Actually Ashlie: Actually, Fun Doesn’t Have to Lead to Regret
For a long time, I thought fun and substances were basically the same thing. Not exactly—but close enough that I didn’t question it.
Celebrations meant using. Stress meant using. Boredom meant using.
Even happiness somehow circled back to it. I told myself I was having fun. And sometimes, even in the moment, it felt that way. But the part I didn’t talk about—the part that mattered more—was what came the next morning. Waking up not feeling well. Trying to piece together the night before. Sitting with that familiar weight in my chest.
Regret.
Shame.
The quiet promise to myself that this time would be different.
For a long time, I thought that was just part of fun. Like it came as a package deal. You got the high, the escape, the temporary relief—and in return, you paid for it later.
So when I got sober, one of the fears I didn’t say out loud was this: What if fun doesn’t exist without that trade-off? No one really prepares you for that question. People talk about healing. Growth. Getting your life back. But they don’t always talk about what it means to relearn something as simple—and as complicated—as fun.
Because the truth is, at first, sobriety can feel quiet. Too quiet. You start to notice how many spaces, routines, and relationships were built around substances. How often “fun” was really just a shared agreement to check out from life for a while. And without that, you’re left with a different question: What do I actually enjoy?
Not what distracts me.
Not what numbs me.
Not what helps me avoid myself.
But what I genuinely enjoy.
That question can feel uncomfortable at first. Because when you take something away that used to fill your time, your emotions, and your sense of connection, there’s a space left behind. And in the beginning, that space can feel like something is missing.
But over time, something else starts to take its place. You begin to notice things differently. Conversations you actually remember. Laughter that doesn’t come with consequences. Moments you don’t have to replay the next day with a sinking feeling in your stomach.
And slowly, fun starts to change shape.
It might look like a conversation that goes deeper than surface level. It might look like showing up somewhere and actually being present the whole time. It might look like trying something new and realizing you don’t need anything extra to enjoy it. It might even look simple.
And that’s the part I didn’t expect. Because I had learned that fun had to be complex, intense, or loud—even a little out of control. Something that helped me escape myself for a while.
But actually, fun doesn’t have to lead to regret.
It doesn’t have to cost you your peace.
Or your progress.
Or your sense of self.
It doesn’t have to leave you waking up wishing you had done things differently. Sometimes fun is quieter than it used to be—but it’s also more honest. It stays with you.
And maybe that’s the difference.
You don’t lose fun in recovery. You lose the version of it that came with consequences. And in its place, you get something steadier. Something you don’t have to undo the next day. Something that doesn’t ask you to trade your well-being for a moment of escape. Something that actually feels good—before, during, and after.
Actually, maybe that’s what fun was supposed to feel like all along.
Actually Ashlie is a column that challenges common narratives and talks about the things we don’t always say out loud.
Ashlie Howard