It was 4pm on a Thursday. My stepdad had just walked in the door after picking up the kids from school – again. The moment I heard his key turn in the lock, I knew what he was thinking.
I was half-asleep, dishevelled. My words were slurred, my answers evasive. I had no explanation, no excuse.
Then he said something that changed everything.
‘I can’t leave the kids here with you tonight, Justine. I’m sorry.’
My 10-year-old daughter sat beside me on the couch, silent tears streaming down her face. She met my eyes.
‘Mum, I’m scared you’re never going to get better.’
That was it.
The words hit harder than anything before. There was no ignoring them, no numbing the pain.
That was the day I chose to fight – for my life, and for my children.
Justine Santowiak tried to set rules for her drinking, but her alcohol dependence spiralled out of control until she finally got sober at the age of 39
I was almost 39. For nearly two decades, alcohol had been my crutch.
At 16, it was the social lubricant that let me blend in at parties, masking my self-consciousness.
At 19, it was the anaesthetic that numbed the heartbreak of a sudden breakup.
At 23, it gave me the courage to step on stage and sing with my new band.
At 26, it quieted the panic attacks that were becoming more frequent.
At 29, it was my escape – fuel for nights out with fellow new mums, a brief reprieve from the relentless demands of motherhood.
And through my 30s, it dulled the ache of an unhappy marriage, where loneliness settled in like a permanent houseguest.
For years, booze had been my coping mechanism, my sedative, my shield.
‘I’d make rules for myself that allowed me to convince myself I was in control,’ writes Justine (pictured here with her children)
There were times I heard the voice in my head, questioning alcohol’s grip on my life. Telling me to cut back, take a break.
Sometimes, I listened.
I set rules to convince myself I was in control.
No drinks before 6 pm. Only two glasses a night. At least one alcohol-free day a week.
But then -an unexpected bill, an email from my ex, a stressful client. Within minutes, those rules meant nothing. Anxiety always won.
I didn’t see myself as an alcoholic. Alcoholics were homeless, slumped on park benches with brown paper bags. I had a home, a family. I was keeping it together.
Or so I told myself.
At my worst, my health took a drastic turn. One morning I woke up with a fractured hand and to this day I have no idea how I did it. Now, I’m 11 years sober
The truth was, every day felt like a battle between the right choice and the only one I knew how to make.
A glass or two of wine to take the edge off became routine. Then a bottle. Then three.
Alcohol had me in a chokehold.
By 2011, my drinking was around the clock – morning to night. Parenting while self-medicating was a f**king nightmare.
People often ask, How bad did it get?
I hesitate to answer. Not out of shame, but because I know how easy it is to compare. To think, ‘Well, at least I’m not that bad.’ I used to do the same – always looking for someone worse off to justify my own drinking.
But at my lowest, I’d drag myself out of bed, drive the kids to school, then race home – just to pour my first drink before lunch.
In rehab, the real work began. No numbing, no escaping. Since getting well, I’ve found new love
I’d crawl into bed and sleep, setting an alarm to wake up – sober enough – just in time for school pick-up.
On the days I couldn’t manage, I leaned on a network of school mum friends who’d step in when I was too intoxicated to drive.
I was drinking two, sometimes three, bottles of wine a day – often with a vodka chaser. When I didn’t have the kids, it spiralled even further.
My life was completely unmanageable.
Self-care didn’t exist. My only priority was making sure my children were safe, fed, and felt loved. If not for them, I might have surrendered entirely to alcoholism.
Every sober moment was spent planning for the next: making lunches, washing uniforms, juggling school runs.
By then, my body was breaking down. My weight had plummeted to 49kg (108lbs or 7.7st). My liver was showing early signs of cirrhosis. My hair was falling out.
My platelets were dangerously low, my triglycerides through the roof – red flags for alcoholism.
One morning, I woke up with a fractured hand. No memory of how it happened.
After several emergency room visits, doctors gave it to me straight: if I kept drinking like this, I had months to live.
That, along with my daughter’s tears and my stepdad’s words,was the wake-up call.
With the support of my GP and psychologist, I made the decision to enter a day rehab program.
Exercise, healthy eating, prioritising sleep and self-care are now my foundation for wellness
That’s when the real work began. No numbing, no escaping – just me, raw and unfiltered. After years of drowning out discomfort, I had a lot of self-reflection to do.
My foundation for wellness became simple but non-negotiable: exercise, eating well, prioritising sleep and real self-care. Being completely open with my inner circle kept me accountable.
Open wounds hurt the most, but they need air to heal.
I’ve now been sober for 11 years. In that time, I’ve learned who I really am. The good, the bad, the brilliant and the flawed.
I’ve survived another divorce, faced financial struggles, celebrated wins, raised two incredible children and found love – the kind that’s right for me.
Through it all, I stayed sober.
Something I once thought was impossible.
