I don’t remember when I first tried alcohol. But I do remember the smell of it on my father’s breath. The way he swayed and slurred at dinner. I remember how I felt about alcohol long before I ever touched it: cautious.
My father was an alcoholic—recovering, mostly—until my mother left him when I was twelve. The details are fuzzy (as trauma tends to make them), but what I remember is this: alcohol wasn’t something I longed for. It wasn’t even something we kept in the house. Whether that was a rule from my mom or a boundary my dad set for himself, I’ll never know.
Drinking started, like so many things do–with boredom and with a desire to belong.
I held out through high school. I was too busy. I went to a magnet school far from home, worked a part-time job, and took two buses to get anywhere. Even on days I’d skip school, it was to catch up on sleep or see my boyfriend. He went to an elite all-boy school, and I have to admit that his commitment combined with my ambition kept me motivated. I desperately wanted to do something special with my life.
While my neighborhood friends sipped Zimas and Mike’s Hard Lemonades at parks and parties, I stuck with Cherry Coke and weed. A few puffs to take the edge off and feel less like a square. But by 18, I caved. My friends and I would gather at parks at night or at someone’s place, technically adults but technically underage, chasing the high of feeling bigger than our lives. I liked the way alcohol made me feel—taller, louder. Like a giant inside a body that had always felt too small.
And like many relationships I’d later reflect on, I stayed in it longer than I should have.
In college, alcohol felt like part of the package. Dorm room pre-games. Basement parties. Bars that didn’t card. Drinking helped me forget I felt out of place. That I was far from home with no visitors, hardly any phone check-ins. It numbed the pain of being the first in my family to walk this path–and the loneliness that came with it.
And I can’t pretend it didn’t have its good moments. It made everything a little more fun. I met fascinating people from all over the world while drinking. Men lined up to buy me one or three. I picked up pool. Got really good at Texas Hold ’Em. Learned how to read a room. I paid attention to what powerful men ordered–usually whiskey or scotch. I watched women become bolder after a cocktail, myself included. Alcohol made things easier. Until it didn’t.
Because beneath the laughter was the truth: alcohol has hurt my relationships. It’s left me waking up with bruises I couldn’t explain and shame I couldn’t shake. It dulled the parts of me I love most—my sharpness, my intuition. It made me more vulnerable to people who didn’t deserve access to me.
And that’s what makes it complicated. Alcohol gave me fun memories but it also put me in harm’s way. It took things from me I can’t get back.
It’s easy to dismiss alcohol’s impact when it’s so normalized—especially if you’ve never had a “problem.” But research shows even light to moderate drinking affects the brain. A study from Nature Communications looked at brain scans from nearly 37,000 people and found even one or two drinks a day correlated with smaller brain volume. Other studies suggest light drinking may reduce the risk of dementia in older adults. But the research is nuanced and still unfolding—and truthfully, most people aren’t drinking wine for the antioxidants. If you’ve ever blacked out, if you’ve ever had a hangover—you’ve already had a clear indication of harm to your brain.
People will cherry-pick data to fit their habits and support their strongly held beliefs. But I know this to be my absolute truth: the way I’ve used alcohol in the past isn’t working for me now. I’m not that lonely girl trying to belong anymore.
Family history doesn’t ask for permission to follow us. My childhood shaped my relationship with alcohol before I ever made a conscious choice. And I’m realizing now how many of those early thinking patterns—formed long before I had language for them—are still inside me.
Ultimately, I want to have a healthy relationship with alcohol. I want to toast with champagne at weddings. I want to enjoy a glass of red wine with dinner. But I want to do it from a place of wholeness, not habit.
So, before I pour a drink, I ask:
- Why do I want to drink right now?
- Am I drinking to celebrate, to cope, to numb?
- Have I eaten, slept, or hydrated today?
- Do I feel safe right now?
- Will I feel proud of this decision tomorrow?
I’m doing what my father couldn’t. I’m asking the hard questions now because I want to live a long life of purpose with clarity. I want to be present for every moment I get with my daughters. The two brilliant girls who are always watching—who want to be just like me.
And if they’re going to follow in my footsteps, I want those steps to be solid. Because I’m not just their protector. I’m mine, too. And that’s non-negotiable.
Originally posted on Substack
