On the morning of my 35th birthday, I woke up still drunk, without any memory of how I had put my kids to bed. The sun was shining through the curtains and I had to go throw up in the bathroom before I read them a morning story. I thought I had left blackout drinking behind me—that it was something I used to do, a youthful indiscretion.
I had always been the one to keep going, never leaving wine in the glass at the end of a meal, never wanting to stop or knowing I should. Though I stopped regularly blacking out in my 30s, I never lost the urge to check out—even after I had kids. That’s what alcohol was for me: a socially acceptable way to not be present.
But I looked at my children that day and decided I would never drink again. And while that was the right decision for me, I didn’t realize just how much it would isolate me from “mommy culture” and my friends.
My drinking shifted over the years. Over and over, I had tried to make alcohol work for me. I’d only drink on the weekends, or a couple of days a week. I would meditate early in the evenings so I could reward myself with a dirty martini afterward. I began to crave a drink every day at 5 pm when I had been playing pretend since lunchtime, or getting yelled at about a grilled cheese sandwich, or keeping a baby from crying while staying entertaining enough for my daughter not to sit on him. I would open some wine, slowly escaping the emails that needed to be answered or a hard conversation about finances with my husband. When it would take hours to get our kids to bed, I would take my wine glass with me to my son’s room, my husband calling after me, “You’ve been home with the kids. You deserve a break.”
When there was no alcohol at a friend’s daughter’s birthday party, I sent my husband out to get wine. When I sobered up the next day, I realized I could no longer enjoy a child’s birthday party without alcohol. Suddenly my daughter clinking her glass with mine, saying, “I have a mommy mimosa,” became less funny. I was showing her that this is how you do life: pretending to be engaged in whatever we were doing, all the while feeling guilty for being hungover.
That’s the thing with booze: it never fixes anything. It makes whatever it is go away for a moment, but the boredom, the social anxiety, the deep-rooted feeling that your life isn’t what you thought it would be? All of that is waiting for you once you sober up.
Making the decision to stop was a relief. But now that I don’t drink, I see how alcohol is everywhere. I never noticed, until I stopped communicating in wine memes or speaking in references to it being 5 o’clock somewhere. At the end of a yoga class the other day, the instructor sent us off with, “Go have some margaritas! You’ve earned them.”
I look around. I was the only one not laughing. Alcohol is how we speak to each other.
I organized a “mom’s event” for my daughter’s school. The owner at the yoga studio told me there’s a side room where “everyone can have wine afterward.” I kept explaining that we didn’t need to have drinks, but it’s like she couldn’t compute what I was saying. She finally just said, “It’s there if you change your mind.”
In Target, I see rows of shirts emblazoned with “Rosé All Day” and “Cheers for Beers.” My local grocery store sells hot pink bracelet flasks and bags that dispense wine. (At what point does a glass with dinner turn into needing to accessorize so alcohol is always on our body?) Greeting cards at cute boutiques feature bottles of champagne and toasts to another year, one stating, “You’re the reason mommy drinks!” while a woman grins at her children, cocktail in hand. Looking for fun activities to do around town I find floral arranging, yoga, and a 5k fun run, all including a blurb about “margaritas on tap” or that “cocktails will be served.”
These drinking add-ons are what you used to get me there. Now I wonder how I—how we—got to a place where we can’t engage in an activity without a drink, or three, on the side.
I used to be the one organizing happy hours and brunches. Now, I don’t get invited to these things, which stings. But what’s more painful is realizing that unless I drink, I’m not valued as a friend. Longtime friends have lost interest, whether because of age or my sobriety I don’t know, which had been deeply painful, but I have the stomach for it now.
Now, nearly two years into my sobriety, I have begun to crave the quiet more and more. I no longer have FOMO when I see pictures of friends out, with big smiles and full glasses. The folks who actually want to connect stick around for coffee dates and green juice outings. The very things I used to consider boring alternatives to happy hours end up offering much deeper and more meaningful interactions.
When I meet new people now, I don’t immediately share that I’m sober—not because I’m ashamed, but because that isn’t the defining thing about me. Whether someone drinks or doesn’t shouldn’t matter, but I know it does. I talk about my kids and what I like to do, such as walking and yoga, both of which I did when I drank, but now my body feels better, my mind, lighter.
And I’m genuinely interested in those things now—the things beneath the drinks. The childhood messes and the longing to witness my children, even when it’s boring. That is life: millions of plain moments all strung together. If I learn to find the joy in that, I don’t need anything else.
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