I’m 26 and I quit drinking.

The reality of quitting drinking in your twenties after the “party phase” and normalization of alcoholism in the service industry.

When a pin pops the balloon of hope and confetti of reality comes falling down, it’s times like these I could really use a drink. A little red wine and the Red album drowning out the racing thoughts in my head or a cold old-fashioned in my hand while staring out the window sounds like the ideal band-aid to all my woes, but unfortunately for me, I quit drinking. Well, for the most part anyway.

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As I’ve seen the ugly reality of true alcoholism, I hate to use the term so loosely, but I think it’s common knowledge that during the COVID-19 pandemic, a lot of people kind of became alcoholics during lockdown. Locked in their house with nothing else to do, not sure when they’d be able to return to work or go about their daily lives, a lot of people started drinking a little heavier than normal — myself included. I was freshly 21 during lockdown and the constant uncertainty paired with all the grief spreading around the news, I found that a short walk to the corner store for a White Claw and a night of listening to Taylor Swift was a valid distraction.

And when COVID restrictions began to lift a little, I found myself working at a restaurant hosting and later serving. Starting the job, 21 year old me was naive of the stereotypes around restaurant culture. While I don’t think there are any actual drugs circulating the restaurant I was at, everyone openly smoke and drank — every single night.

It was one of those slow-burn realizations that started with the crew doing shots together every once in awhile after a crazy Friday shift where there’s a wait at the door and tables are constantly being turned over the second the last guest sitting leaves. The shots felt ceremonious in a way — we had trauma-bonded over the last few hours and were just breathing a collective swig of relief: we had made it through. Or someone would bring a bottle of peanut butter flavored whiskey (Skrewball, if you must know) for us to all take a shot and try together.

Actual footage of me and my coworkers after having survived Karens all night.

At that job, there were crazy employee parties — long tables covered in more food than we could ever assume and bottles upon bottles of beer, wine, and the occasional bottle of whiskey someone would donate to the cause. The second party I went to, I remember the eighth shot and nothing after that — waking up in my apartment with texts on my MacBook letting me know that I had, indeed, left my phone in my friend’s car. I was 22 at the time.

Prior to turning 21, I never had a fake I.D., never went to a bar, and had been to a total of one house party. Drinking wasn’t something I had heavily experimented with before turning 21 — which legally, yeah, makes sense, but let’s be real, the average American knows their tolerance and favorite cocktail to order by 21. Legally, I was right on track, but socially, I was a little bit of a late bloomer. So yeah, I blacked out at a work party, and if it had been literally any other place of work, I might’ve had a meeting with HR the following morning, but at this restaurant — I was celebrated. I walked in the next day with a heavy migraine to everyone telling me how much fun I was and recalling stories I hadn’t the slightest memory of.

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My “party phase” started at the tail-end of 21 when bars were coming out of lockdown, and the phase lasted maybe half a year, mostly going out to the bars after shifts with friends from work. After months and months of lockdown, it was so exciting to go out and have my first experiences in a bar. Every time it was suggested, I’d get so excited for a night out, and every single time I got there, the same brutal realization hit me: I didn’t actually like being at the bar. What I really liked was hanging out with my girls, getting dressed up, doing each other’s hair, and scream-singing to Hannah Montana throwbacks before we went out.

At the bar, the music would be way too loud to actually hear my friend’s drunk confessions and stories — and you can only say “what did you say?” so many times before I just started nodding like I heard a word of it. The bathrooms would always be graffitied with penned phone numbers and quotes, toilet paper littering the floors, and stenches that made me wonder if the bush outside was a better option. But the true core of it was my socially-anxious-self felt a hundred times more anxious standing in a sea of drunk girls dancing and missed conversations, so my brain concluded that my only solution was to just simply drink more so I could enjoy myself.

This is how I imagined I looked… just let me live in that delusion please.

I was chasing the glamorization that movies and shows had portrayed. It started with this excitement of feeling like I was finally living my Serena van der Woodsen lifestyle — crazy, wild, carefree, but looking good while doing it. I’m not going to lie and say there weren’t good stories or fun moments, but between the way I felt so uncomfortable at the bar and all the stupid little mistakes I made, I wondered why I was even putting myself through it. How could this be the glamorous life I was sold? I realized, more often than not, I wasn’t even having fun.

I finally admitted to myself that I really hated the bar and club scene and started passing on invitations. Because I stopped going out, I naturally started drinking less. And when I did have a drink, it started to feel more like a choice rather than a social obligation or the cure to ease my social anxiety in the grimy bars. If I was out at dinner, maybe I’d grab a drink. After a shift, maybe I’d have a snack and sit in the booth with a glass of wine debriefing the night with coworkers. And if someone handed me a shot of whiskey, all bets were off and I was devouring it.

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I remember when I started slowing down, it was like taking off the rose-colored glasses and I began to see just how many bottles of liquor were hidden on shelves in the kitchen at work. I began to realize how many coworkers truly were just pouring a glass every single night without fail. And I saw all of the stupid fights started from slurring comments. Then, I started seeing TikTok videos of servers talking casually about their restaurant’s culture like it was the tour bus of some crazy rock band, and everyone commenting on it just normalizing the behaviors. I think that revelation is what drove me to truly just stop drinking. Sure, I had blacked out a few times being young and dumb and not knowing my limits, but it wasn’t that I had a problem — but I knew if I kept up with the restaurant culture, it would inevitably become one.

For example when I was out of work for a couple weeks, I remember my first shift back — as soon as I walked in, 5 o’clock in the afternoon, I watched one of my coworkers pour a bottle of wine into a mug to conceal the beverage from the customers’ eye. That wasn’t the life I wanted for myself. Where casual alcoholism was just socially known and accepted, sipping throughout shifts, and just waking up to do it all over again.

So I just kind of quit. Not because I was “holier than thou,” but I just wanted to slow down and see how I felt — and I actually felt so much better. I wouldn’t say that I necessarily live the most textbook healthy life, but my mind and my liver have definitely thanked me for eliminating the Old Fashioned.

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Do I occasionally have a drink every now and again? Sure. Sometimes when I go to dinner with my parents and see a lavender martini on the menu, my tastebuds get curious and want to try — but the thing is, since I’ve stopped, I have literally zero tolerance to alcohol and I’m drunk off a sip. At this point, I could be hungover and feel awful for days off a singular glass of wine. I’m not even exaggerating. A couple weeks ago, I found a bottle of kombucha (a fermented tea) in my fridge and I must have drank it too quickly because I genuinely got buzzed off of it. Yes, you read that right: I’m such a lightweight now that I got drunk off KOMBUCHA.

Sometimes a glass of wine feels like a fun, little vibe at dinner, but for me, it’s just not worth the risk of feeling awful and out of it the next day. I honestly just don’t like the way it feels anymore.

And I won’t lie, being in your twenties and not drinking hasn’t been the easiest thing. It strained a few friendships where I kept declining their parties, not out of disdain for them, but I just didn’t want to be around a bunch of drunk people. Living in a city where a big part of the culture is drinking, it does kind of make me feel left out sometimes. But then I remember when I tried to be in on that culture, I still felt left out. So yeah, declining nights out can feel a little bit lonely sometimes, but two things can be true — I found that for me, I was happier chilling at home with my paints and one of my favorite films on in the background. And I realized that’s okay.

Sometimes when life really hits the fan, I find myself wondering if should I just grab a bottle of wine and let loose. But I know it’s going to hit me hard, make me spiral harder, and I’m going to wake up wondering why I did that to myself, trying to resolve life’s troubles through a hangover. Sometimes I feel like a glass of Pinot Noir and Taylor Swift echoing my thoughts back to me might really be the resolve I need, but instead, I choose to play life on difficult mode, just raw dogging my emotions and dealing with it with a clear head. And that is precisely why I’m 26ixty — a 26 year old grandma.

Plus, I discovered pickle lemonade — my remedy to any bad day that sings to my soul and doesn’t leave me feeling like garbage in the morning. I’m still very much a beverage girlie — my coffees, experimenting with different flavored matcha recipes, teas, juices, smoothies… and kombucha, if I’m feeling a little wild. (;

What started as just slowing down and being more conscious of my decisions turned into I don’t even want to have a sip for fear I’ll be dancing on a tabletop.

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