’t talk to me. Don’t flirt with me. Don’t think about it. Now? I’m single and open. Not open to dating yet — open to people. To connect. To build friendships without the pressure of “where is this going?”
I don’t feel incomplete anymore. Whoever I meet next, if I meet anyone, will meet a whole person. Not a jagged, half‑broken, waiting‑to‑be‑saved person. A woman who’s evolving, building her own life, and will grow with you in parallel and not fold into your shadow.
Boy sobriety gave me that clarity.
Maybe it started with celibacy. But at this point, it isn’t about sex. It’s about me. About knowing me. About choosing me.
