Give Up Bad Friends — Inside and Out

A reflection on sobriety, identity, and upgrading the operating system

The older I get, the more I realise that vitality is not only built by what we add to our lives — but by what we stop carrying.

For a long time, I thought changing my life meant adding better habits. Better routines. Better discipline. Better structure.

And while all of that mattered, I slowly discovered something deeper:

A large part of my exhaustion — mentally, emotionally, even physically — came from the people, environments, behaviours and identities I remained tethered to long after they had stopped serving me.

And eventually, I think I reached a point where I no longer simply wanted relief from the exhaustion — I wanted to finally see clearly, and begin dissolving, the destructive cyclical patterns that had been governing my psyche and heart for decades.

Patterns that I felt almost on a cellular.

Not because they were consciously chosen every day, but because they had been rehearsed, reinforced and embodied over such a long period of time that they had started feeling like “me.”

Reactive patterns.
Escapist patterns.
Emotional survival patterns.
Social patterns.
Ways of thinking, feeling and behaving that had slowly become embedded into my nervous system and identity over years and years of repetition.

And perhaps the hardest part was realising that many of these patterns were not only internally reinforced — they were externally reinforced too.

Certain environments sustained them.
Certain friendships normalised them.
Certain rituals protected them.
Alcohol especially helped tether me to both my outer companions and my inner ones.

It softened awareness just enough for me not to fully confront what was actually happening beneath the surface.

Until eventually, I couldn’t un-see it anymore.

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Years ago, alcohol sat right in the middle of that ecosystem.

And to be clear, I never considered myself an alcoholic.

Looking back, I was probably what many would consider a fairly typical, socially accepted binge drinker — especially for Australian culture and especially for someone my age.

Weekends. Social events. Celebrations. Stress relief. Connection. “Letting off steam.”
Normalised. Encouraged, even.

At the time, I would’ve described it as social, fun, deserved, harmless.

And sometimes it genuinely was those things.

But if I’m being honest, I can now see there were long periods where I felt like I was either drinking myself into a mild depressive state… or drinking my way out of one.

That cycle became so normal I barely questioned it.

Looking back now, I can see alcohol acted like a bridge between my inner and outer companions.

It allowed me to tolerate environments that didn’t really align with me anymore.
It softened the tension between who I was becoming and who I still pretended to be.
It kept certain social dynamics alive.
And internally, it kept me comfortably disconnected from myself.

That’s the part I struggled to admit for a long time.

Because when I removed alcohol, I didn’t simply remove a drink.

I removed a buffer.

And suddenly I was left sitting face-to-face with myself in a way I never had before.

Honestly?

That was terrifying.

I think people often imagine sobriety as clarity descending from the heavens — peaceful mornings, green juices, gratitude journals and enlightenment before sunrise.

My experience wasn’t like that at all.

Sobriety initially felt like exposure.

Without the noise, the rituals, the numbing and the social camouflage, I could suddenly see parts of myself I had spent years avoiding:

• anxiety

• restlessness

• emotional reactivity

• old narratives

• insecurity

• exhaustion

• loneliness

• the need to perform

• the fear of not belonging

And in many ways, that’s why relapse can happen during the journey, certainly did for me.

Not because someone necessarily wants the alcohol itself.

But because meeting yourself directly can feel overwhelming when you’ve spent years medicating, distracting, performing or escaping.

Sometimes we return to old behaviours simply because they feel familiar.

Familiarity can feel safer than freedom.

That was certainly true for me at times.

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Epictetus once said:

“The key is to keep company only with those who uplift you —

whose presence brings out your best.”

The older I get, the more I believe this applies just as much internally as externally.

Because over time I began noticing that certain environments strengthened certain parts of me.

Some friendships brought out steadiness.
Others brought out reaction.
Some conversations left me clear.
Others left me contracted.
Some environments made me feel more honest.
Others encouraged performance.

And internally, the same thing was happening.

Certain thoughts strengthened resentment.
Others strengthened gratitude.
Certain habits reinforced vitality.
Others quietly fuelled enervation.

Eventually I realised I was constantly participating in one of two processes:

Either sustaining what strengthened me…

…or sustaining what slowly drained me.

That’s where Epictetus’s philosophy of Sustain & Abstain shifted from philosophy into lived practice for me.

Not as rigid self-denial.
Not as moral superiority.
Not as optimisation culture.

But as a practical lens through which to observe my own life honestly.

What was actually restoring vitality?

And what was quietly dissolving it?

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I began noticing how interconnected the inner and outer worlds really are.

If I carried anger internally, I tolerated angry environments externally.

If I was restless inside myself, I gravitated toward stimulation outside myself.

If I feared silence internally, I filled my life with noise externally.

And the reverse was equally true.

Certain environments amplified certain parts of my psyche.

Some social circles normalised emotional avoidance.
Some encouraged gossip, bravado, cynicism or endless distraction.
Some made nervous system dysregulation feel completely normal.

The outer companions fed the inner companions.

And the inner companions kept choosing the outer ones.

A loop.

An ecosystem.

An operating system.

And eventually I realised something difficult:

You cannot sustainably restore vitality while remaining deeply loyal to the things draining it.

At some point, something has to give.

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I think life eventually forces this confrontation onto most of us anyway.

Ageing does it.

A diagnosis does it.

Burnout does it.

Menopause does it.

Loss does it.

Divorce does it.

Anxiety does it.

A nervous system that finally whispers — or screams — “enough” does it.

Life eventually presents us with a moment where the old operating system no longer adequately supports what’s in front of us.

And as we age, this matters even more.

Because ageing powerfully is not simply about maintaining muscle mass or avoiding disease.

It’s about adaptability.

Psychological adaptability.
Emotional adaptability.
Physiological adaptability.
Relational adaptability.

It’s the ability to meet reality well.

And reality changes constantly.

Bodies change.
Energy changes.
Relationships change.
Responsibilities change.
Priorities change.

At some point, you either consciously pivot…

…or remain psychologically tethered to outdated versions of yourself long after they’ve expired.

I’ve had to face that repeatedly in my own life.

And honestly, I still do.

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One of the most powerful things I’ve learned is the importance of naming patterns.

Years ago, I used to believe my reactions were simply “who I was.”

Quick temper.
Defensiveness.
Restlessness.
Overthinking.

I experienced them as identity rather than patterns.

But over time, especially through stillness, sobriety and observation, I began noticing something subtle:

There was a space between the feeling and my response to it.

And in that space was choice.

I remember one particular morning catching myself mid-reaction. Chest tight. Mind racing. Ready to respond automatically like I had hundreds of times before.

But instead of following the reaction, I paused and simply noticed it.

And I remember thinking:

“I don’t actually have to keep being this version of myself.”

That moment changed something in me.

Not dramatically.
Not instantly.

But directionally.

And I think that’s how real change often happens.

Not through grand declarations.

But through small moments where awareness interrupts the old operating system long enough for something new to emerge.

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There’s also grief in this process.

I don’t think we talk about that enough.

As I changed, certain conversations stopped resonating.
Certain environments began feeling abrasive.
Old social dynamics felt performative.
Banter that once felt normal started feeling strangely hollow.

And there’s sadness in realising you no longer fully belong in places you once called home.

But there’s also relief.

A kind of exhale.

Like slowly setting down a weight you didn’t realise you’d been carrying for years.

Not because the people are bad people.

But because you are no longer required to abandon yourself in order to belong there.

That distinction matters.

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One thing I’ve also had to watch carefully in myself is judgement.

When positive change starts happening, it can be tempting to look back at older environments or behaviours with criticism.

I’ve caught myself doing this before.

Quietly positioning my newer direction as “better.”

But whenever I notice that happening, I realise I’m simply reactivating older patterns in different clothing.

The ego loves superiority.

And yet the truth is, many of the behaviours and coping mechanisms we eventually outgrow once genuinely served a purpose.

They helped us survive periods where perhaps we lacked the awareness, vitality, resources or support we have now.

So these days, I try to hold my past — and other people’s paths — with more compassion.

Not everything needs condemning.

Some things simply need releasing.

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These days, my life feels far quieter internally.

Not perfect.
Not transcendent.
Not immune from struggle.

I still notice old companions visiting:

• anxiety

• impatience

• ego

• restlessness

• avoidance

• self-protection

But I relate to them differently now.

I notice them earlier.

I literally sat to myself “I see you”, and that simple acknowledgement alone allows me to observe and let the experience flow on by.

To foster my capacity for inner-observation I sustain the things that strengthen clarity, steadiness and vitality:

• sleep

• movement

• stillness

• honest reflection

• meaningful conversations

• sobriety

• structure

• nourishment

• boundaries

• self-respect

And I abstain — as best I can — from the things that pull me away from myself.

That practice feels less like self-improvement these days…

…and more like self-respect.

Because the older I get, the less interested I am in performing a life — and the more interested I am in living one honestly.

And maybe that’s what this whole journey really is.

Not becoming someone else.

But slowly releasing everything that prevents you from meeting yourself clearly.

Luke