A Letter to Alcohol

Why I finally chose myself — and you’ll want to read this whole truth.

Dear Alcohol,

I didn’t become addicted the first time I tasted you.
In fact, I didn’t like you at all.

You were bitter. Burning. Unimpressive. You didn’t scare me like cocaine or heroin. You didn’t carry the stigma of danger. You weren’t even interesting like weed. You hid in plain sight.

Everyone said the same thing: Adults drink. It’s fun. It’s social. It’s normal. And besides, no one overdoses their first time. That’s not how you work.

You were smarter than that.

You were a master manipulator. You didn’t prey on the weak—you preyed on the sensitive, the strong, the intelligent, the independent, the creative. You didn’t discriminate by age, race, class, or gender. You were an equal-opportunity destroyer.

You moved slowly. Methodically. Once you slipped into my adult life, you shape-shifted. In college, you looked like frat parties and beer pong.

Then I grew up—and so did you. You put on a blazer. You became wine tastings and craft cocktails, dim lighting and expensive menus. You masqueraded as sophistication.

But your mission never changed. You were coming for all of me. One sip at a time.

By my thirties, I had a more intimate relationship with you than with some of the people in my life. You were reliable. Predictable. You felt safe.

In a world that constantly shifted beneath my feet, you never did.

I trusted you.

You comforted me at the end of the day. You turned down the volume on my thoughts when they got too loud. What I didn’t know was that you were the one creating the noise.

You were working quietly. Patiently. Relentlessly. You weren’t there to help me—you were there to hollow me out.

You were a snake in the grass. You stole so slowly the theft felt invisible. You were normalized. Encouraged. Celebrated. And then one day—after years of “normal,” moderate drinking—I started doing strange things. I sensed something was wrong, but you spoke to me in my own voice.

It’s not a problem.
It’s not that bad.
I’ll cut back.

And I did. And you crept back in.

It happened slowly. Then all at once.

One day I stood in front of a mirror, a shell of a person, confused and ashamed, wondering what had happened.

I thought you were fun.
Everyone told me to drink you.
What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I control this?

That’s when the truth became impossible to ignore.

You were the worst drug of all.

Not because you were fast. But because you were patient.

Not because you destroyed me overnight. But because you convinced me that I was the problem, that I was destroying myself.

And then something happened that terrified you.

Not a rock bottom.
Not a dramatic collapse.
Just a single, quiet decision.

One day, without negotiation, without a countdown, without asking permission, I decided to let you go.

No grand gesture. No promises to “moderate.” No bargaining. Just clarity—the kind that arrives fully formed and refuses to leave.

And everything changed.

Not because life became smaller—but because it became louder, brighter, and unmistakably mine. I met the version of myself you had been muting all along: bolder, sharper, more playful, more alive.

The woman who laughed harder, spoke freely, trusted her instincts, took up space, and felt joy without needing to earn it. A woman whose eyes sparkled again with life.

I didn’t lose anything when I lost you.
I got myself back.

You didn’t rage when I left. You didn’t chase me. You just evaporated—exposed, powerless, smaller than you ever let me see you.

So now I can say it clearly:

Fuck you.

Here’s the truth you hate most: you have no power without a victim. Without a human mind to exploit, you are nothing—just a liquid that only matters if someone believes you do.

I almost forgot about you. Truly. I only thought of you as a cautionary tale—something to warn others about.

But now you have come for someone I love.

Now it’s personal.
Now it’s war.

And now I know exactly why I survived you.

I will dismantle you with the same precision, patience, and clarity you once used on me. Because I know your weaknesses.

You grow weaker in the presence of awareness. You cannot survive honesty. You collapse under connection.

Watch closely.

—

Gretchen

P.S. You should have finished me when you had the chance.

If this letter moved you, you’re not alone. I built space for men and women like us to rediscover joy, confidence, and clarity — without alcohol in the way. Book your first one on one coaching session with me now for $25.

2023:
Successful. High-functioning. Still using wine to take the edge off.

Now:
Clear-headed. Disciplined. Happier than ever.