Queer AA Wasn’t Perfect, But Here’s What Access to Sober Community Gave Me

I was in my early 20s when my drinking really started to scare the people around me. 

I wasn’t a frequent drinker, but when I did drink, it was a disaster. It almost always ended with me blacking out or passing out, sending garbled text messages to friends who were tasked with finding out which bar I had visited so they could safely bring me home. 

One particularly terrifying night, I was slumped over in an alley — literally having drunk myself into the gutter. As I was carried into a friend’s car, only half-conscious, I could just barely make out his words to me: “This is the last time."

Looking back, I see my drinking for what it really was: a death wish.

When my therapist suggested I go to AA, I was (of course) resistant to the idea. While it was clear to us that I struggled with binge drinking, it was less clear if I was “truly” an alcoholic.

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Being transgender also made me fearful of going into community spaces without knowing if I would be welcome. Luckily for me, living in the San Francisco Bay Area meant I had access to LGBTQ-specific meetings. So with great reluctance, I showed up one night and plopped down in the very back row, hoping no one would notice me.

What I didn’t expect was how moved I would be by the end of that first meeting. Hearing queers of all ages — elders and young people alike — share stories of anguish and eventual triumph was a deeply inspiring experience. 

I heard from survivors who had lost loved ones to the AIDS crisis; I heard from young people who had run away from home after being rejected by their families. I had never been in a room with so many people who, like me, knew what it meant to struggle as queer. Their resilience was like medicine to me.

While I wasn’t sure deep down if my drinking was a permanent or temporary problem, I committed to working the steps with a sponsor and trying sobriety for a period of time. A few times a week, I’d walk into that church basement, help set up some chairs, give and receive a lot of hugs, and listen to queers share their most vulnerable secrets with their community. 

With time, I became a familiar face, “adopted” into a family of LGBTQ+ people who talked openly about mental illness, addiction, spirituality, suicide, sex, and other more “taboo” topics that we’re so often discouraged from naming in polite company. I had never been in a space where we were encouraged to show our shadow selves, and practice radical honesty in the face of our ugliest truths.

And I mean radical honesty in the literal sense. I still remember asking one evening how someone was doing. He chuckled and replied, “I’m not on meth and I didn’t steal a car. So it’s a good day.”

In a world obsessed with image — insisting on us displaying our “best selves” at all times — it felt healing to be in a space where we were instead encouraged to be honest. I watched what it meant to open up about the worst parts of yourself, and be received with unconditional love, acceptance, and care.

This was a place where I saw men openly cry, strangers hold one another’s hands in support, and people of all faiths (and no faith at all) come together as family.

I maintained my sobriety for the better part of four years. Four years in which I was able to do important healing work around my PTSD and depression. Four years in which I finally realized that the real reason I binged on alcohol was because I didn’t want to live. Four years in which I was able to find countless reasons for living again, this time with a more open and brave heart.

AA is by no means a perfect utopia. I spent a lot of time fearing what might happen if I ever touched alcohol again, absolutely certain my life would fall apart with just one drop. 

Spoiler alert? I went on to drink again, and found that alcohol had largely lost its appeal. Contrary to popular belief about how addiction works, I grew out of my binge drinking. With better tools to manage my mental health, I stepped into my power at last.

So, did AA “work?” I don’t know — I guess that depends on how you determine success. I’m not sober anymore, yet I rarely drink and drink very little when I do. 

What I can say is that queer community saved me at a time when I had very little regard for my own life. I learned how to be vulnerable, how to ask for help, how to face the darkest parts of myself, and how to show up for others in a more selfless way.

The question of whether AA really “works,” for me, is overshadowed by a truth that I think we can all agree on: We aren’t meant to go through this life alone. 

By opening up about my pain, I was able to see more clearly that I wasn’t alone in it. Few things are as powerful as knowing that even your darkest secrets are part of a common, shared humanity that connects us all. 

In sharing my story in those rooms, and hearing the stories of so many others, I quickly learned that what we are most afraid of in ourselves is something we can still hold and love in each other. I was able to accept myself more fully by watching others so readily accept me, even in my least flattering moments — yes, including in the gutter.

I don’t know if I found God or my “happy destiny” in AA, but I found something that I think is just as valuable: I found community and chosen family. Without them, I really don’t know where I would be.

Editor's note: If you're interested in Alcoholics Anonymous, visit the AA website to find a meeting or learn more. You may also find alternatives to AA or alcohol recovery resources for the LGBTQ+ community helpful.