Stronger Without: How Quitting Alcohol Rebuilt My Mind, Body, and Identity

How Removing One Thing Revealed Everything That Matters

It’s hard to picture who I’d be today if I hadn’t stopped drinking.

At first glance, everything looked fine. I’d spent over a decade as an infantry officer in the British Army, built a career I was proud of and later cycled across continents on a world tour. From the outside, it might have looked like I had life figured out.

But I didn’t.

I was using alcohol the way many of us use distractions. Not to escape life entirely, but to take the edge off it. To make awkward conversations smoother. To make stress feel manageable. To "relax" after a long day. It felt harmless. Sometimes even earned.

In reality, I was stuck on autopilot. I wasn't falling apart, but I was slowly drifting away from the person I really wanted to be.

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The Quiet Cost of Coasting

In 2019, my marriage ended. I returned to the UK after my world bike tour with no job, no income and no clear direction. I slept on the floor of my brother’s bedroom in my parents' house. Just 18 months earlier, I had been Captain Adam Hugill. Now, I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

When the pandemic hit, my social circle evaporated overnight. The usual excuses I told myself - I only drink socially, only on weekends - fell apart. One Thursday night, I found myself drinking two bottles of Rioja alone on a Zoom quiz with friends I hadn’t seen in years.

I woke up the next morning with my head pounding, my mouth dry, and a sense of dread I couldn’t shake. I was exhausted physically, emotionally, spiritually. I had a new partner living with me due to COVID, someone who rarely drank and her steadiness made my habits look even more unsteady.

This wasn’t rock bottom. But it was a realisation: I was coasting through life rather than intentionally living it.

When Your Body Speaks, Listen

For years, I battled stomach issues that no one could explain.

I’d end up in hospital. Vomiting for hours, doubled over in pain. The tests always came back clear. Blood pressure? Normal. Ultrasound? Fine. I looked healthy, performed well, stayed fit. But my body was trying to tell me something I refused to hear.

I kept quiet about it in the Army. If I spoke up, I risked being downgraded, pulled from deployments. So I pushed through. Vomited. Recovered. Carried on. I thought I could out-run the pain. Out-lift it. Sweat it away.

I couldn’t.

When I handed in my notice to leave the military, I finally went to a civilian doctor. After an endoscopy and colonoscopy (two procedures I wouldn’t wish on anyone) I was presented with an answer at last.

The walls of my stomach were inflamed and damaged. The lining was almost gone. I had gastritis and was on the edge of developing an ulcer.

The doctor was clear: Alcohol is the likely culprit.

I now had a reason to stop. A proper warning sign I could no longer ignore.

So I tried. I attended my final military dinner sober, dressed in my mess uniform, wearing the medals I’d been presented during my military career for the final time. I watched as my soon to be former colleagues got drunk, sang regimental songs, and passed around a tin of snuff from the Battle of Waterloo. Normally, I’d be leading the chaos. But this time, I sat on the sidelines like a tourist in a life I no longer recognised.

I didn’t feel proud. I felt empty. Like I’d lost something. Connection, belonging, identity.

And a week later, I cracked.

Relapse, Escape, and the Road That Didn’t Lead Home

A week after that military dinner, I met two of my oldest friends in London. We sat outside a pub near Borough Market, looking out over the Thames. I told them I wasn’t drinking. I explained the stomach issues and the doctor’s warning.

Five minutes later, one of them came back from the bar with three pints.

And I caved.

It wasn’t peer pressure, not really. It was something deeper: the ache to belong. To share the moment. To not be that guy. The one who makes other people feel awkward just by not joining in.

I gulped the pint down, then another. I don’t remember much else from that night. What I do remember is the quiet voice in my head saying, You’re not ready. I thought I’ll stop soon. Or maybe I’ll onbly drink once a week.

What I didn't understand yet was that true belonging isn't about fitting in. It's about being accepted for who you truly are.

The Wake-Up Call That Changed Everything

After cycling around the world, I was back in the UK, working for a defence company. I told myself I'd take a month off drinking just to reset, get clear-headed and save some well needed cash.

Then I got a call telling me a friend of mine had died.

He was a fellow Army officer, someone I'd gone through infantry training with. This guy was super smart. Respected. Too young to die. The kind of man people looked up to.

The cause was never shared publicly. But I had a feeling he may have died due to drugs. I’ve no way of knowing for sure but even the thought that this was the case was a huge wake up call.

I told myself never again.

I didn't just want to stop drinking. I wanted to reclaim control of my life by eliminating what wasn't essential. I wanted to strip away the noise and find clarity.

Three Practices That Transformed My Sobriety Journey

1. Change Your Language, Change Your Identity

At first, I'd say, "I'm not drinking tonight" as if it were temporary, negotiable. Eventually, I started saying, "I don't drink."

That small shift changed everything. By giving a clear boundary that was not up for debate, suddenly made conversations around alcohol much simpler.

2. Create Distance to Gain Perspective

Eventually, I left the north and moved to the south coast of England, not just chasing better weather, but a different life. One centered on the sea, on nature, on community.

Sometimes, you need physical distance to create mental clarity. New environments help you shed old patterns and see yourself anew. This isn’t an instant fix. But your environment is a huge influence on how you live your life. If you live in a part town or a busy city, the chances are your social circle is going to revolve around drinking.

3. Feel Everything, Fix Nothing

Without alcohol, I had no choice but to feel. All the big old emotions now had nowhere to hide. Anxiety, insecurity, sadness, loneliness. Emotions I used to numb now demanded attention.

Instead of trying to "fix" these feelings, I learned to sit with them. To observe them. To understand them through therapy and reflection.

The most essential skill wasn't avoiding discomfort. It was developing the capacity to move through it.

Once that filter is gone, you don't just see life clearly, you start to see yourself clearly. And the view of “who am I” shifted. I no longer felt trapped to old identities that no longer served me. I could become whoever I choose to be in my own mind. I started t ocare less about how other people viewed me, as I was living life to values that I felt served me and the world around me best.

After five years of sobriety, these rewards have only deepened and expanded. I recently reflected on this journey in this video about my 5-year milestone if you're curious about the long-term impact of this kind of essential choice.