For most of my life, I've been governed by an insatiable craving. It's affected my friendships and my relationships. It's dictated every single one of my decisions. It's made me anxious and unhappy and kept me up at night. It's been ruinous for my mental health.

My primary addiction was ambition. It enslaved me. From the moment I started school, I've done everything I could to chase success and achievement – and I've never been able to obtain it in the quantities I've required. Before we get any further, I should clarify that I'm a novelist – not a brain surgeon, or a hostage negotiator, or head of policy at the World Bank. But I've always wanted to do my best and be the best. Worst of all, I've nursed a secret core belief that if I'm not the best, I don't deserve any self-esteem.

However, I've also had to contend with a secondary addiction, alcohol. Booze had a similar impact on me. It exacerbated my anxiety; it stopped me from sleeping and it put a strain on my relationships. You would think that my two problems would be incompatible with each other. It's not possible to commit to overachieving and overdrinking. Anyone who has watched Anya Taylor-Joy as Beth Harmon in The Queen's Gambit will recognise the pairing: the trophies on the shelf, the glass within reach.

For a long time, I told myself that my ambition was proof that I didn't need to worry about the drinking. I was a prolific author and journalist. I never missed a deadline, I never turned up late to an appointment and I never said no to work. Problem drinkers were chaotic and unreliable. Surely my brilliant career was proof that I didn't have a drinking problem? I saw a similar pattern in many women I admired – I was dazzled by their work ethic, and the way they used that work ethic to support and justify a glamorous life. Culturally, alcohol was used as a reward for hard work. It was as though we were all being tacitly encouraged to covet a lifestyle that didn't allow space for reflection or pause. The focus was always on acquisition – we needed more achievements, more trophies, more reasons to drink. We were supposed to be permanently stressed, or celebrating.

Still, the harder I worked, the more I struggled to manage my anxiety. Nothing I achieved ever brought lasting feelings of peace, or fulfilment. When work felt especially hard, alcohol helped. When my brain felt like a pulsing, screaming mess of fear and recrimination, I could quiet it with white wine. If I didn't feel sufficiently celebrated, I'd celebrate myself and buy my own Champagne. Alcohol gave me the confidence to talk about my achievements – or rather, it briefly dissolved my feelings of self-consciousness and vulnerability that bubbled up whenever I said anything positive about myself. When drinking made me feel dreadful – and it always did – I'd seek more work. Hungover and endlessly refreshing my emails, I'd often accept assignments I didn't really want, just because it was nice to know someone wanted me.

Four years ago, something shifted. I snapped. I was on holiday in Copenhagen, trying desperately hard to relax. But it didn't matter how much beer I drank at lunchtime, or how many cocktails I put away before dinner, peace mysteriously eluded me. All I could think about was work. But I wasn't feeling excited or inspired about the novel I was trying to write. I felt ashamed. I wasn't talented enough. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't good enough.

Because I was drinking more than usual, I was confronted by an inconvenient truth. Whenever I drank alcohol, I'd end up feeling especially bad about myself. I'd always struggled with feelings of low self-worth. When I drank, the dark clouds descended, and I couldn't see past them. I hated myself for not achieving enough, and I hated the way that drinking made me feel out of control. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Perhaps it was time to stop forever.

At first, I nursed a secret hope that sobriety might lead to success. Maybe I'd become twice as energetic and productive! Instead, I slowed down. I stopped worrying quite so much about what I'd be doing in a year, or in five years, and I found comfort in the literature and language of recovery. When someone is trying to get sober, they're advised to take the journey 'one day at a time'. I was used to ending the day worrying about what had gone wrong and berating myself for failing to meet the impossible goals I'd set myself. Now, I only needed to meet one goal. Had I stayed sober? If the answer was yes, it had been a good day.

Sober, I was able to be much kinder to myself. I started to understand how angry and unhappy I'd been, and how I'd been using my goals as a weapon against myself, constantly telling myself that I hadn't done enough and I wasn't good enough. I'd been making everything so much harder than it needed to be, and drinking heavily to cope.

Within weeks of quitting, I felt calmer, and more rested, possibly because I was sleeping properly for the first time in years. My anxiety lessened significantly. It hasn't disappeared entirely, but it has become an infrequent visitor. When it descends, I can manage it and let it pass. Slowly, my curiosity has started to come back. Instead of constantly thinking about myself, and my professional progress, I've made space to think about stories. Without alcohol, I'm much more creative. Always forcing myself to do more and do better wasn't increasing the quantity or quality of my work. But trusting myself and allowing for imperfect progress was making me a better writer.

Admittedly I still experience moments of great frustration. This morning, I woke up feeling stuck, sad and scared. I'm struggling to start a new project, and I'm consumed by self-doubt. The old, familiar insecure pain surfaced. Once, I might have forced myself to work through it. As a sober woman, I have access to more effective tools, and more creative solutions. Swimming in the local tidal pool restored some of my factory settings – partly because I find it very difficult to stay focused on my self-doubt when I'm immersed in cold water. Ambition, I reminded myself, isn't about easy achievement. It's about exceeding my own expectations. I never thought I'd be able to live without alcohol, just as I never thought I would be the kind of woman who voluntarily threw herself into the freezing sea. But I'd embraced change. I could surprise myself, in many different ways. When I left the water, I felt stronger – excited about a challenge, instead of feeling afraid of failure.

Much of this is universal. We're all driven, we're all doing our best to keep going and we're all navigating life with an arsenal of tricks and habits that make the difficult moments easier to bear. Not everyone needs to quit drinking, but I suspect that everyone has a habit that helps them a little but ultimately holds them back. One of the most difficult things about giving up alcohol was being forced to acknowledge that it was doing me more harm than good. I braced for feelings of deprivation. Instead, I found freedom. At the end of The Queen's Gambit, Beth Harmon wins in Moscow without the pills she'd been sure she needed to see the board.

Getting sober has allowed me to find pride in my ambition, and I'm proud of myself for learning how to use that ambition as a positive force. A writer colleague observed 'Sobriety hasn't dampened your drive. It's changed its engine.' When I stopped drinking, I finished my difficult third novel, and I've written another five books. I'm as ambitious as ever, but my quest for success feels more sustainable. Instead of approaching my goals with a sense of urgency and desperation, I'm more patient. I still experience bad days, self-doubt and moments of frustration, but they don't define me or my work. I'm still trying my hardest, but now I understand that what any human can do will vary from day to day. All I can do is take it one day at a time.

All Grown Up by Daisy Buchanan is published by Century, and out now

Daisy's upcoming book Write Yourself Happy will be published by DK Red in January 2027, it is available for preorder