There’s nothing like a hangover to make you question your life decisions—particularly when you wake up next to someone who looks suspiciously different than they did a few hours prior.

At HangoverHeadlines.com, we don’t just survive those mornings—we immortalize them.

We take those kinds of unforgettable life moments and turn them into something useful—proof that alcohol mostly exists to create the kind of memories that end up right here for our viewing pleasure.

We truly believe that life is what you make of it, and that a single story can change a life.

Created by a team of people in recovery, HangoverHeadlines.com uses humor like a sneak attack: first it connects, disarms, hugs you, and then it whispers, “You’re not alone, you magnificent disaster.”

Think National Lampoon energy—channeling the late, great Doug Kenney (the mad genius who basically invented modern comedy before checking out early—and yes, A Futile and Stupid Gesture is still on Netflix).

The HangoverHeadlines.com mission is to shatter comfort zones, roast our demons, and prove that humor can be a tool on the path to a fuller life.

I’m excited to lead this stellar new project. So, please, hit subscribe and help our work to continue.

Let the circus begin.

Cheers!

Chris Benson, editor-in-chief

New Recovery Humor Publication Fills Critical Gap in Addiction Recovery Media – Delivering Laugh-Out-Loud Drunk Tales and Thoughtful Insights to Support Sobriety Across America

Williamsport, PA — January 29, 2026 — HANGOVERHEADLINES.com, a groundbreaking quarterly digital magazine, has officially launched to address a major void in the addiction recovery community: the lack of outlets that explore alcohol abstinence and recovery through brutally honest, laugh-out-loud storytelling.

Founded in December 2025 by journalist and Editor-in-Chief Chris Benson—author of the forthcoming book Reporting from Detox: A Journalist’s Guide to America’s Addiction & Mental Health Crisis—and the Power of Community to Transform—HANGOVERHEADLINES.com serves as America’s go-to hub for stories from the hangover hall of fame, dark humor rooted from lived addiction experiences, and uplifting narratives that celebrate sobriety without dwelling on despair, and mock the U.S. alcohol industry.

“When my brain finally cleared after years of heavy drinking, I became obsessed with how people actually reach and sustain recovery,” said CHRIS BENSON, Editor-in-Chief of HANGOVERHEADLINES.com. “And what I discovered was there remains a lack of publications which tackle the idea of recovery in a way that pulls readers beyond topics of human misery—and the best way to do that is to deploy humor. We exist in an era where long-accepted treatment practices should guide us, not hold back progress.”

“Research shows humor can reframe negative experiences, reduce stress, build social bonds in recovery groups, and even support long-term abstinence — yet few publications embrace it. In 2026, we need content that meets people where they are: ready to laugh at the absurdity while moving toward sobriety,” added BENSON. “We aim to reframe the narrative that hilarious stories from drunken encounters aren’t wasted—they can educate, inspire growth, and entertain.”

More than 6,600 deaths occur annually in Pennsylvania due to excessive alcohol use, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Recent studies, including qualitative research published in the Journal of Substance Use and Addiction Treatment, highlight how humor helps individuals in recovery reframe dark moments, lower tension, and foster connections in settings like 12-step programs. Experts describe the thoughtful use of humor in addiction recovery as “worthy of further investigation,” noting its potential to promote laughter, learning, and mirth while aiding sobriety journeys.

According to the latest data from the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA) and the 2024 National Survey on Drug Use and Health (NSDUH), more than 27 MILLION Americans ages 12 and older had alcohol use disorder (AUD) in the past year — underscoring the urgent need for innovative, accessible approaches to promoting alcohol abstinence.

A Gallup poll conducted in August 2025 found that alcohol consumption among Americans had fallen to record lows.

HANGOVERHEADLINES.com sources authentic, deeply personal stories from everyday Americans navigating addiction or thriving in recovery — and compensates contributors with modest fees, providing meaningful opportunities during a challenging time.

“When Chris pitched HANGOVER HEADLINES, I was immediately on board,“ said MARISA SHAFFER, Certified Recovery Specialist (CRS) and Acquisitions Manager. “We hear endless tragic tales of addiction, but rarely celebrate the downright ridiculous, hilarious moments. This platform lets people laugh at the stupidity we survived under the influence — and that relatability can be incredibly healing.”

SHAFFER added: “At the end of my own dark road, looking back, some moments were pure comedy. Sharing that dark humor in recovery helps others see they’re not alone—and that laughter builds the bonds that keep us sober.”

Operated by a dedicated team of people in recovery and based in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, HANGOVERHEADLINES.com believes humor can hit harder than a hangover. The publication aims to inspire and support alcohol abstinence through accessible, humorous, honest, human-driven stories that serve the greater good.

Visit HANGOVERHEADLINES.COM today to explore the latest issue, submit your own story, or subscribe for monthly doses of recovery humor that entertains, connects, and empowers.

Media Contact:

Chris Benson, Editor-in-Chief

Email: info@HangoverHeadlines.com

Sandusky, OH — When local man Chet Kramer picked up a fresh pack of USA Gold 100’s from his neighborhood smoke shop, the cigarettes had no idea what kind of hell awaited them at Tuesday night’s St. Luke’s AA meeting.

Once the cellophane came off, it was open season. Chet barely managed to light one for himself before four people swooped in to bum smokes — including Linda, who has never, in recorded history, produced a pack of her own.

“It’s exhausting, you know?” said the beleaguered hard pack, already down to eight soldiers by the time introductions wrapped. “With a guy like Chet, I can usually stretch through the day. But this crowd? Jesus Christ, they drain you before the coffee’s brewed.”

”Longtime attendee and coffee czar Brad Towson confirmed the pack’s complaints. “They go through cigarettes faster than we go through Folgers,” Towson said, restocking yet another percolator. “We’ve been doubling up the coffee for years. They’re good about throwing in a few bucks for creamer, though, so we let it slide.”

Chet admitted the pack never stood a chance. “These people are vultures, man. Somebody even eats the plain donuts every week. Plain! Who does that? We’re pretty sure it’s Elmer, but no one’s caught him yet.”

By the end of the hour, the USA Golds lay empty in the trash—crumpled, broken, and reflecting on its short, smoky life. “I like to think I did some good here,” the pack murmured from the bin. “At least it’s not Thursday. That’s when Ted shows up. Nobody bums to that guy.”

- Yeti Kiersnowski is from Williamsport, Pennsylvania and gave up the bottle on September 20, 2020. Yeti is controlled by an old, deaf black lab named Sweet Abe.

The HangoverHeadlines.com project is officially stumbling onto the scene, and we’re on the prowl for the most jaw-droppingly hilarious tipsy tale of 2026.

As the year rolls along, the HH crew will read every glorious submission—while probably questioning humanity—and keeping score of the stories that make our readers lose it the most.

The champion will earn eternal bragging rights and a grand prize, including a cash reward!

So, while we’re waiting, tell us your story—and let’s relive the chaos we claimed was “character building.”

And as we stagger toward the end of the year, we’ll unveil more surprises, contests, and reasons you’ll want to keep refreshing the page instead of your drink.

Stay hydrated. Stay moisturized. Stay questionable.

—The HangoverHeadlines.com Team

Chris, Marisa, and Yeti

Ulysses S. Grant was known for serving in the Civil War and for being the eighteenth president of the United States. But in one small Pennsylvania community, he’s remembered for something far less presidential—a wild party that happened when he couldn’t go fishing.

Grant enjoyed fishing, and one of his favorite spots was the Sinnemahoning River in Clinton County, Pennsylvania. In June of 1870, heavy rains ruined his plans, so he and his entourage took the presidential train to the nearby borough of Renovo instead.

Renovo, a town founded around the railroad industry, saw plenty of trains stop at its station in those days. When the rain made fishing impossible, it was as good a place as any to stop for the night.

And so Grant decided to throw a drunken party. As one does.

The story appeared in The Clinton Democrat, a newspaper so old it didn’t even have a website, of course. On June 6, 1870, the headline read: “THE PRESIDENTIAL PARTY IN PURSUIT OF PISCATORIAL PLEASURES—THEY GET GLORIOUSLY DRUNK AT RENOVO.” Shockingly, the president throwing a drunken party wasn’t even the biggest news that weekend—it was buried on page three.

“The party did not condescend to leave the excursion cars,” the article reported, “But gave themselves up to bacchanalian revelries. Champagne, whiskey punches, etc. were the leading features of the evening’s entertainment.” (The Clinton Democrat clearly had a flair for the dramatic—that much is certain.)

The festivities lasted all night, with the president and his guests never actually stepping off the train—which was probably for the best. Still, not everything stayed on board. Plenty of things were thrown out the windows onto the station platform. The newspaper mentioned quite a few, um, bodily fluids that needed cleaning up afterward, which, all things considered, isn’t the worst legacy left by an American president.

Since The Clinton Democrat apparently wasn’t granted access to the president’s inner circle, it interviewed the man tasked with cleaning the station the next day. His name was Thomas. He recalled plenty of bottles and lemon peels—among the more pleasant items in the mess. Thomas said it took four hours to hose down the platform, which, frankly, is longer than it has taken some presidential policies to be drafted.

To everyone’s relief, Grant didn’t come up with any legislation while drunk at this party (that we know of). But Renovo, Pennsylvania will always be the community where Ulysses S. Grant held a very wild, very drunken party on his train. I’m seriously considering campaigning for a monument—preferably one shaped like a whiskey bottle.

- Lou Bernard is a writer and paranormal investigator from Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. He lives with his wife, son, and two dogs. He can be reached at loulhpa@gmail.com.

It was either a possession charge for cannabis or an underage drinking citation—that was my choice when the cops rolled up as my friend and I took shots of vodka and passed around a bowl with ten dollars’ worth of weed.

It was less than two weeks before my twenty-first birthday, and suddenly I had to decide what kind of legal trouble…

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Thirty years ago, I worked at Jock’s Tavern, a half-hearted sports bar owned by the perpetually drunk “Jock” Jakowski. Working there meant doing just about everything—serving drinks, cooking, cleaning—while Jock sampled far too much of his own stock. Or someone else’s. He wasn’t picky about where he drank, though other bars made him pay.

I loved it all—the dart boards, the jukebox, the pinball machine. I even loved the pay phone, a clunky piece of junk with a little red screen that displayed the number you were calling. This was useful, since it rarely matched the number you actually dialed. You’d press six and get a three. Press nine, and it would dial two. Completely random. And I loved the customers.

Bob and Ginger were a married couple. Andy was a mechanic with a uniquely creative approach to fixing cars—if he’d been an accountant instead, he probably would’ve tried to write off roaches as dependents. I was fairly certain Jock’s actual accountant had done that once, and he drank there, too. Then there was Marty, the best dart player in town. He looked like he couldn’t run half a block without risking a heart attack, but he never missed a shot. Gandalf was our vending machine guy, who somehow kept the jukebox and games running as if by magic. Todd, a local reporter, started showing up after his divorce. As best as I can remember, they were all there the night the car caught fire.

It was a pretty busy night, the kind I loved. I was pouring drinks non-stop for a mostly beer crowd. Bob had been dropped off by Ginger, who was out running errands, and he was deep in a debate with Andy about who was smarter—Andy or the rat in Andy’s house that kept stealing his peanut butter. Everyone’s money was on the rat.

Ginger arrived to pick up Bob, leaving the car idling in the parking lot. Earlier that day, it had been in Andy’s repair shop, and he’d warned her not to turn it off unless absolutely necessary—it might not start again. Bob told her he’d leave once he’d finished his beer.

“Well then, give me one while I wait,” Ginger said. I poured her a beer. Ginger was one of those rare women who could make a single beer last for hours—something most of our customers never managed. Bob, for instance, couldn’t. If Ginger had just stood there without a drink, they’d have been out the door in three minutes. But when Bob glanced over and saw that she still had most of her beer left, he ordered another round, figuring he’d better have something in front of him while she took her time.

“Ginger,” offered Jock, “maybe you should just give me your keys and let me turn off your car.”

“Nah, we’ll be leaving right after I finish this,” said Ginger. I’m not sure how many beers Bob had while Ginger finished her first, but he was just beginning another when she was done. Seeing that he’d started a fresh one, Ginger ordered a second beer. She could have tried waiting thirty seconds, but the logic of that eluded them both. Three hours and what felt like an infinite number of beers later, Jock tried again.

“Ginger, gimme your keys and let me turn off your car.”

“Oh, all right,” agreed Ginger, handing him the keys.

Jock walked out to the parking lot. Ginger’s car wasn’t hard to find—it was the one with black smoke and flames curling up from under the hood. Without a word, Jock turned around, went back inside, and set Ginger’s keys on the bar. Then he started rummaging in the storage closet.

“What’re you looking for in there, Jock?” asked Bob. “Oh, nothing,” Jock said casually, pulling out a fire extinguisher and heading for the door.

Bob screamed and bolted outside, followed by pretty much everyone else in the place. When I describe the chaos that followed, you might think I’m exaggerating for laughs—but believe me, I’m playing it down.

Everyone had their own bright idea.

“Throw drinks on it!”

“Throw snow on it!”

“Drive it away from the building!”

Someone shouted that we should call the fire department, and that bit of logic finally clicked for Jock. He heroically ran back inside, tripped, and knocked himself out cold on a chair.

I figured I’d better call the fire department myself. I picked up the phone, dialed 911—and hit the buttons. Nine… one… six. Nine… four… four… one. Nine… three… eight. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes.

The firefighters arrived and put out the blaze, but the car was a total loss. “Here, Ginger,” I said. “Have one of my specialty drinks.” I set down a bright orange concoction I’d just invented. “I call it a Flaming Ford.”

She glared at me. “Don’t call it that.” The next morning, I answered the phone for my usual reminder call—part of my job was to remind Jock what he’d done the night before. I told him about the fire and why there were sooty footprints all over the bar. He hung up, made himself a Bloody Mary, and headed for Andy’s. Andy was working in his garage when Jock arrived. He tripped over a few random car parts on his way in.

“Hey, Andy,” Jock called. “What’s all this crap?”

Andy looked at the scattered pieces and shrugged.

“Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just some stuff I couldn’t fit back in Ginger’s car yesterday.”

- Lou Bernard is a writer and paranormal investigator from Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. He lives with his wife, son, and two dogs. He can be reached at loulhpa@gmail.com.

I was in my twenties when my place of employment burned down. I was an aspiring writer back then, which meant I worked at a hamburger joint and spent my spare time staring at a typewriter. So when the place went up in flames in the mid-nineties, I ended up at Jock’s Tavern.

I’d been drinking at Jock’s since around my twenty-third birthday. The place was owned by Jerry “Jock” Jakowski, a theater major whose respectable, well-meaning parents had bought him a bar to keep him from moving home and embarrassing them.

Jock was the only man I ever met who somehow made a severe drinking problem work to his advantage. He’d start drinking around three in the afternoon, and by the time the bar opened at five, he was already well into his cups. People came as much to see what kind of stunts he’d pull as they did to drink.

There were always stories. The regulars reminisced about the time a lesbian chucked an ashtray at him, or when he flooded a bathtub one floor above the bar and created a “water feature” dripping through the ceiling onto his awning. That sort of thing.

The night after the fire, I brought my typewriter to Jock’s and set it on a table—so I could stare at it while I drank a beer. It had worked for Hemingway, after all. Jock, having heard about the fire, was as sympathetic as he was capable of being.

“Hear your job got torched!” he called across the room, grinning. “Why don’t you come work for me?”

“Really?” I asked.

“Sure! You do the bartending stuff, and I’ll just manage the place.”

To his credit, Jock stuck with this arrangement even after he sobered up. It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized I’d never mixed anything more complicated than food coloring.

For the first couple of weeks, I leaned into the problem by introducing myself as the world’s worst bartender—a title I wore with pride. Luckily, Jock’s wasn’t the kind of bar where anyone ordered martinis; mostly, I just poured beers. After a few months, though, the regulars began to point out that I was getting the hang of things—and that maybe I was no longer living up to my nickname.

That’s when I started inventing drinks. On Sundays, when I came in to clean, I’d experiment—mixing bottles to see what looked and tasted good. Soon I was creating drinks on the spot, which made me a hit with the college crowd: “Give me something blue!” they’d say. “Now make me something green!”

The setup worked well for both me and Jock, who took it as his cue to get drunk at other bars while I ran the place. I’d hear “Jock sightings” all night—people reporting they’d seen him three blocks away, arguing with a cardboard cutout of a local realtor. It an be said that working for him was a little like working for Bigfoot

To the best of my knowledge, I’m the inventor of the world’s only silver-colored drink. With the right ingredients and proportions, it shimmered silver and tasted like Swedish Fish. We called it the Silverfish. I also came up with “Alien Blood,” a neon-yellow drink that glowed under the lights.

At the time, I was dating a girl who won stuffed aliens from claw machines. She’d bring them in and leave them on the awning above the bar. When someone ordered an Alien Blood, we’d bring one down to sit with the customer while they drank. The students loved it—half the time they came in just for the novelty of drinking beside a little alien.

Jock’s is far in my past now, although I still dust off my bartending skills when my wife throws a party. The place was sold a few years ago and turned into an upscale tavern. I still stop in sometimes, but it isn’t the same. When I ask for an Alien Blood, nobody knows what I’m talking about.

- Lou Bernard is a writer and paranormal investigator from Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. He lives with his wife, son, and two dogs. He can be reached at loulhpa@gmail.com.

What does it say about my area that nearly two dozen drunk-fueled stories come to mind without even trying? Maybe it says we’re talented—or just easily bored and often half-frozen.

But with this current cold snap (looking at you, Northeast), one particular incident comes to mind — one that proves drunk people can, in fact, make history. Sort of.

The year was 1904. The place? Renovo, Pennsylvania—a small railroad town tucked in Clinton County, halfway between Penn State and Williamsport next to stunning Hyner View State Park.

A community of a few thousand hardy souls founded on hard work, timber, and, evidently, a steady supply of whiskey. It’s the kind of place where winters are long, nights are cold, and whiskey counts as central heating.

That’s where a railroad superintendent named C.A. Simpson apparently made the discovery of a lifetime: The North Pole. In Pennsylvania.

According to a report in The Clinton Republican newspaper (yes, a real publication, not a fever dream), the story’s headline read: “Discovered North Pole Near Hyner: A Strange and Startling Experience on an Exceedingly Cold Winter Night.”

Simpson, like any warm-blooded man of the 1900s, decided the cure for a below-zero night was “a few” shots of whiskey. And by “a few,” historians estimate roughly “as many as humanly possible.” He eventually went to bed—only to be jolted awake by what he later described as “strange and unearthly sounds, as of a giant glacier grinding down against the earth.”

Most of us would’ve pulled the covers tighter and called it a ghost. Simpson, however, grabbed a crew of nearby lumbermen (who were almost certainly also well-hydrated with whiskey) and set off into the night. That’s when they found it—the North Pole, clearly having taken a long, tipsy slide south for the winter.

The newspaper was quick to explain: “The North Pole had slipped and slidden down—across the frozen polar seas, through Canada, and stopped just eleven and a half miles north of Hyner.” Science!

You’d think someone in Canada, New York, or neighboring Potter County might have noticed a 13,000-foot ice mass sliding by their barns, but apparently not. According to the report, Simpson was the first man to spot it, proving that alcohol may dull your senses—but it really sharpens your imagination.

Being good patriots (and possibly blackout drunk), the men celebrated their discovery with another round and claimed the errant Pole for the United States by hanging an American flag from a pine tree. Because if you’re going to claim new territory at 1 a.m. in the woods, you’d better pack a flag.

Simpson later theorized that the brutal winter of 1904 was caused by the North Pole stopping in Pennsylvania. Not the railroad smoke, not poor insulation, not bad luck—no, the North Pole itself had just moved in for a bit.

And honestly? Given how cold it’s been lately, maybe he was onto something.

Somebody should probably check if that thing’s still where we left it.

- Lou Bernard is a writer and paranormal investigator from Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. He lives with his wife, son, and two dogs. He can be reached at loulhpa@gmail.com.

The U.S. Secret Service does not typically detain drunk people. But on January 3, 2013, they came close to having to make an exception—because of me. Getting drunk and heckling Joe Biden isn’t exactly a moment I’m proud of, but I have to admit—it made for a great story. “My ability to read the room,” I often joke now, “is the reason why I stay home a lot.” But back then—inebriated in the magnificent marble halls of Union Station in the nation’s capital, a glass of wine in hand and the Vice President of the United States at the podium—the only thing I was reading was my own ego.

It was a celebration of the 113th Congress, a ceremonial swearing‑in for the largest class of Hispanic lawmakers ever elected. I was already half-drunk when we arrived, even more titillated by the prospect of our debaucherous night ahead to explore gay bars in pre-Trump D.C. The event was elegant, a divine cliche affair by Washington standards: Biden presiding, cabinet secretaries mingling, fancy wine flowing like a river, fine tuxedos and pretty outfits in a sea of smiling faces. But we had no reason to be there. My friend and I had, quite literally, talked our way into an event we were never invited to.

My friend was in the nation’s capital—whether for his Senate internship or something else, I can’t quite recall after more than a decade’s memory damaged by alcohol. We were always scheming something mischievous—never harmful, just well-intended fun that usually involved booze. “So, hear me out…” he began, as he had so many times before the night took over. He told me about a political event with Biden and the Hispanic House members being sworn in by the Vice President, persuasively reasoning that we ought to be there—even though we clearly had no business being anywhere near it. I found it difficult to disagree with his logic.

We smoothed our collars, left the hotel near DuPont and made our way into the heart of the district as I magically bluffed our way past security and the velvet rope and into a room filled with history in motion. At first it was exhilarating. I spotted House Minority Whip Steny Hoyer, of Maryland, as we entered and eagerly yelled his name as he and an aide walked by. “Heyyy, Steennny!!!” I bellowed like we were old college buddies. He gave me a polite, awkward smile, a wave and a nod, maybe thinking I was a colleague’s overeager staffer. For a moment, I felt electric. But that was the last “warm reception” I got all night. Because then the drinking took command. And alcohol, for me, was always both the spark and the trigger.

Blackout haze floats over the rest. Cabinet secretaries—Ken Salazar, Hilda Solis—blur through my mind. The speed and efficiency of the wine line was too mesmerizing. New Jersey’s then-Senator Bob Menendez too, notorious in his own right, caught somewhere in the haze of my trash-talking from the sidelines as I contemplated him as my verbal victim years before his conviction. What possessed me? Some combination of cheap arrogance, free booze, and the intoxicated belief that I could say and do whatever I wanted because I was young, untouchable, and drunk enough to mistake volume for wit.

Then-Vice President Joe Biden was speaking to a packed room, delivering remarks about the historic moment for the Hispanic Caucus. Cameras flashed. Lawmakers leaned forward. I—alone in the back, wine glass three or four in hand—decided the best contribution I could make was yelling at the second‑highest official in the country. “Boring! Boring!!” I yelled at one point as Biden spoke and the wine truly took over. “Borrring!!!” I shouted again but only louder. “Who is this guy?!” I sarcastically added like a drunk prick—more than once. Even from my friend’s spot at the very front, he could hear me loud and clear—there’s no way Biden didn’t hear me verbally attack him. It was a moment that, arguably, could only have happened in the United States—I was America in all its drunken glory on full display.

But the sharpest moment I recall is trying to leave the room. In my clouded alcohol brain, I was done for the night with the future president—and ready for the gay bars. “You can’t leave until the Vice President is finished speaking,” the armed Secret Service agent sternly informed me at the door as I tried to exit, first out the wrong way. Drunk me, of course, decided to engage. “What?! I just want to leave,” I said in a cocky tone. Then, with the kind of arrogance that makes you cringe in hindsight, I added: “It’s not like I want to shoot the guy.”

The agent’s arms crossed, a large gun in hand and a heavy pistol at his hip. My dear friend lunged in before the floor—or other agents—swallowed me whole. He grabbed me, smiling nervously at the stern‑faced agent, and apologized. “He’s not sober,” my friend explained, dragging me toward discretion. “I’ve got him,” he told the federal agent—words he uttered more than once about me in my series of drunken escapades. The agent didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His silence—and look—was louder than any warning.

That night could have ended in handcuffs. Instead, it ended in drunken banter. In recovery, I look back on that room and think about how alcohol rewired my social instincts. I drank to feel equipped, to build armor in places I felt raw or vulnerable. I used it to walk into rooms where I felt unequipped and inflate myself into someone bearable to me, but unbearable to everyone else. That night illustrates it perfectly: the wine convinced me I belonged among senators and cabinet secretaries that I could openly harass. Then it robbed me of dignity until I nearly belonged to the Secret Service in custody.

These days, sobriety gives me something alcohol never could: clarity. A sharper ability to really read the room. To see people as they are, not as my insecurity or intoxication wants them to be. And in that clarity, I’ve made peace with something most of us take too long to learn: I’m often better off at home. Alone. Quiet. A dog at my side instead of a wine glass in my hand.

Because the truth is this: your life, like mine, will never be something others can easily understand. No one else knows the fullness of your story, nor should you expect them to. You don’t owe the world comprehension. You owe it only to yourself to keep doing the work—day after day—to turn embarrassment into growth, and mistakes into something worth writing about. Though I still cringe at the memory of shouting down poor Joe Biden, I’d like to think that now, in my sober state, he’d laugh it off and forgive me—with the grace and good humor of the gentleman he is, in the way I was not to him that chilly, historic night in January 2013.

- Chris Benson, author of Reporting from Detox: A Journalist’s Guide to America’s Addiction and Mental Health Crisis—and the Power of Community to Transform, is the editor-in-chief of HangoverHeadlines.com.

It was a hot June evening—and, as luck would have it, my birthday. My twenty-second, to be exact. My twenty-first? Yeah, that one’s a blur too. Honestly, if someone tells me they’re an alcoholic and still remember their twenty-first birthday, I’ll tell them that’s adorable and tell me another one.

Anyway, back to my birthday. My friends were determined t…

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