I have a snapshot of my son wearing a bright yellow t-shirt adorned with a blue glitter seahorse. It captures our first family trip to Maui, where he beams up at me, clutching a sweaty straw cup filled with milk in both hands. His curly hair sticks to his forehead from the heat, and his cheeks are flushed. Moments before, he was on the verge of a major tantrum.
Traveling with a nearly two-year-old, especially when utilizing a free plane ticket, is an exhausting adventure, even when everything goes smoothly. As I wrestle with his impending meltdown while rummaging through my bag for his orange garbage truck, the waitress cheerfully approaches. I barely make eye contact. “Could I get milk in a cup with a straw for him?” I ask, gesturing toward my son.
He begins to wail about the garbage truck—clearly overtired and overstimulated. The waitress chuckles and comments, “And you probably need a drink!” Without thinking, and with just a hint more patience than my little one, I lock eyes with her and respond sharply, “I don’t drink.”
I don’t mention that I’ve considered quitting or that I’m on a break. I simply declare, “I don’t drink.” It’s the first time I’ve uttered those words to anyone outside my family.
Instantly, I’m engulfed in shame and resentment. I feel bad for snapping at the waitress and for being angry about my sobriety. In that moment, I resent her for making me voice my struggles.
I glance at my son, still sitting there in his seahorse shirt and clutching his garbage truck. Once the milk arrives, along with some fish tacos, he forgets entirely about his previous distress, casting it aside like an old toy.
As I watch him enjoy his food, I sense a shift in time. I realize that this isn’t just about not drinking; I’m breaking cycles of behavior that have persisted through generations.
It’s been 22 days since I last had a drink, and I feel conflicted. I regret being rude. I’m frustrated with my own struggles. However, in that moment, I began to see a new path for my family, one that didn’t involve drowning my feelings in alcohol.
Before I quit, no one would have suspected I had a problem. I kept my drinking hidden beneath a polished exterior, enjoying wine with dinner or cocktails at gatherings. But internally, I was fading—a slow, spiritual decline that made it hard to look in the mirror and truly connect with my son. There is no label for individuals like me who don’t fit the typical mold of addiction.
When I stopped drinking, it forced others to confront their own habits. They could no longer say, “At least I’m not like that.” Society lacks the language for those who are simply weary of self-destructive behaviors.
The culture surrounding “wine moms” had tricked me into thinking that parenting was merely something to endure until happy hour. I wanted to thrive alongside my child, even during the toughest moments. I started asking myself difficult questions:
- What if I could enjoy my child fully without numbing my experiences?
- What if I could be present for all his emotions, even the toughest ones, without needing to dull my own?
At that time, my commitment to sobriety was still fragile, but it was gaining strength. I looked over at my son, who was lost in his own world, and pulled him onto my lap.
In that moment, as I sat with him in his yellow shirt, I realized I was breaking generational patterns of numbness. I was choosing to stop harming myself and embracing life with all its chaos.
If you want to read more about personal journeys and insights into parenthood, check out this other blog post.
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In summary, I made the conscious decision to give up drinking not just for myself, but as a gift to my son. This journey has opened my eyes to the importance of truly experiencing life and parenthood without the haze of alcohol. By choosing to be present, I am reshaping our family’s future, one moment at a time.