by Angela Perez

As a writer who has rambled the globe, I’ve encountered countless cultures and unique customs firsthand. And nearly always, from Moscow to Minsk, from Portland, OR to Solvang, one of my favorite entry points into any region’s culinary culture was through booze.

From the vineyards of France to the fruity blue beach cocktails of Curacao, I’ve indulged in the pleasures of wine, beer, and spirits while settling into cafes, bars, and restaurants to socialize, do some storytelling, and get comfortably buzzed (if not outright blotto).

Despite my deep appreciation for the social rituals and (so-called) camaraderie that alcohol fosters, beneath the veneer of enjoyment, burrowed a nagging, cajoling awareness of the toll that excessive drinking was taking on my health, relationships, and overall well-being. “Dammit,” exclaimed I at one of my last drinking bouts in a dark bar in Raleigh, NC, “I am not too old to be the last man standing!” I was convinced that by not drinking copious amounts of gin and tonic, I was genuinely aging, over the hill, the party was over, and that I was not young, virile, and nubile anymore. How I thought cold gin would help me feel younger (not older) and stop the aging process is anybody’s guess. (My drinks of preference were gin, good wine, and good tequila.)

In December of last year, that realization struck me on the back of the head as I sat alone with acquaintances in a dimly lit tavern downtown. Surrounded by folks who knew me and yet feeling profoundly isolated, I questioned the role that alcohol played in my life. Was I genuinely deriving pleasure from these indulgences, or was I merely seeking refuge from the uncertainties and anxieties that accompanied me no matter where I traveled in the world?

Here’s the part you might not like to hear

While it took me way too long to recognize that alcohol was a a mortal enemy to brain and body, once I decided to quit, the decision to embark on the journey to sobriety was an easy one.

I thought I would struggle to confront deeply ingrained habits and societal norms. Yet, as I took the first tentative steps towards a life without alcohol, I gleefully zigzagging and zooming on a transformative odyssey of self-discovery and renewal. I was free of that ole’ stinging toxin, those angry, brain-pummeling hangovers, and alcohol-induced fog. A newfound sense of energy and enthusiasm replaced all that gin-soaked muchky flotsam and jetsam.

Oh, baby, the simple pleasure of waking up early on a Saturday morning with a clear head, savoring the taste of freshly brewed coffee, and not worrying about what fool I may have drunkenly kissed at a pub somewhere. I embraced the freedom to pursue my passions and interests without the constraints, fear, guilt, and shame of alcohol weighing me down.

Moreover, I quickly discovered that sobriety did not mean sacrificing the social connections and sense of community I had previously associated with drinking. Instead, I found myself forging more profound, meaningful relationships with others, based not on shared indulgences but on genuine connection and mutual respect. A coffee date with a good friend at lunchtime beats the hell out of leaning on a sticky, dank bar at midnight, scrambling to get the attention of a 20-something-year-old bartender amidst a sea of drunks under the age of 35. Good Lord, I was way too old for that foolishness.

Today, as I reflect on living alcohol-free for three months, I have flipped the script on the outsized role that alcohol played in my life. I no longer view sobriety as a limitation or deprivation but rather as a source of strength and resilience.

I can’t look back with regret. I won’t.