Like most people growing up in the UK, I was surrounded by alcohol from the first big social occasions you can remember. Whether it’s Christmas, New Year’s Eve, or a parent’s birthday, it always seemed to be the thing that got the party going.
Big booze-filled evenings were always tied to my mum’s side of the family. It was the “fun” side - I say that in inverted commas because alcohol was always connected to that version of fun. My grandma with a brandy, my aunt with a glass of wine, my mum with a gin and tonic. That was the normal background noise of every gathering.
The first time I got drunk was at 13, at my mum’s 50th. My best friend and I went around the tables, completely uncontested, minesweeping all the half-full glasses. For years, that somehow became a funny story to retell. Most of my teenage years were spent pushing the limits of alcohol; boasting that I could drink a whole bottle of Malibu and “not be drunk” or claiming I “enjoyed” being sick on nights out as a justification for how far I’d taken it. Drinking gave me a version of confidence I didn’t have underneath, often leading to loud, lairy behaviour.
Meanwhile, I had no idea my mum was struggling with alcohol-dependence and that she was dying. I only realised at 18 when she came to pick me up from school and fell down the stairs. That was the moment it was finally said out loud. I’d never before noticed or even considered the possibility. Looking back, the signs seem obvious: the mouthwash before every conversation; the falls explained away as “benign positional vertigo”; the yellowing eyes; the willingness to supply me and my friends with alcohol; the hidden bottles behind the pans in the kitchen cupboard.
From discovering my mum was alcohol-dependent to the day she died was around twenty months. She was admitted to hospital in December 2014 with the view to get a liver transplant. She died on 15 January 2015. I got a call the night before saying things had taken a turn and we needed to say our goodbyes. Her dying had never even been a consideration. She left me and my little sister, who was in the middle of her A-levels.
It’s hard to explain what losing a parent feels like, especially to something as avoidable as alcohol. The regret stays with you.
At some point I learned that being an alcoholic1 isn’t just about how much you drink - it’s about how it affects your relationships and mental health. Those were two parts of my life too that were taking a battering. I needed a circuit breaker, which led to my sober year in 2023.
The first six months were easy. Saying no to alcohol, more motivation, more exercise - the usual suspects. The second half of the year was harder. All the trauma you haven’t dealt with, the lack of social meaning, the need to build a sober personality from scratch. Slipping back into the same old patterns of drinking in 2024 felt like a reprieve, although I was now more aware of my post drinking anxiety.
After a year of again drinking as I had before, I decided to run the Paris Marathon for Alcohol Change UK in memory of my mum. It had been 10 years that year since we lost her. I also committed to a 90-day ‘Sober Spring’, which helped me keep accountable to my training programme. I think filling my time with something that required commitment and good sleep helped me keep off the booze easily.
That Sober Spring extended break finally triggered the deeper want to change my relationship with alcohol. It took responsibility and self-awareness that, honestly, I didn’t have until 30. I learned that once I start drinking, I struggle to control it. But I also learned that cutting it out completely would come with a grief for the nights out I genuinely enjoy with friends. So I started work finding a balance that lets me live in line with my values and feel proud of the person I’m becoming.
Now I moderate, cutting back how much alcohol I drink rather than going alcohol-free entirely. What I’ve found particularly useful this time around when cutting back is journalling and finding lovely non-alcohol alternatives. I’ve also made a real effort to identify the values that I want to live by and realised trying to live a values-based life doesn’t often include alcohol for me. I’m implementing healthy practices/routines that make me feel like I’m investing in myself both mentally and physically while being aware of when drinking sets that back.
I am now also a Community Champion for Alcohol Change UK, and have been since my marathon. It’s been a fantastic opportunity. Giving back to a cause that is so personal to me feels like I’m part of something that I can hopefully make a real impact with. I’ve loved helping with little bits in the Dry January® challenge campaign and attending events such as the visit to the Houses of Parliament to chat to MPs.
I wanted to volunteer because I’ve made mistakes. I still don’t fully understand my own relationship with alcohol, but I know I want to make a difference. I want people to know they don’t have to be sober, and they don’t have to drink. There’s no single right answer but there is always someone to talk to. If you’re confused, scared, or somewhere in between, I want you to feel supported and heard. Sometimes the most helpful voice is someone who’s still figuring it out themselves.
My best piece of advice for someone looking to make a change is to identify which parts of your life alcohol is affecting, think about what you’d like to do differently if alcohol wasn’t holding you back, and then make a plan to move towards those changes. Finally, find someone you can talk to openly about all the small worries you have around making a change. So many more people are going through something similar than you might realise, and they often have a treasure trove of advice to share.
1You can read more about the language used to talk about alcohol harm, including the word ‘alcoholic’, here.
