This piece follows Part I: Cutting Back on Alcohol – The Subtle Nuances, where I reflect on what led to my decision to take a break. You can start there, or jump in here—it stands on its own too.
After a 67-day alcohol-free stretch, I was feeling good—clear, grounded. But I hadn’t firmly committed to being alcohol-free forever.
Then came an upcoming weekend reunion with old friends in the city.
I considered it a field trip of sorts—a way to observe how I felt in old spaces with familiar people. But when the plan is an ambiguous “let’s see how I do,” it leaves the door open to wander back into familiar habits.
If I had been clear up front, there would’ve been support. But I was curious. And I didn’t want to be that sober person.
The friend I was staying with had completely given up alcohol.
Our other friend brought over wine for our chit-chat in the kitchen—it was our norm.
This was Thursday night, after coming back from a fantastic sound bath yin yoga class.
I didn’t say no.
She poured wine while I was cooking.
I wasn’t my usual suck-it-down self—because she noticed and asked,
“Aren’t you having wine?”
I hadn’t made a big deal about my not drinking.
Just one glass.
In a rare role reversal, I poured a generous splash of my wine into her glass when she wasn’t looking.
That night was a win.
Friday
Friday was a group gathering at her house.
I was somewhat mindful—aware, but not rigid.
I didn’t even finish the first two drinks I was poured.
But later, I reached for a red.
And then a splash of a different varietal.
I was aware of how easy it is to keep drinking—mindlessly, out of habit—if you’re not paying attention.
That night, I was back in bed by 11:45, journaling.
My friend I was staying with was at her boyfriend’s.
And I was a bit miffed that my husband hadn’t answered his phone or responded to my texts. I brushed it off at first, but it quietly lingered.
Saturday
We started the day with another sound bath class—but it was hard to relax over the music coming from across the street.
Relaxation wasn’t landing. My body felt like dancing.
Then came brunch, like old times in the city.
Comforting. Familiar.
We ordered an Aperol spritz—justifying that it was a light drink and didn’t really count.
I had two.
Later that evening, we had wine with dinner—and by the end of the night, the bottle was pretty much gone.
Like riding a bicycle.
Sunday
I slept horribly. I was hungover.
I had one last brunch in the city with girlfriends before heading over to meet my husband.
He was meeting a friend and his girlfriend, and his parents for dinner in Sausalito. His friend—like mine—had recently given up drinking completely.
I instinctively ordered an Aperol spritz. Because what better way to quiet a hangover than more booze, right?
I had now become the drink pusher.
His friend’s place was on the way home, so I ubered to meet them at a restaurant.
I honestly didn’t expect anyone would be drinking—his friend had to give it up.
Everyone else had ordered wine. It was easy to go along.
So I did too.
A 9 oz glass of Pinot.
After dinner, we went back to see their new place.
I was surprised when drinks were poured.
I was handed a glass of bubbles.
And I drank it.
I had crossed over—into familiar territory.
The Blur
Monday, I woke up hungover—again.
Tired. Foggy.
Out of practice, for the third time in six days.
That night, we had dinner plans with the neighbors for St. Paddy’s Day.
A casual, friendly gathering—good people, warm energy.
Now, I looked forward to having a drink when I arrived.
There was no internal conflict or compass.
Champagne as a prelude, then red wine with corned beef and cabbage.
It was an enjoyable night.
Tuesday, I was slow to start—woke up foggy.
I needed to shop for dinner, and in a sneaky, familiar way, I grabbed a bottle of white—you know…for while I cooked.
It felt somewhat automatic.
That evening, I admittedly had two glasses while preparing dinner.
Was it secret drinking?
No one was asking.
But I knew.
The Shift
But here’s the win:
I stopped at two.
The rest of the wine is still in the pantry—and it doesn’t matter.
I shifted back.
I returned to my standards
That was seven days ago.
Have I ever counted days before?
Sure, I did the Dry Januarys—and called it a detox.
But really, it was a countdown to pop chammy on Feb 1.
Counting, beyond that? Never.
But there’s something about logging it—
like keeping an eye on other habits—
that keeps me accountable.
Keeps me aware.
Keeps me just uncomfortable enough when I lose that little checkmark—or stack too many in a row
Am I sober?
I don’t call myself that.
I’m evolving.
Any one of those nights on its own?
I probably would’ve been fine.
Maybe even two.
But it wasn’t one or two.
It was six.
It’s the stacking of days—like on vacation.
The momentum.
The blur.
“Slips are not the end of the road. They’re part of the journey that teaches you how to stay.”
