If you'd asked me a year ago what would eventually get a national campaign into Parliament, I don't think I would have said "connection". I'd probably have talked about determination, hard work, persistence, or sheer stubbornness. But I would have been wrong whilst those things are important, they are not enough alone.

This campaign only exists because of people. Connection has become the thread running through everything I do.

One of the cruellest parts of addiction is loneliness. People often imagine addiction as being surrounded by others, parties, pubs, laughter and noise. Sometimes that's true. But eventually, for many of us, it becomes something very different. You can be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

Then, before you know it, you're lying in bed surrounded by empty bottles, pushing everyone away because you don't want anyone to see how bad things have become. You don't even want to acknowledge it yourself. That was certainly my experience. Loneliness wasn't just something I felt, it became something I lived.

Connection didn't save me overnight, but isolation almost killed me.

Recovery changed that. Not overnight, but slowly. I started meeting people I never would have crossed paths with before. People who didn't need alcohol to have a good life. People who were simply kind, honest and content with ordinary things.

I remember thinking how funny it was that people spent Sunday afternoons washing their cars. At the time it seemed bizarre. Now, although I still don't wash my car very often, I absolutely love the normality that sobriety has given me. I've learned that ordinary isn't boring. Ordinary is peaceful.

I'm digressing now, which, if you know me, you'll know is a fairly typical ADHD moment. So let me come back to connection.

Because over the past few months, connection has changed my life all over again. When an unsolicited can of cider arrived on my doorstep in May, I couldn't have imagined where that single moment would lead.

What began as one complaint has become a national campaign. It has reached Parliament. It has been covered by the BBC and regional media. It has connected me with charities, academics, clinicians, recovery organisations, businesses, journalists, policy makers and perhaps most importantly, people simply said:

"I thought I was the only one."

None of that happened because of me alone. It happened because people opened doors. They shared a post. They introduced me to someone else. They invited me into conversations and spaces I never expected to be part of.

There’s another side to connection that I've been thinking about too. If you know me, you'll know I hate asking people for things. Every email introducing myself, every message asking whether someone might be interested in the campaign, every invitation to collaborate, I overthink it. I worry I'm bothering people. I wonder whether I'm being a pest. But I've realized something:

Almost every meaningful opportunity that's come from this campaign started because someone said hello. Sometimes that someone was me. Sometimes it was them. Almost every time I've been met with kindness. Organizations have replied saying they were delighted I contacted them. Others have found the campaign themselves and reached out to offer support, ideas or simply encouragement.

Even now, I still have moments where I read a message and think, "Really? Me?" The messages never stop amazing me.

I never take those words for granted. Perhaps the biggest surprise has been discovering just how many incredible alcohol-free communities already exist. There are sober events, recovery organizations, campaigners, businesses, people quietly creating spaces where others belong.

Before this campaign, I had no idea just how many there were. It's made me question the assumption that drinking is simply what everyone does. If that were really true, why do so many thriving communities exist that have built something entirely different? Maybe we're not a tiny minority after all. Maybe we've simply never been connected.

LinkedIn has become one of those places for me. I know social media gets a bad reputation, but I've genuinely made friends there. I don't post polished perfection or what I had for dinner. I share the highs, the lows, the frustrations, the wins, and the things that make me think. And I spend time celebrating other people's work too. Because that's what connection looks like. It's a conversation, not a broadcast.

I don't often talk about the darkest parts of my addiction. Not because I'm ashamed, but because it was the darkest chapter of my life. I almost didn't survive it. I don't want to live there anymore. What I do want people to know is this: however dark things feel, they don't have to stay that way.

I never imagined that one day people would be contacting me, not to ask about my addiction, but to ask how together we can build a more inclusive society.

As I write this, I have many meetings booked over the coming weeks. Some with organisations creating brilliant alcohol-free spaces, some potential partnerships. One is to explore funding opportunities that could help grow Not Everyone Drinks into a national accreditation and training program, helping organisations become genuinely inclusive of people who don't drink. That possibility excites me enormously.

Alongside the campaign, I continue to deliver consultancy and training around inclusion, neurodiversity, disability, addiction and stigma, work that I genuinely love and am incredibly proud of. If this newsletter resonates with you, whether you'd like to collaborate, invite me to speak, book consultancy or simply start a conversation, I'd genuinely love to hear from you. Because I've learned something over these last few months. The best work I've ever done has never started with a strategy, it has started with a connection.