Sober Life Rocks ®️
Some conversations stay with you because of what happened. Others stay with you because they help you see something that was missing all along. When I sat down with Jaz Murudumbay for the Sober Life Rocks podcast, I expected we’d spend an hour talking about addiction and recovery. We certainly did. But by the time our conversation ended, I realized we’d been exploring something much deeper: what it feels like to spend your life searching for someone who understands your experience and can show you that another future is possible. One of the greatest privileges of hosting this podcast is introducing listeners to people whose voices deserve a much larger audience. Every guest brings a unique perspective shaped by their own life experiences, and every conversation reminds me that there isn’t one path into sobriety—or one path out of it. My own journey taught me what it felt like to hide. For years, I made myself smaller because I worried about what people would think if they knew I didn’t drink. I quietly declined the wine, changed the subject, or tried not to draw attention to myself. Listening to Jaz reminded me that my experience was only one version of the story. She wasn’t just navigating sobriety. She was navigating culture, identity, family expectations, and the feeling of rarely seeing anyone who looked like her talking openly about recovery. That distinction matters because if you’ve never seen someone who shares your experience find another way forward, it’s much harder to imagine that path exists for you. https://youtu.be/Ak7SubLFyTQ Growing up as the daughter of Ecuadorian immigrants in Canada, Jaz often felt like she was standing just outside the world she wanted to belong to. She remembers family gatherings where alcohol was simply part of the fabric of life. Adults drank, celebrations revolved around drinking, and no one questioned it because it was simply what people did. Even as a child, though, she found herself watching the adults as the evening unfolded. She noticed how their personalities changed after they drank and wondered why alcohol seemed to hold such importance in people’s lives. Years later, when she took her first drink at just fourteen years old, she finally understood. It wasn’t really about the alcohol. It was about relief. The self-consciousness she’d carried for years suddenly quieted. The feeling of being different softened. For the first time, she experienced what so many people later describe: alcohol seemed to erase the distance between who she was and who she wished she could be. As Jaz talked about those early years, I found myself thinking about something I’d never really considered before. People rarely become attached to alcohol because of the drink itself. They become attached to what it seems to give them. For Jaz, it offered confidence, belonging, and a temporary escape from the feeling that she somehow didn’t measure up. She shared that growing up, she often compared herself to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls around her. She rarely saw women who looked like her represented in the ways she longed to be represented, and over time she came to describe those years as living beneath a kind of gray cloud. Alcohol didn’t create happiness, but for a while it seemed to lift that cloud just enough to make life feel easier. Of course, as is so often the case, what begins as a solution gradually becomes another source of pain. The confidence alcohol initially provided slowly gave way to shame. The connection became isolation. The freedom became dependence. Jaz talked openly about the cycle of promising herself she would stop, only to find herself drinking again. Each relapse deepened the same painful question: What’s wrong with me? Listening to her, I realized how many people ask themselves that exact question, convinced that everyone else possesses some kind of strength or discipline they simply weren’t given. It’s one of addiction’s cruelest lies. It convinces people they are uniquely broken, when in reality they’re often carrying burdens they were never meant to carry alone. Discovering a Shared Humanity Jaz walked into her first AA meeting expecting to feel like an outsider. In many ways, that expectation made perfect sense. The meeting was held in a more affluent neighborhood than the one where she had grown up, and simply walking through the door stirred up familiar feelings of not quite fitting in. She came from a family that had struggled financially, and she remembers furnishing their home with discarded items because buying furniture simply wasn’t an option. Looking around the room at professionally dressed people with backgrounds that appeared very different from her own, she quietly wondered if she had made a mistake. So she sat in the back and listened. As people began sharing, something unexpected happened. The details of their lives were different, but the emotions were remarkably familiar. They talked about shame. They talked about feeling like they never quite measured up. They described using alcohol to quiet the relentless voice that insisted they weren’t enough, and they spoke about the exhausting cycle of promising themselves things would be different tomorrow. Jaz realized that while she had spent years believing her struggle made her different from everyone else, it was actually the thing she had in common with the people around her. Beneath different cultures, careers, incomes, and life experiences, they were wrestling with many of the same fears. That part of our conversation stayed with me because it challenged something I hadn’t fully considered before. We often focus on the ways our stories are different, and those differences matter. Jaz’s experience as the daughter of Ecuadorian immigrants shaped her relationship with alcohol in ways that were uniquely her own. My experience was shaped by growing up with a mother who struggled with alcoholism and by years of quietly hiding my own sobriety. Other guests have carried completely different burdens. Yet underneath all of those stories sits something profoundly human: the desire to belong, the fear of being judged, and the hope that somewhere there are people who will understand us without requiring us to explain every part of ourselves. I also found myself thinking about how important representation is in recovery. Growing up, Jaz had never seen women from immigrant families openly talking about addiction or sobriety. She didn’t know people who looked like her sharing stories of healing. If those stories aren’t visible, it’s easy to assume they don’t exist. It’s easy to conclude that recovery belongs to someone else. Seeing people who reflected her own experience didn’t solve everything, but it opened a door. It made recovery feel imaginable, and sometimes that’s the first step toward believing change is possible. Perhaps that’s why I love these conversations so much. Every guest leaves me with a little more empathy than I had before. They remind me that recovery isn’t one story told over and over again. It’s thousands of different stories, shaped by different cultures, identities, professions, families, and life experiences. The more of those stories we tell, the more likely it is that someone who has been quietly wondering if they’re alone will finally recognize themselves. And sometimes, that’s where healing begins. The post Episode 105: What Jaz Murudumbay Taught Me About Recovery, Representation, and Belonging [https://soberliferocks.com/episode-105-what-jaz-murudumbay-taught-me-about-recovery-representation-and-belonging/] first appeared on Sober Life Rocks [https://soberliferocks.com].
104 episodes
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