There's a moment in every piece of reduction work where you stop talking about alcohol and start talking about life.

 This session was one of those.
Jay came in doing well — better than expected, honestly.

He'd held at six units a night, and only tipped to seven twice. For someone carrying the level of external pressure he's under, that's not just progress. That's resilience.

We spent a good while unpacking what's actually driving the intake. The van has become a symbol in this work — a space that used to mean something entirely different to Jay, but which social services involvement had inadvertently turned into a drinking ritual. Not something we'd ever design therapeutically. But here we are, working within it. And Jay is working within it well. He's getting out every night. His partner is now actively calling him in. He laughs about it — "get the fuck out the van" — but that humour is covering something real: a man who's starting to feel embarrassed by the habit, rather than comfortable with it.

That shift matters. Shame isn't always a therapeutic tool I lean on, but the natural, self-generated embarrassment that comes from seeing a behaviour clearly — that's different. Jay said it himself: he's going to look back and think, how sad. He's already looking back. That's progress.

The physical stuff is telling a story

One of the things I notice in this kind of work is that the body signals change before the client can fully articulate it. Jay mentioned offhand that his appetite has increased — he's actually stopping for lunch now, taking a sandwich, drinking water. A small thing, but not a small thing. When alcohol is doing heavy work in someone's system, it suppresses appetite. The brain keeps the stomach tight because it wants that alcohol absorbed fast and efficiently. When that demand eases off, the body starts to normalise. Jay's hunger coming back is his brain recalibrating. I told him that plainly, and he sat with it.

He also noticed that walking into Asda before the session, he went to the food first. Didn't even clock the alcohol aisle on the way in. A few weeks ago that would have been unthinkable. He knows it. I know it.

Interruption as intervention

We talked a lot about the importance of the small interruptions — the glass of water first thing in the morning, the dog walk before work. Jay mentioned there's a gym five minutes from his house. Boxing background. Goes up early. Works in a trade, leaves at seven. There's a window there, if he uses it.

We didn't over-plan. That's a trap I see people fall into — the whole programme is mapped out before a single thing has been done. I suggested twice a week to start, maybe just walking to the front door for a few days to prove to himself he can build a new habit. The goal isn't fitness. It's routine replacement. Give the morning a different anchor, and the evening starts to loosen its grip.

We talked about Pavlov — not as a lecture, just because it landed. His dog is going to be his accountability partner now whether he likes it or not. Once an animal gets a walk routine locked in, you're doing it. That double motivation is exactly the kind of low-hanging fruit worth picking first.

What can't be argued with

The harder conversation was about external judgment. Jay is facing the particular cruelty of doing real work — cutting down, showing up, getting out of the van every night — while still being watched through the lens of who he was, not who he is now. He's worried that even a cup of Costa in his hand is going to be read as something it isn't.

I was honest with him: that lag in perception is real, and it doesn't resolve the moment you hit a number. People weaponise what they already believe. You can't out-argue a prejudice. The only thing that shifts it over time is consistency, and the only thing that protects you in the meantime is knowing your own worth.

We touched on the "fuck it button" — that familiar moment where the accusation and the reality start to feel the same, and some part of you thinks: if they're going to believe it anyway, might as well. Jay knows that button. He also knows he doesn't want to press it. That's everything.

The plan

Down to five from Monday. Glass of water first thing. Dog walked before work. Gym looked into, gently. Next session Thursday before he heads away for a long weekend.

When I think back to our first session, I genuinely didn't know if Jay had the reserves for this — not because of the drinking, but because of everything around it. The scrutiny, the family complexity, the external pressure. Taking on reduction in those conditions is like being asked to give up something while someone stands behind you waiting for you to fail.

He's not failing. He's doing the opposite.