Memorial Day weekend of this year, I became a “non-drinker,” something I genuinely never thought I’d become. This wasn’t because alcohol played such a central role in my life, or that drinking was something that had come to define me, or even partly so. I never thought I’d quit because by most standards, it wasn’t something I needed to do. In fact, whenever I considered it (classic case of the Sober-Curious), I was often told I was being dramatic. “Why do you always have to be so extreme? Why do you always have to be so all or nothing? Why can’t you just moderate? Why can’t you just not make such strict rules for yourself?” I drank alcohol, but while the opposite of being a non-drinker is being a drinker, no one, including myself, would have ever said, “Oh, Lori? Yeah, she’s a drinker.” Cutting out booze altogether seemed to carry more weight than having a glass of wine every night. Quitting was a statement. It was a stance. It was a big deal.
Since I’ve quit, I’ve basically been asked one question over and over: Why? (Hold on, sometimes it was more like “Whhyyy?!!??!?”) I figured this was as good a place to really kick off this blog. I thought I’d just answer why I would quit alcohol if it wasn’t a “problem” the way people tend to describe how a drinking problem should look. So, here’s my story (as uneventful as it may seem) that took me to this side of the drinking fence.
It’s probably best that we really begin with what my relationship to alcohol looked like. It was pretty standard. I really liked alcohol. You know, the good parts about it. And I also just loved overall concepts. I romanticized it in my head the same way every movie always has. I loved “going out for drinks” or “grabbing a drinking.” I loved having a reward for the end of the day or week – the whole “Congratulations!!! You got through today! Now pour yourself a beautiful glass of celebratory intoxication.” I loved that it’s the centerpiece of any Sunday brunch. I loved that it bonded me with other parents – the whole “Kids, amiright? Who could Use. A. Drink!” I loved when something “called for Champagne.” There is an entire world of catch phrases as it pertains to drinking, and I was enthusiastically flipping through the vernacular book on a regular basis.
But I also loved the places drinking took you. I loved breweries – carefully selecting 4-6 options for my flight even though I usually hate most of the ones I selected and always should have just ordered whatever stout or porter they offered. I loved Tiki bars, Margaritavilles, Wine Bars. I loved Sonoma, Napa, Santa Barbara.
And I loved the flavors and textures of drinking. I loved Malbec (the more purple and opaque, the better). I loved dirty martinis (“Filthy, please. As cloudy as you can get it.”) And coconut-flavored anything – frozen pina coladas, coconut margaritas (with a toasted coconut shavings rim, obvi), coconut daquiris, coconut martinis, coconut stouts – and the same goes for coffee-flavored drinks.
As a college student, I felt rebellious. As a young adult, I felt sophisticated. As an adult adult, it just became a normal end of each day, just as coffee is in the morning. It was a night out while the babysitter watched the kids, a neighborhood football-watching party with everyone bringing their signature dips and pigs in blankets while coolers filled with craft beers made extra fun because no one was driving. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve even exhausted the list of things I love as it pertains to alcohol. It’s been a very long relationship.
I’m pretty sure I “only” drank 2-3 days a week in college, and I progressed up to 7 days a week with significantly lesser intensity and quantity per night as I got into my 40s. I was not someone who was frequently “drunk,” never had a reputation for it, wasn’t the girl that everyone couldn’t wait to see get hammered to see what I’d say or do. I was more someone who tried to hang, but usually just got tired hours earlier than everyone else and went to bed, “bed” sometimes defined as any table directly in front of me. I wanted to hang, but just didn’t understand how anyone kept their eyes open.
Okay, so what happened? What rock bottom did I hit that I went from someone who loved alcohol with romantic poeticism to someone who decided to simply quit with no plans to drink again? This may be disappointing if you were looking for a dark and juicy story, though I’m guessing the real answer may more relatable – but no dramatic event occurred, really. I mean, I did, in fact, wake up one day and decide to give something up with which I’ve had a love (and hate) relationship for over half my life, but that gives the impression that the decision was not preceded by months (maybe more like years) of questioning and evaluation that evolved into a definitive choice when it was. But the actual final moment that tipped me over the edge was nothing that we haven’t all experienced a hundred times. Still, let me tell you how I got there.
We’ll need to backup a bit because this quiet decision slowly rolled and twirled and slipped into my life – it didn’t land here with a bang. I’ve had a boyfriend for a few years now, and I have never known a man to be so kind. (This is relevant, I swear.) He’s never rolled his eyes at me in blatant annoyance, he’s never raised his voice to me, he’s never started a fight with me, teased me, insulted me, provoked me, or condescended to me. He is perpetually supportive, respectful, and generous. And my having interests, communities, hobbies, and friends separate from him in no way elicits judgement, insecurity, jealousy or general butt-hurtness. He also does all the cooking and makes my bulletproof coffee just the way I like it in the mornings, and never ever tells me how to parent my own children. Now this isn’t to say that I’ve never experienced any of these traits in my former relationships, I have, but I’ve never experienced all of those traits in one person. This sounds like an irrelevant tangent. It’s not. Here’s why. One day, after too many drinks just hanging on the couch, I was so irrationally and disproportionately pissed that his opinion differed from mine on a topic I actually didn’t give that many shits about, that I was a dick to him. More specifically, I insulted him with exactly that intent – to insult him – which is to hurt him…for not having the same opinion as me. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t make a face. We both knew the “discussion” was over, and he wasn’t cold or distant, but there was nothing really left to say. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, completely panicked and terrified. I woke him to profusely apologize through tears. His response, as expected, was kind, and the only person left to hate me and condemn me for that horrible act of trying to hurt someone who I know with full confidence would never hurt me, much less intentionally – was me. Just like that, a core memory of shame had formed, and I felt that blue glowing ball drop and take its place where it would stay.
Then there was another time, earlier this year, when we were having an absolutely beautiful and perfect afternoon. We kayaked from the beach house we bought together to our favorite outdoor restaurant, ordered lethal but delicious mudslides, and laughed and chatted up it up with other patrons. No one was driving, no one had to get up in the morning, the sun was shining, it was early in the afternoon, so a second and third mudslide were ordered. Out of absolutely no where, I started to berate him on a topic that had nothing to do with me, and then went to the bathroom and cried, drunk texting a friend that I wasn’t sure he loved me because now he’s “stuck” with me since we bought a house. We kayaked home without him even realizing I was still crying (I was in front), and it wasn’t until he heard me sniffle a while later while watching TV did he realize I was even upset, and he had, rightfully, no idea what could possibly be wrong. I woke up in the morning feeling like an ass. The insecurity I felt was not common, at worst a fleeting thought my sober mind could stop in its tracks with just a tap on the breaks, but I was hydroplaning on mudslides right into a brick wall.
My best friend, who doesn’t drink, gracefully and gently noted the pattern and its common denominator, careful not imply her life choices needed to be mine, but hoping to highlight the undeniable fact that the only time this shit happened was after too many drinks. While the statement was obvious, it was also enlightening. Something to let marinate. Because it’s not just the alcohol itself – it’s how alcohol impacts me. He is never the cause of these issues when he drinks. Alcohol has never impacted his behavior towards me. And not everyone has these experiences with drinking. I didn’t have it every time, or even three quarters of the time. So, how many times is too often? It started to feel like whatever the quota was, by 43, I had already surpassed it.
I’m giving you the impression that I quit drinking because I could be a dick to my boyfriend sometimes when I did, but it really wasn’t just that at all. It was a really important thing to note for me, but I didn’t actually quit at that point.
Outside of creating drama with my boyfriend, truly the most drama-free person in my life, there were the accidental surprise hangovers that decimated my plans for the following day, the moments of exaggerated moodiness, the half-assed workouts, the unnecessary late night snacking, and the genuine feeling that something just wasn’t right. To put it more simply – I just felt like fucking shit. It’s not easy trying to be the strongest and healthiest you’ve ever been in your life in your 40s while your hormones are doing everything in their power to gatekeep your progress. Feeling young was starting to feel fucking impossible while I was guzzling poison on the daily. It started to feel like self-sabotage. A mountain I couldn’t climb with a dufflebag of booze on my back.
But I didn’t quit then either.
First, I did all the stuff that one does when they’re sober-curious, but hoping to just cut back. Tried the “Weekend Only Method” (Oh wait, but I’m going out to dinner on Wednesday, so obviously I’ll order a drink there, and at that point, there’s only Thursday between Wednesday and Friday, so might as well drink Thursday...). Tried the “Only One Drink Method”, (Oh wait, but I didn’t fill the glass all the way, so that wasn’t really one, so maybe I’ll have just one more poured the same amount to make it really just one. Oh wait, the red wine will go bad if I don’t finish it soon, so the next two glasses have to be tomorrow). The “Only Beer Method” (bloat-city, and I miss my wine too much). The “Only Lower Alcohol Content Beers” – the lower the calorie, the more you just end up drinking. The Only Clear Liquors Method, Only Seltzers or Ciders Method, Only With Other People Method. Somehow, no matter what, it always ended up with me drinking whatever I wanted to drink, however much I wanted to, however often I pleased. That sounds like I was drunk all the time, but here’s the thing. I wasn’t. If I was, then that would be an indicator of a real actual and obvious problem, and therefore an equally obvious need to quit entirely. But no one looks at a mom who has a glass or two of wine at night on the couch, and a margarita out with friends once in a while, and who might hit up a brewery with her boyfriend twice a year on a Sunday when she doesn’t have her kids and says that lady needs to change her ways. Based on almost everyone I know, it’s just…normal. Which should have made me feel better. But why did it look so easy and normal for everyone else, and why did something just feel off? Why was I even thinking about it?
Then, there was aaalllll the thinking and planning of my drinking. “Okay, if I’m going at this hour, I can probably have a martini right at the beginning, but I do have to make sure I have bread in my stomach first or it’ll hit me too hard and fast, and then I can move onto maybe a glass of wine, or order something on tap, but I really need to remember this time to have water in between, and oh! Did I pack my charcoal pills? GABA supplements? Advil? Do I have Smart Water at home, or do I have any Liquid IV to make sure I chug before I go to sleep? And I have to get up at this time, so I really should stop drinking at that time…” and this math went on so often that I found I had completely occupied all my Psychological Real Estate to this effort to keep alcohol in my life. And why? Because it was…fun? But like…was it? I mean it was…but was it all fun? Was it that fun? Was it fun enough? What was the ratio of fun to the things about it that weren’t fun, or that I later regretted? What was the net score? Which one won out?
Also, what the hell happened? I distinctly remember when I was (much) younger and feeling like I had more energy when I drank, and the more I drank, the more fun a night seemed to get up until some relatively unpredictable point when I realized I drank too much and just need to get home. Then the next day, definitely just needed some greasy meal to feel normal, and maybe a little hair of the dog, and then I was pretty much okay, and fully okay the day after that like it never even happened. At 43, it’s like, one does kinda feel great, and then it gets progressively worse as you go, but ordering and sipping that next drink brings you up a little, but then exponentially plummets as the night goes on.
I took the liberty of graphing out this comparative experience. Please refer to Chart below.
Next think you know, I was lying in bed at night googling – searching for what life was like for a non-drinker, but not someone who was a hard core alcoholic with physical addictions and terrifying rock bottoms, but for someone who just…made the health choice to omit this thing that has been woven into the fabric of my daily life for so long that it’s hard to feel anything other than FOMO when I think about never drinking again. It was hard to find much on it, so I reread the maybe 3 stories I found, and read them over and over. I read about the advantages of no alcohol in your body after 1 week, 1 month, 6 months, 1 year. My FOMO was shifting. Here were people who were feeling clean inside their bodies, who had energy I was desperate to have. What must that be like?
Then I found one that just said straight out, “If you are lying in bed, searching online to understand your relationship to alcohol, it probably means you think something isn’t right.” Damn. I felt like I had been caught. And also seen.
Alright, so what was the uneventful event that was the final tipping point? It was a wonderful Memorial Day weekend with my kids, my boyfriend, and his kids at our new beach house, kicking off the summer. It was Sunday, and I didn’t have my first drink until late in the afternoon. It was a low key evening since the weekend had already been action-packed up until this point. My boyfriend took his oldest daughter to go dig for clams while my own kids, his twins, and I just hung around this house. I was on the couch having margaritas in a can. They were too sweet, not satisfying at all, but I think it was the only drink option in the fridge at the time. My boyfriend and his daughter came home, the girls were drawing pictures, the boys were playing Roblox, it was actually getting late, and I got up to get ready for bed, and the room spun. I felt like I had just gotten off the Gravitron. I was shocked. I don’t know how those stupid little pink cans could hit so hard, but it was clear I was done for the night. I went to bed and prayed that no one noticed that the beeline I made to the bedroom was more of a z-line.
That was it. Like I said, a boring story where pretty much nothing at all happened. I thought I was having a little canned marg or two, and I ended up feeling dizzy so I went to bed. Something that had probably happened to me a million times. It was just a straw. But the camel’s back had snapped.
It was time to really understand this relationship and look at it with a new lens, to examine the rollercoaster of experiences and emotions that came with this relationship, so I likened it to any tumultuous relationship. And for some reason, comparing my relationship to alcohol to a relationship with a guy made it resonate so much more – just what this is, and why this was so hard and complicated. So, for the sake of metaphor, let’s call him Al.
Al was a good time – you know that relationship that you look back on remember it for its intensity, its passion – which I used to believe defined a relationship worth having. I associate so much of my youth and the great memories I had with my favorite people because he was there. We vacationed together, he bonded me to friends, he comforted me when I was sad and lonely, he held my hand when I was angry, he made me laugh so hard, and he fit in at every occasion and event – more than fit in, he was practically center of it all. But we also bumped heads a lot, and he made me feel like absolute shit more times than I could count. He made me tired, he made me sick, he ruined perfectly good evenings, made little things bigger deals than they were, let things get out of control. He started fights – not just with me, but like full brawls where people got really hurt. He made me cry all the time, he made me lose sleep, and he did everything he could to keep me from making healthy choices. But he was a part of my life, part of my history, and nearly all my friends are close to him and want him around, and invite him around. I tried to break up with him, or at least take a step back. I tried to remind myself that he’s not good for me, that I just can’t be my best self if he is in my life. I needed to not see him all the time, never be with him alone, only talk to him a little if we were out with mutual friends, but before I knew it, we’d be alone together, we’d hook up, and the night was so great, that I find myself not being able to wait to see him again. I remember only the great times, quickly forgetting about how shitty he could be to me, and I’m hanging out more and more until he’s just back in my life again, full blown, and I think this time will be different. This time, I’m in control, I say when, I say where, I say how much. But without any warning, he gets the better of me, he’s there everyday, just hanging around, and I’m back to wondering why the hell I let him back in my life. So I decide. I just can’t have a relationship with him. It’s clear. When I give him an inch, he takes that mile, no matter how hard I try to avoid it. Look, he’s around, he’s always around, he’s friends with my friends, but that doesn’t mean I have to engage with him, so I don’t. And the longer I’ve stayed away from him, the better and stronger I feel, the more I learn how to laugh just as hard without him, how to engage in conversations without him, how to feel accepted without him, how to stand on my own at a party or work event without leaning on him. And anyone who thinks I’m better with him isn’t a real friend anyway. I know people who’ve had the same relationship with him and can see him occasionally and keep it casual, and that’s great. I wish I could do it. But it’s time to accept that I know myself well enough to know I’m not the kind of person who can see him sometimes and not want to see him all the time. Again, I wish I was, and I’m jealous of the people who don’t get as smitten with him as I seem to get, so apparently, it’s all or nothing. For me, moderation is only ever short-lived.
Since quitting, the advantages have been obvious and plentiful. I sleep better, I’m less puffy, I snack less. I get to be as productive as I want to be every day of the week, and a little something about me – Productive is one of my most absolute favorite feelings. All that mental real estate has freed up, and that conversation in my head is over and I can use my mind for other things. I can always drive. I’m hydrated and can sing for hours without going hoarse. I never feel like shit. My workouts are harder, my results are faster, my mind is sharper, my body is the strongest I have ever been by a mile at 43 (and a half). I’m confident, genuinely in control, and feel more cognitively present and consistently in a place of gratitude. There were pros and cons of drinking vs sobriety. I still love all the things I said I love about alcohol, and I absolutely miss them dearly. But the pros of not drinking started to finally…finally outweigh the pros of drinking, so here I am. I don’t judge people who drink, I don’t need anyone else to quit, in fact – sometimes I like when other people are drinking around me when I’m not because sometimes, people really are less reserved and kinda more fun when they drink, so I like to enjoy that scene…without having a hangover myself or worried about if I can drive home. NA beers and spirits successfully scratch the itch, and the reward center of my brain is perfectly satisfied with cracking open a Guinness 0 in lieu of a Guinness.
I’m a non-drinker. It was the best choice for me right now, and maybe forever, but I guess I can’t know that. But it’s a choice I make everyday, reminding myself again and again as to why I don’t partake. This isn’t to say I’m white knuckling it, I’m not, but it’s a lot of long term programming that takes time and active work to recode. I can’t think about never enjoying a glass of wine with my daughter once she’s an adult, that I’ll likely never go to Napa or Sonoma again, because why would I, that I’ll never feel that warm and fuzzy-minded feeling you get when you take your first sip of something. It’s almost too much and too sad to mourn what I lose from not drinking by saying now I will never drink again, so I don’t do that. I think about what I get from not drinking, and it’s been a really exciting new adventure for me. It really is one day at a time, and so far, each day, it’s been a choice I have been happy to make.