It’s Saturday morning. I’m sitting in the early sunrise, coffee in hand, watching the light come up. I added a splash of Irish cream, and the second it hit the cup — that smell. Warm. Sweet. Fragrant. That first sip was divine. Smooth. Relaxing.
And then, not long after, it went to my head.
That’s when the realization hit me.
I don’t like this feeling.
Don’t get me wrong I love the smell. I love the taste of Irish cream, of a cold beer, of a good glass of wine. I genuinely enjoy those things. What I don’t love is what alcohol does to me after. The unpredictability. The way I lose the thread of control I work so hard to hold onto.
I’ve talked before about my struggles with alcohol. For a long time, it was a crutch — a way to cope with hard situations and even harder feelings. Press the pain down. Don’t sit with it. Don’t feel it. And there’s this social current that pulls at you too. You’re at a party and drinking is just… what you do. Non-alcoholic options are rare. If they exist, they are usually an afterthought. They sit in the corner next to the ice bucket.
The problem is, once I start, sometimes I can’t stop. One becomes two. Two becomes three.
I remember one New Year’s Eve. I was hanging out with my best friend, and a mutual friend was there earlier in the evening. He started drinking, so I started drinking, because that’s how it goes, right?
You keep up. You match the energy. By the time the actual party started, I was already drunk. I don’t remember making it to midnight. I don’t remember the countdown, the cheers, any of it.
What I do remember is waking up sometime after midnight on my best friend’s couch, disoriented, and getting sick. I threw up all over the blanket they’d so kindly tucked around me while I was passed out. I remember stumbling to their bedroom in the dark, waking them up, letting them know what had happened.
They got up and helped me clean everything up — no complaint, no judgment, just quiet kindness. That’s what a best friend does.
The next morning I went back to my aunt’s house, where I was staying at the time. She asked how I was feeling. I told her I was sick.
That was a lie. I was hungover.
I don’t tell that story to be dramatic. I tell it because it’s real. I think some of you reading this know exactly what that night feels like. There is the shame and the confusion. Then comes the cleanup and the lie you tell the next morning. It’s easier than the truth.
Here’s the complicated part though: I don’t actually want to give up the experience of drinking.
I want to come home after seven-plus hours of staring at a computer screen. Then, I want to crack open a cold beer. I want to just taste it — the cool, the flavor. It’s that exhale of a hard day finally being done. I want a glass of red wine and that first hit of aroma before it even touches my lips. I love those things. I genuinely do.
That’s a big part of why I’ve been leaning into non-alcoholic beers. Some of them are genuinely terrible — I’m not going to sugarcoat that. But I’ve found a few brands I actually like, and honestly? They give me exactly what I’m after. The ritual. The taste. The reward at the end of a long day. Without the part where I lose myself.
For the times I do drink alcohol, I’ve had to set my own rules. Weekends only, when I have no commitments, nowhere to be, nothing that requires me to be fully sharp.
During the week, almost never. Maybe a small pour of Irish cream with an evening snack. Maybe a single glass of wine for a birthday or a work event. Small. Intentional. Bounded.
Because I’ve learned I have to be intentional about it. The alternative is not pretty — and I’ve lived the alternative.
As I’m writing this, I’m already on my second coffee with Irish cream. Did I want it? Yes. Did my brain tell me to go pour another? Absolutely. Did I listen when I probably shouldn’t have? …Also yes.
Self-control is something I’ve wrestled with for a long time — and it goes way beyond alcohol. If there are cookies in the house, I hear them calling from the kitchen. Chips, candy, M&Ms — I must portion things into a bowl physically. I tell myself out loud: this is what you get. Because I know what happens if I don’t. I’ve eaten an entire sleeve of Thin Mints in one sitting without a second thought. No hesitation. No regret — until later.
I don’t totally know where this post was supposed to go, honestly. It started as a 6 AM realization over a cup of coffee on a quiet Saturday morning. I just knew I had to get it out. I needed to release it into the universe, into words, somewhere outside of my own head. Maybe something here clicks for you. Maybe it’s just me talking to myself in public, which, let’s be honest, is what blogging is anyway.
But I’ll leave you with this: what do you struggle with? Is it alcohol? Sugar? Gambling? Something else entirely? How do you cope with it? How do you draw your lines and actually hold them?
I’d genuinely love to hear.
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