A little over a year ago, I quit drinking.

No, there was no dramatic, booze-fused meltdown. I didn’t slam 17 shots of Sauza and wake up three days later pantsless beside a burning cop car. No Hangover of the Century, unbearable bout of public humiliation, or walk of shame so immense that the only way forward was to peg events to the prior night’s array of beverages. Really, there was no “problem” to begin with at all. Like most thirtysomethings functioning within the modern western world, alcohol served its multifaceted purpose, with no perceived adverse side effects (other than the occasional meh one-night-stand or massive, 24-hour headache).

A frothy glass of Yes Please was both a reward and a fast track toward some well-deserved R&R. The means of celebrating as much as commiserating. A vehicle for cheersing as much as quelling complaints. A chilled glass of vino proved an ideal method for both “leaning in” or tapping out, the chic gin and tonic served to both get “with it” as much as “get over it.” I could enjoy a no-frills glass of single malt, sans shame, at nearly any point during my productive, fully operational day.

In short, I used the sauce like pretty much everyone else. Efficient, law-abiding, compassionate citizens just gunning it through another day of the grind. NBD. Needless to say, my seemingly sudden decision to roll off the boozy bandwagon caught folks by surprise — and sparked the full spectrum of reactions, spanning from disappointment to disgust.

I used the sauce like pretty much everyone else. Efficient, law-abiding, compassionate citizens just gunning it through another day of the grind. NBD.
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I remember the specific moment at which the concept of “sobriety” surfaced in my brain for the first time. After quite the love-life hiatus, I was on a date. We’d already done the “grab a casual drink to chat,” as well as navigated a couple of candlelit dinners. We’d already slept together, but on this particular night, it seemed like we were still struggling to determine if we even liked each other. Together, at a nearby bar, we were sipping cocktails and feigning chemistry.

Somewhere between drinks three and who-cares, through a fantastic haze of intoxication and indifference, I was confronted with a fairly uncomfortable truth: that my reasons for drinking, and the results thereof, had little if nothing in common.

In other words, the main reasons I snagged any barstool in the first place generally centered around improving social interactions. Yet the integration of alcohol with these meet-ups rarely served any connection-cementing function other than, perhaps, soothing some ever-present anxiety.

That night, I watched my date’s mouth move, knowing I’d remember nothing the next morning. I peppered our conversation with the necessary visual cues of any “engaged listener,” yet felt myself floating further and further away — riding my own all-numbing buzz within the privacy of my own mind. Operation “This Must Be Intimacy,” party for one.

Within the week, we stopped dating. And, fueled mainly by sheer curiosity, I stopped drinking. For the first week or so, I lied whenever anyone made a point of it. “I was coming down with something.” “I had a headache.” “My throat was sort of sore.” Before the not-so-subtle eye-rolls of barkeeps everywhere, I ordered soda water and lime with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

As I grew more comfortable with the change from imbibing to abstaining, I stopped making excuses about it, and simply stated that I was “taking a break.” From there, the questions generally continued. Occasionally via wholly indifferent tones, other times from a panic-stricken grimace and shrill “Wait, but WHY?!”.

The truth was, I didn’t initially know why. It seemed a worthwhile experiment at the very least. Concerning something as socially acceptable and culturally ingrained as alcohol, why had it taken me over a decade to even consider its purpose in my life?

I saw intentional sobriety as something that could pan out as a mere pain in the ass for a period of time, or a choice that carried the potential to completely reshape my life. And while I’ve since returned to a lifestyle in full support of the occasional Vesper or lime-adorned pilsner, the lessons that sprung from a year off the sauce have stayed with me.

Likely the most obvious change when you opt to dry the fuck out: your body takes note. Immediate alterations during my daily-what-have-yous included slimming down within a matter of days, sleeping like a baby still suspended in some blissful bubble of amniotic fluid, and greeting each morning with the “rise and shine” grit of a goddamn superhero. Granted, the results of cutting 1900 empty calories out of your diet should come as no surprise. That said, I would never have foreseen the childlike delight that started to accompany my nightly swan-dives into my covers. Gone were those necessary midnight bathroom breaks, or the 4 AM sugar crashes. Best yet, the raging-headache-to-mild-head-fuzz Spectrum of Hangover completely evaporated. The space between my alarm sounding and “Day Seized” seemed a more manageable — and dare I say enjoyable — gap.

I saw intentional sobriety as something that could pan out as a mere pain in the ass for a period of time, or a choice that carried the potential to completely reshape my life.
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Perhaps the second wave of surprises included a skyrocketing amount of personal productivity. No, I’m not saying that sobriety is the first step toward mastering your life and then TAKING OVER THE WORLD. In fact, most Type-A overachievers could probably stand to mellow out over the occasional Manhattan. But, from a measly freelancer’s point of view, wherein daily “adulting” tasks span taking on new clients, managing deadlines, paying taxes, watering some 73 houseplants, and catching up with friends over coffee . . . Well, finding a new mental niche that exists between “I’m kinda drunk” and “I’m kinda hungover” tends to lengthen the day — and in the best way possible.

Also shockingly more manageable: those wayward bursts of creativity. Otherwise known to writers, painters, and other creators alike, as the “Oh my god I have this sudden idea out of nowhere and I need to get started on it RIGHT NOW” wave of mania. While this series of synapses firing tends to forge some mental “path never yet traveled,” sobriety at the very least served to better illuminate it. My theory behind this phenomenon is just that — a theory. But if any burning desire to create is generally sparked by emotions — rage and ecstasy, hope and despair, grief and gratitude — and alcohol serves to subtly (and brilliantly) numb out the more extreme of experiences, then perhaps skipping the booze cements some kind of fast-track from ideation to initiation.

At any rate, the absorb-exude, take-in-inspiration-punch-out-product pattern behind all projects, crafts, essays, and tasks resumed a more adaptable ebb and flow. Having an idea, holding that idea, and harnessing that idea into some presentable, public-facing piece was a less dramatic ordeal all around.

In addition to acting as the impetus for any artistic endeavors, “feeling the feelings” can serve a wide range of real-world purposes as well — i.e., determining who the hell you are and what the hell you’re actually doing. Or perhaps more importantly, especially concerning women within today’s society, pinpointing who the hell you are NOT, and what you don’t want to be doing (or simply aren’t allowed to do).

Pre-sobriety, I had inaccurately assumed I was “just a laid-back kinda gal.” Down for anything. Happily along for any ride. It’s not that I was some void of a being sans personality or preferences, it’s just that certain abilities like facing conflict, addressing trauma, formulating an actual opinion and — stay with me here — unapologetically voicing it, were completely beyond me.

In other words, sobriety caused several so-deep-they-were-assumed-nonexistent desires to begin surfacing. And while bigger picture, more overarching directional shifts did occur, the base-level decision-making skills that started sprouting were just as shocking.

No, I didn’t want to go to that party and pretend I was enjoying myself. Yes, I was totally comfortable tucking into bed by 9 PM. No, that time that person did that one thing? That wasn’t okay with me. Yes, my feelings were actually hurt. No, I’m not calm, cool, or collected. Yes, anxiety is real, and if left unacknowledged, a quickly escalating force to be reckoned with. No I didn’t want to date that guy. I didn’t want to make out with him either. Yes, I wanted to work with that new client. And yes, I wanted to charge twice my going rate. No I didn’t think that joke was appropriate. Yes, I felt okay saying so. No I didn’t want a beer. Yes, I’d love another soda water — extra lime.

Sobriety caused several so-deep-they-were-assumed-nonexistent desires to begin surfacing.
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With this evolving, strengthening assortment of opinions came a certain clarity around other aspects of my psyche. Unbeknownst triggers, nonsensical relational patterns, ever-present stressors — the whole hot mess started falling out of the woodwork. Granted, I’m not writing this from some enlightened state of nirvana; my shit still stinks. But easing off the sauce for an extended period of time served to at the very least help me recognize that fact. Not to mention highlighted a few necessary footholds out of (or down into) the murky depths of my consciousness.

Yes, a hangover-free existence was convenient. But the wave of intentionality that rippled from the decision to sober up essentially pulled back the curtain of denial and moderate victimhood I had been operating behind. Gradually (and painfully), my existence seemed less a haphazard stream of events wherein “things just happened” and it was up to me to “make it work” or “keep it together” and more a deliberate and conscious means of owning my actual participation within my own life. I wasn’t some helpless pawn, afflicted by rules I had no access to. I was a daily player in a game I just hadn’t wanted to take responsibility for.

Some 13 or 14 months later, I lay stretched on the beaches of Vietnam sandwiched by my closest friends. When we were offered a tropical, rum-based cocktail for the “happy hour” price of a dollar, I sat up, sunburned and sweating. Does it come in a coconut shell? Does it have an umbrella garnish? Will it perfectly — and intentionally — compliment this sandy, salty day? I mulled it over, and grinned, “Yes. I’d love one.”