How I Went From Casual Wine Mom to Full-Blown Alcoholic

It was the early morning hours of July 19, 2023. I listened to the “clacks” from a set of real-life handcuffs as they were being secured over someone’s wrists. Those wrists were mine, latched over my bruised, shaky arms by a young police officer. She told me she was 22, and her favorite show was Friends. That’s the kind of small talk you make with the person stuck supervising you so you don’t make a run for it. At the age of 34, it was humiliating. Also, I hate Friends.

Fortunately, it was nearly 4 a.m., so nobody except the ER staff witnessed my perp walk to her squad car. I couldn’t believe it was real. I don’t get put in handcuffs, I’m not “that” kind of person.  I’m just your garden-variety, Midwestern, married mother of two, with a successful albeit stressful career in hotel management, and an unremarkable life otherwise. How did I get here?

Back in 2020, everything was going according to plan for me and my husband. The only problem was that I was deeply terrified of being a mom, often ruminating for endless hours over my fear that I wouldn’t love my children. I was convinced I’d become some soulless shell of myself with no identity except motherhood. And what if I couldn’t handle it? Like… me, raising another human being? Shouldn’t you need, like, a permit for that?

Those fears turned out to be unfounded. I love my children, and I’m still pretty much “me.” As for being able to “handle it,” well… I quickly learned that even with assistance from family and friends, there was no “village” coming to help me with all that laundry, there was no wet nurse to deal with my excruciating inability to breastfeed. For me, motherhood was just pain, exhaustion, pure love, joy, depression, smiling, endless crying… and wine.

Ah… wine.

The golden elixir that eluded me for nine long months. (Twice!) For both kids, postpartum hit me hard, and my bleak, sleep-deprived existence was brought back to life after only a couple of glasses of my beloved chardonnay when my second son was only 11 days old. I celebrated that first glass’ instant relief on social media to the cheers and congratulations of others. People understood, they got it: Parenthood is so hard, and we deserve that evening libation. At least, that’s what I was being told: “Relax. You’ve earned it.”

Reminders are everywhere of how moms “deserve” alcohol, how women love wine.

Women’s alcohol consumption had already been on the uptick for 20 years prior to the pandemic, but it skyrocketed during and after. The abrupt closure of schools and daycares forced many mothers into the primary caregiving role. Those stressors combined with the isolation from social support networks, the blurring lines of work-life boundaries, and the already rapid normalization of "wine mom" culture in social media no doubt contributed to the 320% increase in alcohol consumption in women with children five years or younger. Women like me.

Every mom knew I drank wine. And why wouldn’t we? The entire world is giving us tips like which Thermos can fit a full bottle of wine. Memes abound telling women like me that “it’s okay, motherhood sucks sometimes, work sucks all the time, so fill that glass to the brim!” I saw a meme the other day that said, "Getting ready to go back to work after the holidays" over a photo of someone pouring red wine into an empty Vitamin Water bottle. Obviously, it’s a joke, but… is it?

It took about three months for my “couple of days a week” habit to become a daily occurrence, one that I looked forward to all throughout my grueling, stressful workdays. I’d come home and not even have my coat off before holding a crying infant with a fussy toddler at my feet. Eight thirty p.m. for the first glass made its way down to 7:30 p.m., then 6 p.m., then 5 p.m., then as soon as I got home. Then before I got home. Then finally, by the summer of 2023, before I left work.

The spiral was gradual and insidious. One night, I was so drunk I couldn’t walk up the stairs, prompting my husband to give the ultimatum that I either quit drinking, or quit the family. You’d think the threat of losing one’s children would be enough to “just stop.” But rarely can you cure addiction on your own by “just stopping.” 

So what did I do? I hid it, of course. I’d stash the sacks from wine boxes in my work bag, initially so my husband wouldn’t find it, but eventually the temptation became too great. Wine was too risky, but a pint of liquor fit nicely in the bag’s pocket. My final weekend at work, I had gone without sleep for 30 hours—working an unexpected overnight shift, and unable to sleep it off because even though I stayed at the hotel, all I did was drink. I went home around noon on Father’s Day and continued to drink, picked a fight with my husband, then stormed out and made my way to the row of small-town bars.

My judgment was overwhelmed by the blur of consuming alcohol for more than 12 hours. I went from bar to bar, ordering a double shot of whiskey, which I’d down in one sad gulp before closing out my tab immediately and heading to the next. Eventually my sister called in a welfare check to 911, and a nice police officer named Ryan kept calling my cell phone. I emphasized that I wasn’t going home—I said I was going to jump from a bridge somewhere.

If they hadn’t found me, I probably would have. They picked me up after I left my last bar without having bought a drink, thanks to losing my debit card along my stumbling, suicidal journey. Taken to the ER, I was as professional and kind as I knew how to be, while still defiantly trying to convince them it was all a big misunderstanding, despite my BAC at .30, nearly four times the legal limit. If I’d gotten that last double shot, I’m certain I’d be in coma territory.

After three days in detox, I went home and cried in the arms of my husband while he sobbed into my shoulder. I never went back to my job, choosing instead to focus on maintaining sobriety—which proved to be unspeakably difficult while being a new stay-at-home-mom. No more escaping to work, no more escaping to booze.

Still, with the help of medication (Naltrexone was a miracle) and tons of therapy, I’m living a sober and present life with a newfound obsession with baking sourdough. The struggles of motherhood are still ever-present, and I regularly grieve the loss of my evening wine. Reminders are everywhere of how moms “deserve” alcohol, how women love wine. I just remind myself that it took less than nine months to go from “a glass to unwind,” to “two bottles to function.” The best advice I can give is: If you start to ask yourself if your drinking habits are becoming problematic… they probably are.