Part 7-The Whisper That Wouldn’t Quit – 8 Months Sober (and Counting)

You ever get that niggling feeling that you keep ignoring—but it just won’t go away, no matter how much you deny it’s there? That’s been happening to me for months now.

Being what I consider a health-conscious, clean-living woman, I started paying closer attention to those Instagram videos and wellness accounts. Down the rabbit hole I went—learning more and more about the horrid effects of alcohol not only on the body, but the BRAIN. I noticed how often cancer popped up in conversations, especially breast cancer, which studies show increases by about 10% for each additional daily drink a woman consumes. That hit close to home—my mom died from breast cancer, and suddenly the risks felt personal, real, and urgent. And here I am, at the ripe young age of 67, in what I lovingly call my “senior phase of life,” thinking I’m infallible.

And yet, deep down—really deep down—there was this prodding question nudging my spirit:
"Kelita, why are you still poisoning yourself with alcohol? Shouldn’t you be taking the best care ever of what God has blessed you with?”

That whisper became louder. I finally faced the truth.

I was abusing my body. I was sabotaging my peace. And I knew it.

Let’s be honest—many women will tell you that with aging comes less tolerance for booze. That was me. A few drinks and the next day I’d feel horrid. Foggy, lethargic, behind on everything. I’d put things off. I felt lazy. Like a lump of you-know-what. I didn’t like how I was being affected. I knew it wasn’t healthy.

So, the time had come.

January rolled around and I declared: Dry January, here I come. And no—I didn’t drink on my birthday.

There were temptations, of course. The beach club waiter taking drink orders. Friends clinking glasses at sunset. But I kept going. February. March. April. May. June. July. August.

In just a few days I will be 8 months alcohol-free! 

I’m not saying I’ll never have a sip of red wine again or indulge in a killer margarita. But this—this is the longest I’ve ever gone without abusing alcohol since… well, probably since I was pregnant. (And I didn’t drink for those nine months!)

The changes have been noticeable. My head is clearer. My sleep is deeper. I feel stronger. I can confidently order something booze-free and not feel like I’m missing out on a thing.

And here’s the big truth: I didn’t write this seven-part series to point fingers or preach. There’s no judgment here—only honesty.

This journey has been about listening to that still, small voice I believe is God’s. He’s always known me better than I know myself. And in this season, I now find myself truly listening and then taking action.

I am grateful every day.

If you’ve been walking your own winding path with alcohol, or another substance, or even a habit that no longer serves the person you’re becoming… maybe this gave you something to think about. Maybe it sparked something.

I’d love to hear from you. We’re not alone in these quiet wrestling’s. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is admit we’re ready for something different.

And then… take one small, steady step.

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Author’s Note:
This post wraps up my personal series on my relationship with alcohol. If you’ve journeyed with me through these stories, thank you.

And if you want the whole picture—how the pain, the joy, the music, the heartbreak, and the healing all came together—I invite you to read my memoir, Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal.

I hope it meets you wherever you are.

Available on Amazon and Audible (Click here)

If this series resonated with you and you’re feeling the nudge to explore your own healing, habits, or deeper purpose, I’d love to walk alongside you. In addition to writing and music, I offer one-on-one personal life coaching—a safe, compassionate space to explore your story, find clarity, and take meaningful steps forward.

Whether you're navigating change, seeking freedom from something that no longer serves you, or just needing a gentle guide, I'm here. 

Learn more about coaching with me (Click here)

You don’t have to do it alone.

Feeling GREAT and GRATEFUL!

Part 6 - Tequila, Temptation, and Truth – Life in Paradise

My husband and I have been vacationing in Mexico for years, and I can readily admit—part of the charm is the famous margarita. I mean, who doesn’t love an icy-cold, tequila-drenched, limey drink in a fancy glass rimmed with salt? Yum. Those little beauties have definitely led me down the slippery slope on more than one occasion.

One memorable time involved a night out—with my son in tow—that turned from fun to fiasco real quick. Let’s just say it ended with me sicker than I ever care to be again and receiving fluids at a local hospital. My poor son saw things no mother ever dreams her son will witness. I’ll just leave that right there.

Fast-forward a few years later to our current life, and well… let’s just say that little "incident" didn’t exactly stop me from cozying back up to Señor Jose Cuervo.

Living in a tourist paradise with palm trees swaying and ocean breezes five minutes from our door, it’s easy to slip into a rhythm of 2-for-1 cocktails at the beach club while watching sunsets so exquisite, you forget the world even exists beyond them. And slowly—but surely—it becomes a way of life.

Turns out, the brand of tequila they use in those beachside specials is often the homemade kind—liquid trouble that’s been rumored to wreck even the most seasoned sippers. So… whew. It’s not just me!

But after a few years, the toll gets real. You cut back for a week or two, then another social invitation rolls in—and the lure of laughter, music, and that delicious clink of ice in a glass pulls you back in. I mean, I’d already faced what some would consider my lowest point. Why should I have to miss out?

I’ve tried Dry Januarys, but my birthday’s in January. So, yeah… that plan’s about as solid as a paper umbrella in a tropical storm.

Here’s the twist, though—these days, I’m not masking anything. I’m not hiding. I’m not numbing. I’ve done so much of the work. I've faced the shadows. I’ve done a ton of healing. I’ve shared my story with the world.

But something started to stir again. A whisper. A nudge. A deeper question: What would it feel like to give my body and mind a longer break from booze?

That’s the space I’ve stepped into now. Not with judgment, not with shame—but with curiosity, clarity, and a surprising sense of peace.

Let’s just say... something shifted. And I’ll tell you all about that in the next part.

---

Author’s Note:
Sometimes paradise comes with its own pitfalls. This chapter was about recognizing that just because life looks beautiful on the outside doesn’t mean we’re not still wrestling on the inside.

If you’ve ever said, “I’ve done the work, why is this still here?”—this one was for you.

In Reason to Sing, I share what finally brought lasting peace—not perfection, but deep, soul-settling peace.

Available now on Amazon and Audible (Click here)

Part 5- Grapes of Confusion – Faith, Culture & the Evolving Pour

When my life made a radical change, I definitely curbed the alcohol. Shortly after I left my first marriage, I walked away from the country music business, and slowly slid into the Christian music scene. I just naturally thought that drinking was not something the 'church' approved of, and I was on my journey of becoming a squeaky clean new person.

Let’s not even get into my immediate family gatherings. Pretty much all full-fledged—although not self-admitted—alcohol dependents. I often wondered how my sister justified Baileys in her morning coffee, tomato juice in her beer with lunch, and a homemade paralyzer before hopping in the car to head out for the evening. That was just what I saw during the times when I was home for summer visits. I was left puzzled—was this her regular routine, or was it somehow connected to my being there? An excuse to loosen up? To keep the buzz going? Either way, it left me uneasy. 

Part of me questioned whether I was being judgmental—too sensitive, maybe even too self-righteous. But another part of me, the part that had started noticing how much I monitored other people’s drinks—and my own—was quietly alarmed. It was like I’d walked into a play where everyone knew their lines except me. And instead of feeling at home, I felt like a visitor on the edge of something I couldn’t quite name, but I felt it in my gut. Something was off. Something had always been off.

After several years of cutting back—I mean waaaay back—my husband and I rarely brought booze in the house. (Although we did smoke weed… until that came to an end as well. Get the book, and you’ll learn the details!)

But then I started noticing something. Some of our good Christian friends were indulging quite a bit in the grape and the hops. Not like my previous rock-'n-roll life, however some even making it a daily practice. It was... let’s just say, more contained. But it was there.

With each new church we attended or I sang at, I noticed that what was once taboo had become a whole lot more normalized. Not quite Oktoberfest-at-the-Catholic-church-window-painting level (yes, I saw it with my own eyes—that stunned me), but enough to raise an eyebrow. Apparently, the Catholics took Jesus turning water into wine a lot more literally than we ever did. For them, it felt less like a miracle and more like a ministry. I half expected to see a stained-glass Jesus raising a stein with the words “To your health!” in Latin underneath. Meanwhile, in some of my circles, we were still trying to decide if serving decaf in the fellowship hall was slipping down a dangerous slope. I couldn’t help but wonder—was I uptight? Or was everyone else just buzzed enough not to care?

Eventually, my new husband and I joined the ranks of the Christian partakers. We enjoyed fun cocktails,  always wine with dinners, and the occasional craft beer—okay, several. I do love a good IPA!

But where I really noticed something shifting was during the years I was caregiving for my elderly mother-in-law with dementia. After long days that tested every ounce of my patience—and in between, flying across the USA to do speaking and music events—I was burning out. I was emotionally tapped, spiritually depleted, and physically running on fumes. That’s when red wine became my close friend. Not in a wild, party-girl way—just a steady, reliable ritual to take the edge off. It helped me unwind, helped me push through, helped me feel like I could keep the motor running. I told myself I could take it or leave it, but if I’m being honest… even I didn’t believe that line anymore.

So many choices. So many reasons. So little guilt. Until the reasons started sounding more like excuses—and the ritual started feeling more like a need. But I started to ask myself—when does a glass of wine become a crutch? When does the celebration become sedation? Should I be pouring that glass of Cab-Sab while cooking dinner – alone? And really enjoying it?

I wasn’t downing shots at the bar anymore, but I also wasn’t completely free. Alcohol had become more sophisticated, more socially acceptable, more “grown-up”—but at the end of the day, it was still playing the same role it always had: a numbing agent, a social mask, a quiet escape.

I wanted something more. I wanted to live wide awake—not slightly blurred. I wanted peace that wasn’t poured into a glass, and joy that didn’t need to be uncorked. And once again, I found myself re-evaluating this complicated relationship with alcohol—this time not from a place of rebellion or religion, but from a desire to be whole. Fully present. Fully myself.

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Author’s Note:

Faith, family, and fitting in—they each played a role in how I saw alcohol and my own worth. This part of the journey wasn’t loud or wild—it was quiet and confusing.

If you’ve ever tried to make sense of your values while juggling contradictions all around you, you’re not alone.

My memoir shares how I learned to stop performing for love—and start living in truth.

Reason to Sing is my raw, redemptive story available on Amazon and Audible (Click here)

Part 4 – The Music Biz and the Never - Ending Happy Hour

In the music business, dodging alcohol is about as likely as finding a needle in a haystack—blindfolded. Bars, nightclubs, casinos (yes, I played a stint in Nevada), and giant country music festivals sponsored by the biggest beer companies on the planet: booze was always the guest of honour.

The hard part? I wasn’t just performing—I was working the crowd, keeping them dancing and cheering. Happy patrons bought me drinks. Venue owners and managers bought me drinks. By my last set, I was often “half in the bag” — which is just industry code for “still rocking it, but with a little extra wobble.”

My go-to poison? Grand Marnier. Fancy, smooth, and deceptively strong. And when you’re 5’2½” and about 115 pounds soaking wet, a couple of those and I was feeling the party fast.

But the real kicker? After the show, it was practically a job requirement to keep the celebration going—whether clinking glasses with the owner or winding down back at the hotel. Booze became the official currency for celebrating every milestone, big or small, and every excuse in between.

Juno Awards (the equivalent of the Grammy Awards in Canada,) Country Music Week, after-parties that stretched into the wee hours. Liquid lunches with record execs and publishing honchos that were less about business and more about “bonding.” This was the culture, and I was a loyal, card-carrying member of the party brigade.

And the Canadian Armed Forces tours? Let’s just say those came with their own brand of wild stories. As for the extramarital affairs? Spoiler: they were all alcohol-fueled. Yep, that’s in the book too.

But beneath the bright lights and blurry nights, the drinking was more than fun—it became a way to numb the pain as my marriage grew more abusive. I wasn’t just Kelita the star on stage—I was a woman desperate to find love and acceptance for me, not the persona the world saw.

Sometimes the escape hatch feels like the only door you have. But eventually, you have to find the courage to open it.

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Author’s Note:
This chapter shines a light on a season of my life that was thrilling, successful… and quietly unraveling. The stage lights were bright, but behind them, I was hurting and hiding.

If any part of you has used success, social status, or celebration to mask real pain, I hope this resonated.

There’s more to the story—how I found healing and reclaimed my identity beyond the applause. It's all in my memoir Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal 

Available on Amazon and Audible. 👉 [Click here)

Ray Sawyer of Dr Hook and yours truly on tour together

Part 3 – Higher Learning, Lower Standards: The University Years

I escaped my mean stepfather and moved 2200 miles away to begin university life. My first few days were met with Frosh week activities and let’s just say I can’t remember much of the pub crawl in downtown Toronto. I think I met half the busload, but I couldn’t tell you a single name the next day. Drinking was how you lowered your inhibitions to meet and mingle with all the new students. The barriers were being broken down nearly overnight as all the other first-year students who had fled their small towns and parents’ rules were now free to fly. And fly we did!

There were pubs everywhere on campus and most social activities were centered around drinking and getting drunk. It was the way of life. Mix that with large doses of weed and hash and—well—need I say more? I was partying like there was no tomorrow.

As I matured into 2nd, 3rd, and 4th year, house parties became the norm. Magnums of wine were consumed before, during, and after dinner. And beer? Heck, we’d even drive five hours from Toronto to Montreal with a 24-pack and a bag of weed to get us there in time for Montreal bagels at the crack of dawn — honestly, the only thing remotely wholesome about a wild road trip powered by booze and pot.

The discos were popular, so at least at those I could dance some of the booze off. I would have to say drinking was pretty much a daily occurrence during those four years. Well—except for when the hangover was so brutal you just couldn’t function. Some of those early morning classes were pure torture. 

What started as a way to fit in and be part of the crowd eventually became another form of escape. My young marriage was already facing emotional abuse, which was only made worse when my husband drank. Drinking dulled the pain, but it didn’t solve a thing. Turns out booze makes a lousy therapist.

And yes, there’s a chapter in my memoir that details a moment where the party nearly turned deadly—a combination of alcohol, weed, and cocaine that left me on the edge. A night I barely made it through.

---

Author’s Note:
University gave me new freedoms—but also new ways to numb what still hurt underneath. Maybe you’ve been there too.

This chapter in my story isn’t just about the wild nights—it’s about how the pain followed me, no matter how far I ran. I share it all in my memoir, Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal.

Because healing doesn’t begin with pretending—it starts with telling the truth.

👉 Available on Amazon and Audible (Click here) 

University taught me some new games!

Part 2 - Escape in a Slurpee Cup – Teenage Years

 

I began indulging in some serious drinking by Grade 8—around the age of 14, to the best of my knowledge. “Serious” might be a stretch, but at the time, it felt grown-up and dangerous. We’d make jungle juice—this dubious, barely drinkable concoction pulled from someone’s parents’ liquor cabinet. It was so detestable that if you dared show any sign of disdain, you’d get the side-eye from your crew. So, we all bravely sucked it down like it was the nectar of the gods, even though it tasted like a chemistry class gone sideways.

We'd hide behind the 7-Eleven with large Slurpee cups and guzzle it down. The goal was to be drunk in 15 minutes, because curfew was 11 p.m., and we had to make it an early night. We’d wander the streets of our neighborhood laughing too loud, or take shelter in a friend’s basement, grateful for their absent parents and a warm place to ride out the wave. We’d lie low long enough to sober up—at least partially—so we could stumble home without being obvious.

I'm grateful now that my stepfather was a deep sleeper. He rarely heard me come in, which is probably part of the reason I kept obeying the curfew. That, and the fact that he was mean. I didn’t dare break the rules—I just bent the truth around them. Honestly, his snoring was so loud it probably drowned out any creaky floorboards, doors, or even teenage guilt. I figured if I could slip past the chainsaw in the hallway, I was golden.

Looking back, it’s clear to me now: this was how I coped. The laughter, the sneaking around, the buzz that numbed my body just enough—all of it helped me manage the pain and trauma I carried in my young life. Drinking became the escape hatch no one knew I needed. It wasn’t about partying. It was about disappearing for a while.

And sometimes, those disappearances led me into danger I couldn’t see coming.

There’s a chapter in my memoir that recounts one such moment—an encounter that came frighteningly close to date rape, fueled by alcohol, vulnerability, and my desperate need to be seen. It’s hard to tell stories like that. But I believe we need to. Because too many of us have stories like that.

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Author’s Note:

Some of us grew up too fast. Some of us disappeared before anyone even knew we were hurting.

If this chapter of my story brings something up for you, please know you’re not alone. I explore these early years of coping and survival more fully in my memoir Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal.

It’s okay to revisit the past—especially when it leads to healing.

👉 Available on Amazon and Audible (Click here)

Me and one of my best drinking companions!

Part 1 - Innocence and Secrets – Alcohol in My Childhood

My first sip of alcohol was likely from a stubby brown bottle of beer—either handed to me by my father to curb my curiosity, or taken in secret when no one was watching. In those early years, alcohol wasn’t exactly a fixture in our home, but it wasn’t entirely absent either. 

A keg of beer would appear when the branding crew wrapped up their weekend work on the cattle. My mother kept a bottle of Mogan David wine tucked away—deep purple and sweet—but I only recall it making an appearance once or twice. There was homemade chokecherry wine brewed in the basement at one point, though I don’t think anyone actually drank it. By the time it was ready, it had basically turned to vinegar. It wasn’t part of daily life—more like a forgotten experiment that quietly fizzled out. 

But there was something else—a silence that held more weight than the few drinks we ever saw. Years later, when we were moving from the homestead, my two older brothers found something tucked away in a storage loft only reachable by a ladder. Dozens of empty vodka bottles. An army of them. All hidden. All drained. All his. 

I only learned about that discovery after my father’s suicide—an event I am 100% certain was influenced, if not hastened, by alcohol. 

I also remember my father always carrying a little box of Sen-Sen—those weird little black licorice breath mints which later came in a red and gold foil pouch.  As a kid, I loved them just as much as he did. Now I realize it was probably his way of masking the faint but unmistakable vodka smell. Vodka doesn’t have a strong scent like some liquors; it’s more like rubbing alcohol with a twist. Those mints must have been a small comfort to him—a little sweet relief in the middle of something much harder. I loved those Sen-Sen myself, probably because they were tied up in that complicated mix of love, pain, and quiet desperation. 

Looking back, alcohol wasn’t a celebration for me; it was wrapped in curiosity, secrecy, and a big dollop of quiet grief. It was less about drinking and more about the invisible family stories we never talked about. And for my dad, it was a coping mechanism that eventually became too heavy to carry. 

Author’s Note:

This is where it began—not just my curiosity with alcohol, but my journey of uncovering family secrets and silent grief. If this part of my story speaks to something in you, I invite you to read more in my memoir, Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal. It’s not about blame. It’s about breaking the silence. 👉 Available on Amazon and Audible –
Click here

That's me on the right